Autumn flies basking
In the last, late light,
Absorbing the nutrient
Of the sun’s capacity,
Accepting a photons’ score
Of energy,
Recharging in the beneficence
Of a warming and wondrous gift.
love
Love Connects Us
Though the days
Are heavy with loss
And the winter of grief
Holds us too close,
Love is yet
The deeper principle,
For all are borne
On love’s unknowable meandering,
All are borne upon life’s lifting back,
And though we are all
At some time recalled
Beyond our mind’s reach
And beyond the veil
Of substance and reality,
Love accompanies our passing,
Holding our hands
And whispering
That we are loved
And that those parted
Are not truly torn away
But still connected,
Still with us
In the union
That does not faulted
Or ever end.
Awareness
When he speaks from Source
His heart is whole in his chest
And fears do not trouble his thoughts.
Even his troubles are untroublesome
For the Source holds all,
Sees all with beautiful clarity.
With time and memory absorbed,
There is but the now to behold,
A now of infinite plenty
Where he is alive,
Alive with innermost energy,
New as a universal birth.
When he speaks from Source
He stands at the expanding edge of the
Universe, singing the song he is,
Being none other than himself,
None but he who sees:
The very wellspring of reality.
Way Home
There is a scented trail
Waiting upon the breeze,
That, like a dog
You must follow.
For the scent is a smooth ribbon
Of being,
A substance made of love
That calls you by name
And feeds your every need
Until there is only wellbeing.
Kindness flows upon this cord,
Energy to hold your hand
And lead you to effortless life,
A voice breathing away your fears
And calling you to your self,
Your voice,
Calling you homeward bound.
Love
Float
On the upwelling,
The ever pushing pulse
Of love,
For it is yours
As it is you.
Oh, how that intellect
And riddled belief
Tells you
It isn’t so,
Oh, how cold and alone
And desperate
The separate minds feels,
How loathsome life feels.
Yet, still you float
Alive in reality,
The unacknowledged truth
A wedge between you and you,
The truth displaced
By fearful thinking.
Oh, but the truth is love,
The all encompassing feeling
Filling you whole,
A mother to your woe
Holding you close
As the child comforted.
The truth is love:
It will fill you if you but ask.
No Them
Love to the prejudice,
The angry,
The hateful.
Love to cool
The hot tempers,
And the fears of the people.
Love to bind us
And bring us back
To our true mind,
The one mind,
The us
With no them!
Ⓒ Ben Truesdale 2020
Joy
Joy in the twittering birds
Alight the air,
The wingbeat uplifting;
A fleeting moment
Agrasp the twig in bud.
Joy in the first bees
Suddenly innumerable.
Joy in the fly
Sunning himself on the leaf,
Absorbing the nutrient
Of the sun.
Joy in the exuberance
Of every plant,
Plump on the moment.
Joy in the resonance
Of the wood pigeon’s throat,
The highlighting of treetops
And branching canopy.
Joy in the morning mist
Shrouding the distance,
Enrobing the far away
In a joyous dream.
Joy in the saxophone
Wafting from the neighbours garden.
Joy in the children’s voices
Lost in the their play.
Joy in the sound of a car
Thrumming up the hill.
Joy in the stink of cat shit
Enlivened by the warmth.
Joy in the body
And joy in the body of the world.
Joy in everything.
For The Politicians
Your incendiary words
Are the kindling
In the pyre
In which you stand.
Your hatred
Are the sparks
Falling into the hot oil
Smoking at your feet.
Excite the crowd with an inciting speech,
Encourage the rage of the rage-full
Until they are hot for blood and vengeance.
But ready yourself,
For what you give out
You’ll receive in measures multiplied.
The wounds you inflict
Are both the wounds on your soul
And the wounds
Your enemies
Will flay you with.
All Of Us
I am the black man
And I love my skin
And the life within the body.
And yet I am the white man,
Pale as the purity of snow.
And still I am Asian.
And so too am I mixed,
With all the races blood
In lattices twisted up in the
Ages DNA, conjuring diversity,
Bringing beauty and ugliness
Time and time again.
But I too am a woman
For there is joy in that form,
As there is joy within the masculine.
And the body of a child is mine.
And sometimes I am sexless,
Indefinably between
The boarders of mapmakers
And nationality.
And I am every class and cast
There ever was.
All this I have in me.
And as I am,
So too is other,
Not one
With jurisdiction
Over emotion, attribute or worth.
Not one less than
And not one more than.
All of us
Looking upon the world
From the same different place,
Infinitely capable
And with equal potential
To be all things.
Coming Home
is when being away from yourself is no crime, and where wrongdoings are smiled upon, attracting no shame.
it’s when Ill thought is not made Ill with thought, but allowed to be but thought in the cosmos of your being.
it’s where there is no requirement for change, for already you are whole, and where need itself is looked upon with equanimity, and even calming is calm beyond calm.
it is when being is simply seeing what is being, and when warmth is all there is or could ever be.
distilledvoice 