When it wakes
It hears the flowers
Call in scents.
It desires
The ultra violet
Of colours
And the deep
Well of love
In which nectar pools
And collects.
When it wakes
It thinks of nothing else
But the warmth on the wing
And the burrowing head
Thoughtless in the dream
Of pollinating.
When it wakes
It be itself
And thinks
Not a thought
Outside of its being.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015
The thought of the flower,
Though unripe
Cannot be held back,
For the surge
Of magic
Invisibly
Pushes
And reaches
And strives
To be
Inexorably
And irrepressibly
Expressed.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015
The sun
Inspires the light
In other things
To give
The yellow art
Of love
That is
The self same
Heart’s
Eternal burn
And offering.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015
The heart burns
With molten love
Disintegrates
All matters arising.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015
To the tight
To the tearless
To the dried
And desiccated
To the dead
Who still inhabit
I wish
The hot breath
Of Aslam
The gentle touch
Of Jesus Christ
The Buddha’s smile
Mohammad’s light
And the unsung strength
Of every mother
Who loved their child
And the fathers
Who stood
Strong and watchful.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015
And the mother said
You can turn on my earth
And in a trice
My children
Will be upon
The glistening clods
To do their colonising
And consoling work.
And you may desert
The plentiful place
And turn it bland
With monoculture,
Dampen
The flourishing
With chemical
And beings augmented
And superior
All the while
Dashing yourself down.
But I will love you nevertheless.
And you may
Stricken the fertile
And the life giving,
Blemish it,
Injure it
And put it
To dust
And stone
And I will scar
For your learned eye
And then turn beautiful
With rest
And time
Fallow and forgiving.
And you may
Use me
Like your own heart used
And cut me
As your own blood flows
And deny me
As your own
Loneliness is made
In the crucible of your intention
And I will love you still
And whole
And love you
As only the land,
In its richness can
For killing is not mine
Nor
My children’s
And as the world turns
I will be
As I have been;
The force
The spirit
The energy
The lick of love
The empty space
The possibility
The lift
Behind it all,
The reason
And creativity
Rolling on, and endlessly on.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015.
After rain,
A moments solar respite
On the hydrophobic leaves.
Next,
To the light as wingtip air
And figures of flittering,
To the updraft
And the couplet spiralling
As high as love
And the mesmerisation
In mating’s
Centrifugal force.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015.
If there was a word
Better earned
By the bee,
Than friend,
I do not know it.
For friend
Is as warm
And yellow
In it’s gift
Of honey
To the land,
And comes symbiotic
With sunshine,
And plenty’s
Open handed flower.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015.
They speak
As they have always spoken
For in the long lost,
To be man was to listen:
For the ancient’s song
Was to the heart first given.
And in that time
There was no loneliness
For all together
Could hear:
The words brought warmth
To those alone
And feelings
Were gently administered to
By man’s depth
Of understanding.
And fear was diminished
By the mind’s wide aspect
And reach across the heavens
That the free may walk,
Just as self embodied
Walks free upon the earth.
And love was easily found
And so the needs were few
And the people were happy
And the living good
As ever could
The living be
With voices
Always speaking
In kindness decree.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015.
For Patrick Jennings http://pixtowords.com
She finds sweet-bitter nostalgia
And the succulent melancholy
Of a faraway gaze,
In her wondering
At the grandeur:
And her place within it.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015.
distilledvoice 