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.
Something in the heart of the
gardener is drawn to create worlds
in patches of light and shade’s cool pools.
Something calls to make
billowing folds, pockets
and patchworks of flowers, floral
coverings and scented seas
for the lucky summer breeze.
Something calls for the bees and
their burrowing, smothering search
for bliss. Something calls. Something
calls. Something calls.
© 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
distilledvoice 