The New News

Turn away the eyes

And comfort the ears:

Let the news fade

So all the angry voices are quietened,

Their fear lessened,

Their turmoil stilled,

The mangled knot of fractions thought

Fermenting doom and worse

Popped in the corner and ignored.

What is the real news,

The new news

Born in the self centre,

In the place that is no place,

The voice speaking

Of heart

And love

And truth,

That we are more

Than these jagged thoughts

Blown out of all proportion

And enlarged

Into flagrant monsters?

We are more than this:

More in the quiet place,

The stillness,

The ever expanding space

Of new ideas

Made from nothing.

The time has come to acknowledge love

And its infinite yet subtle process,

It’s utter gift,

It’s ubiquitous and never failing availability;

For it is free for all to take their fill,

And given wholly

To ever single one of us.

Always Here

You are always here.

Sometimes, I turn away,

Riding the maelstrom of my thoughts

Until I’m dizzy,

But you are always here.

And Sometimes my mind strays

Convoluted paths

To past and futures imaginary,

But still you are always here.

I remember when I thought you were not,

Couldn’t even imagine

A way out of the bubble of my loneliness,

Seeing only glimpses to highlight

My misery at being so lost;

But you were always here.

If you are self or God,

Or even make believe,

I am glad that you are always here

Because you are always here.

Heart Slide

The lonely heart

Is beyond tired:

It is absent.

Acknowledge the absence,

The dept

The insatiable wanting.

See it,

See the absolute truth

Of the hungry heart

And the deepest moment

Where two possibilities balance

Side by side,

Where one thing

Becomes its opposite,

And slides

From dept to fullness,

From hunger to wholeness

From wanting to satisfied,

For the heart is alive

And brimming

With warmth,

Not lonely

Or tired,

Just present.

Endlessly Refreshing

The air in me

Is not mine.

The bone and the flesh,

And deeper defined –

The vessels, the nerves, the cells,

And deeper still – the molecules bound,

Are not me or mine,

But companions

In a movement of time.

Am I the river, a stream?

Am I the wind,

Am I the rain?

Together we are something

And nothing.

But alive is

This dance of form expressing,

Unfolding, degrading, re-expressing,

For this world is but a wondrous garment,

Worn and tore down

Worn and torn down

Worn and torn down,

Endlessly refreshing.

Lantern

FullSizeRender.jpg

A certain tungsten light
In filaments elemental
And burning with a dust
To dab upon the backs of bees,
To make them golden
As the source
That brought the all
From unseeing gloom
To vivid definition
And pleasure to the mind’s eye.

© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2016

Moss World Within The Gift

FullSizeRender.jpg

In millennial silence
beings conceived at the very beginnings
unfold as they have timeless
known revolutions diurnal
and the cyclic swing of earth
in its year long voyage
in praise of wisdom
gifted by the star sol.

To know a billion years unaltered
and be in generation’s span
of always true to sun –
receiving the endless flow
of time’s nourishment
and the gracious matter
felt by every quivering leaf
as heat’s warm bosom
and light’s so gentle hand

– is first and only truth
within the kingdom
of father in heavens certainty.
To flourish is birthright
upon the world’s good earth;
and moss, guiltless in the whole,
takes its rightful place
among the children,
and thoughtless absorbs elation
as it was so lovingly sent.

© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2016