And what are friends,
But those
To share the journey.
Some,
Of place and time,
Of chance encounter
And camaraderie
Of fellow travellers.
But the best
Are those of mind
And the deeper touch
Of understanding shared,
When gut felt home
Is spied
In their excitement
At being alive,
At seeing you,
At seeing them.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015.
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.
The poet
Can risk exposure
Of the naked heart,
For his voice speaks
In dreams of magic,
And no closer words
Are so thinly clothed
Than in the music
Of his being
And the being of his life.
And so he must
Speak his truth
In the written word
And carve
From feelings felt,
Self portraits
Of metamorphosed art,
And tell
The world
Of his only life,
As only he can tell it.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015.
In to the phone’s world
I look,
So varied
So shiny
So new.
In to this
I download my memory,
My images,
My thoughts.
And all the questions
I might ask myself,
Both profound
And mundane,
Away I merrily Google.
The world
In one way widened,
And yet
One way closed
As life shifts
Ever nearer,
Ever closer
To the outside mind
Of the irresistible cloud.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015.
The sum
Of all that you are:
Your loves,
Your hurts,
Your truths, beliefs, perceptions,
All that you have learned.
Your dreams,
Your feelings,
Your heart,
And all the spanned divides.
Remember
There is no argument:
Another’s point of view
Is an equation
Unknowable as a distant star,
With strands of reason and belief
Meshed and matted
As the synapse brain
Is thus complexly wired.
There is no argument
For personal right
Is derived from what arrives
To the matter of the mind,
And in that
We are all paradoxically different
Yet siblings side by side.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015.
The scientist say they know it.
The religious say they own it.
Societies loosely adhere to common
Agreements of mostly hearsay,
And we all bumble along
As if we lived in the same world!
But the truth,
(If I dare be so bold,
Or at least, my personal
Understanding of it), is that
There are worlds in multitude,
Understandings in multitude,
Perception in multitude,
And to claim one truth
Above and beyond,
Is of the finest, beautiful egotism,
For no man knows the whole sum
And lives as he drifts with glimpses of
Moments, brief meetings and
Encounters, dances with partners
Ever changing:
All deeply relevant,
Deeply relevant to him.
Truth is heart close.
Mind close.
Soul close.
And individual in its unraveling.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015
These words belong to us.
As I write these words they belong to me.
As you read them they belong to you.
I write them from a long time away.
You read them from an equal distance.
I feel satisfied as understanding reveals what I didn’t know.
You feel the feelings arriving to you.
If you see light: the light belongs to you.
If you see darkness: that too is yours.
If you see beauty: you are beautiful.
If you see ugliness: you have found your troll.
In the mirror between us on which my pen rests I see my face.
In the mirror between us on which your eyes rest you see your face.
These words belong to us.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015.
Sometimes I just want to write
something beautiful: to conjure the
mood, to call the feeling, to be the
beautiful pen as it translates the
energy of self and brings something
new to my world, and the wealth
found in being it.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015.
distilledvoice 