Beyond the crowding thoughts
And all that shadows
Freedom’s choice
Glows blue sky
Width and dimension.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015.
love
Summer Breeze
Summer breeze
Gentle in the leaf tips,
Rustling silver in the sun,
Playful as the lovers
Whose bough-bodies bend
And flex below:
Their hair too
Is wind tussled.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015.
Sympathy For The Sorry Self
I offer sympathy
To the sorry,
Lonely self
Who burned the bridges
To the wider self,
Severing from his larger entity,
To go solo and hurting
With a wound
Of self reducing,
And isolation
In the mind
Restricted from the universe,
That could be his
If only he could recognise
The wideness of his nature’s truth
And Accept his home
Beyond the reaches of his skin.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015.
Wand Of Choice
What more
For needs met
Than lift
Of soul
Buoyed and self held
In deepest respect.
The harming hand
Changed
From ill will
To loving intent,
And energy accepted
As gift
Of freedom sent
And shift in mind
To wind of happiness
Free about the body.
The only reality
Is the wand of choice
And liberation
Of abundant spirit.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015.
For The Racists
Worse than hatred;
The blanking hand
Demises those blanked
And withheld acknowledgment
Disappears the subject of a self
As if it were a ghost
Of no magnitude or apparentcy.
A crime to be blanked
And yet also,
Crime in the one who blanks,
For the racist cauterises his own
Wholesome self in the violence
Of his denying
And lies as injured as his victim
In the victimhood of his division:
No longer seeing all the beautiful
Faces who are the whole of him.
Half his heart he disowns and cuts
From his being, settling in to the
Fraction of the self remaining,
So colourless and drained,
And denied of life’s real meaning
In the face of otherness rejected.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015
An Unexpected Ease
In a war
Somewhere far away
And in the thoughts
Rained down upon the body
Something different arises,
Something fresh encroaches:
A broader, slower force
Seeps in like a summer breeze
To lift where there is heaviness,
To cool where there is heat,
To free where is entanglement.
A feeling like a mother’s hand
Gently cradling her baby’s head,
Watching benignly yet purposefully,
Administering kindness
To every need.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015
In The Rose
Nose first
And all the body
Thrust after it,
For I go
Gladly to the rose’s
Soft flesh,
Plunge myself within
To be enveloped
Wholly in petal silk
And scents of dreams,
Sweet as the loveliest
Material or lovers skin
Impregnated with sunshine,
Fine nectars, oils and essences.
For a moment I am lost,
Dipped as I am
In relaxation
Of all but the only sense in the world:
The pure thing found
In candied whorl
Of the rose’s
Delicate unwind
And fragrant shimmering.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015
Divinity
Not in the stone
Or the frame of the flowers,
Not in the lawn or the trees
Or the generous borders.
Only in the eye
Who perceives,
The I
Who perceives.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015
It Is Given
There but a breath from here
Flows the ever stream
Of loveliness.
There in the body
Flows its warm mist,
Delightful as spring energy.
It says without words.
It says
If listened to or ignored.
It says nevertheless
And cares not for being heard
Or even acknowledged.
It is gift
For it is given without clause,
No distinction
Is Required, demanded or extorted.
It is a gift for all,
Without division
Or judgement imposed.
All may quench their thirst:
Worthy or unworthy
Good or bad as they come.
It just comes
For it is given to all.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015
Our Only Real Ownership
Our only real ownership
Is that
found in our senses:
The life owned by our eyes
The tingle on our tongue
The ear’s interpreted vibration
The dream encountered by the nose
The skin’s sensitive envelopment
And emotion’s yoking centrepiece.
All else
Beyond what is physically ours
Is but borrowing and stewardship.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015
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