Oh WordPress
And your innumerable
Rising stars,
How can I please
Your, oh so, fickle heart?
Perhaps, it is folly to even try.
And one should only make art
To satisfied the I,
Seeking purely the joy
Of creating it.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015.
To the damaged and oppressed
It lays its gentle hand, its gentle
breath, and asks for nothing.
To the wronged and dispossessed
It understands with a kindly hand
And be’s there without a sound.
To the despised and those dismissed
It offers its warm hand to temper
Loneliness, washing the mind clean
And bringing all to the light of wholeness.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015.
I am a sponge
Drinking through my porous
Skin, drinking energy.
The air, the sea, the fluid of reality
Washes through me
Like a fresh born wave.
I float. I am held. Warmth allows
Each cells place in the world,
Space for every identity.
I am a sponge, welcoming
With open arms
Life’s movement through me.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015
For each poem written
The whole mind is changed,
The landscape altered,
The new terrain reworked
And remoulded.
The whole self flowering
As an unknown bloom,
Expectant to be re-known
And found again,
And yet again.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015.
As if the brain
Could know the computations
Of the Universe:
The sum of all
Somehow divined.
The infinite equation
Of all things,
All actions,
All time,
And the web upon web of
Interactions between,
Somehow catalogued and counted!
This is control:
The thought of the petty tyrant.
The madness of the expert
Who pretends to know
But waits to to be dethroned.
The modern mind
Floating untethered from the
Grounded nuance
That to be human
Is to float untethered on love:
In the nothing that is everything,
In the space that is filled,
In the unknowing that is trust.
The complicated brain understands nothing.
Yet the simple heart knows it need only understand itself.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015.
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