If voice
Were sky blue,
Without a word
To clutter the music,
Poetry would find
Its end
In ink’s redundancy,
The written word
Consigned
To beyond memory’s
Grasping hand.
Voice
Would become movement
Of soul through energy
And energy intern
Through the body of the man.
And happening
Would happen only in the instant
And not either side of now.
And thus time itself
Would wink from existence
And yet stretch out
In forever’s eternal flow.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015
The heart
Wrapped
In the glass cage,
Separate
From the body,
Separate from the world,
Isolated
From synapse touch,
From neurone being:
Yet still
The mind watches
From behind the glass,
Seeing everything,
Un-blinkered,
Unblinking.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015
The beast is muzzled
And drooling
And straining at the lead
As if its owner’s
Distrustful eyes
And heavy
Auric clouds
Swirling
In dark stars
Of circumference hatred,
Transfuse
Umbilical
And fill the dog
With lust for blood
And teeth sharp
In every direction.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015
From the prevailing west
Cyclonic lows
Push
Wet faced
Across
The foot scuffed
Rough,
Browning upon
The boundary rock,
Greying the low sky
And darkening every
Thoughtful perspective
To a buffeted corner
Of the wind swept mind.
© 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
We are friends
Who craft
The art of
Word,
Article
Or photograph,
Offering each day
These
Mind made things
Carved from our hearts
Mused interpreting,
Presenting our work
Like the bird makes its nest
Or the tree
Falls in with the seasons:
We do what we do
Because we must.
© 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
The earth’s pulse
Is felt:
Some attune,
Some tarry,
Some skip ahead,
But all
Are gathered
In the end.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015
As if
The mind
Were idle fascination,
Full of dreams,
Full of inconsiquencial
Speculation
And non-participation
In the formation
Of the physical world.
As if
Our behaviour
Were cut loose,
Let loose
Unrestricted,
To roam free
Upon the earth
Without ownership
To count
The scores
Of futures conceived.
As if
We were vagrants
Who’s vagrant belief
Were not owned
In the body
But put out
To all visible peers
In blames
Savage hand
And life’s
Absent redundancy.
As if
The mind
Were not
Conceiving machine,
Coating every idea
In touchable cloak,
Transmuting
Idea’s ethereal stream
From unseen secret
To the solid matter
Of the corporeal.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015
Sometimes
I reach for the beautiful pen
Wanting
Loops
And graceful turns
Of poetry
To please the page
But find
My fingers fat as sausages
And the pen,
A cactus.
And my heart
Pumping sand
Through the plaque
Congealed
Narrowness
Of my veins
And so I write
The wrongness
So it might
Shift
From staid
And stillness
To the curves
Of energy flow,
The hopeful pen
Smooth on inky magic,
And once again imprinted
With tenderness untroubled.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015
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