In a parallel world,
Much like our own,
The mark of a man’s success
And achievement is measured
By the number and age
Of mature trees he gladly tends
In his garden.
In this parallel world
All men are servants
And nothing is out of balance.
copyright 2016 Ben Truesdale & distilledvoice
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
As you drove away
You looked over your shoulder
And smiled
And though there were ten steps
Of tarmac and the screen
Between us
I felt loved
And took your warm gift
As if you’d put it securely
In the palm of my hand.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015
The mind
Tantalised by terror’s
Excitement,
Rubber stamps
Every violence,
Every incident,
And brands
Every normal madness
As terrorism
Born to our physical place.
And to the runaway dream
We add our angers,
And we rage
To do something against
The foe
Clothed
And created,
The anti image
Of our own
Disassociated face:
A glad enemy
Summoned
For us to fight.
And so we go
Hot headed,
The blood
Of foes
Desperate
To be let,
Our minds coalesced
In agreement’s
Blind conditioning
To go
Triumphant
And enthusiastic
To the next
Terrible war
Of mistakes.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015
If at the core
There is violence
Of the self
Against the source
All the health thoughts
Conceived
Or applications put,
Won’t alter
Or bring life
To the body,
Who’s passenger
Rejects
The fundamental
Principle
Of love
And murders instead
The energy
As it emerges
In free form
Child emotive.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015
I would speak
With you,
Entangle our words
In the salsa
Dance,
Close and breathy.
As partners in art,
In converse
Verbal
And intangibly said,
In the heat
Of closeness
And skin
Touching skin,
I would ask you
To pirouette
So you might hear
My whisper,
And smile
At my music in your head.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015
I could drink the mist
With inward
Passage
Of breath
Cool and wholesome
To the lungs,
An air
Weighted moist
And though
Still vapour
No less fluid
Deeply quenching
Organs
In their need
To thirst.
Are we not
All sponges,
Open pored,
In-fluxed
And anointed?
Are we not
Osmosed
In love?
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015
When prisons
Are lights
And birth places
Of the newly born.
Sanctuaries
For those in need,
The digressed children
Of the world,
Patterned and learned,
Patterned and learned.
Where time spent
Is rich maturation
In the loam
Of love.
Where all who leave
Are first made whole
And go,
Full of heart
Full of blood,
Gifted all
That they would steal,
Gifted all
That was withheld,
Gifted all
That they would need.
Gifted.
They leave gifted.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015
She has highlights in her hair,
The butter kiss
Of summer light
And fragrant breeze
Painted there.
But it’s her thoughts
That wear
The gold
Of lifted mood
And tussle
Beautiful
In halcyon
Of lofty space
And blue sky
Incantation,
Where shine
Is gloss
Upon the body
And soul
Is spirit
Reaching through matter.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015
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