Woman

 

 

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Blousy white
and as pure as skin
silken and finely woven
from a pure thought
the flower bleeds
jasmin scent
as the purfume bleeds
its distillate
and blossoming
is mind and body
arriving to the flush
of a sweet capturing
mood, alight
the breath of being
and the forceful pulse
Of the procreational moon.

 

© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice

Dawn Of The Blood Red Moon

Summer mist collects
In pools beneath the trees,
Seeps and infiltrates
The copse,
Coats and clings
Like breath to the river bank,
Disappears things
To the cool substance
Of dreams.
The ephemeral magic
Of the unseen
Dampens
Yet holds the scents
Of ripening crop
And the soil’s loam
And the must
Of summer grass
Sweetened and distilled
To perfume
Annotating the earthen land
Below the moon
Glowing waxy
And vast
And so low and close
And red with the blood
Of myths.
And for just a moment
Man’s potential
Drifts in the red possibility
Of the clouds
And the moon is a heart
And the mind is rich
In seeing,
And any question
Brought to the lips
Finds its home
In the instant
It manifests,
In satisfaction’s pale light
And the full lunar fact
Of wisdom’s beholding.

© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015