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


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

First Fine Sustenance



If I could drink the sky’s cool mood
And mix
The light of first blossoms
So delicately sprinkled in

Then I would

Or breathe a draught of first warmed air,
White fragrance bathed
In sunshine’s friendly face
Arriving to the newness in me

Then I would

Imbibe them both
To feel this first fine sustenance.

Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2016

Spring Dance Of Freedom


The earth turns
In incremental light.

The day expands
In millimetre shoots,

A green touch
Like lovers’ skin

Mirroring pale light
And new sun contours.

Each bulb nestles
In the mother’s pulse,

Follows exact
Circadian match:

The beautiful dance
Of closest partners.

Like all living things
In sweet, earthy bondage,

Not one strays
Nor splits disobedient

From irrefutable law
And physical fact

Of freedom
To be absolved,

And to shadow
First, ethereal footsteps.


© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2016