All are called
By the clock
To conform
To the great weight
Of pendulum earth
Oscillating
In the deep groove
Of the universe.
But we’re still offered
A second or two’s grace
To find
Our own pulse
In time’s
Unwinding.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015
In the trees’
Brown shedding,
Loosened in November’s
Murk
And grey clouded
Movement
Northerly,
And with the lessening,
Light falling back
In earth’s tilt
Wintery,
Gusts come
To lick the leaves,
Scurry them
If they will heap
And hurry,
Or Drive the well wrapped,
Buttoned-up shoppers,
Bluster haired
And wind blithery,
To tread them
From browns to black,
If already
Moist paper,
Mulch layering
The sticky pavement walked.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015
Red pigment
Skeletal behind
Chlorophyll’s
Enriching shroud
Shows itself
In season’s end
And green nutrient
Departed.
© 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
From the intangible
Dream
Of mist
Subtle in earth’s
Morning breath,
Droplets
Condense
In webs,
Bringing them silver
And whole to the cool,
Tracing threads globular
And mapping invisible
In networks of spheres.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015
The wider blur
Of the near world
Is unimportant.
Only the vibration
Of prey, felt in quiver
Of struggle and entanglement
Is scope enough
For the leg
Intent on the sensory line.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015
As life
Is called to the root
And winter’s closet,
To sleep
In earthen cloak
And fold
All that was fine summery
And light green
Is made russet
And tinged gold
In withdrawing chromatography.
The once plump
Is made papery
And freckled
With age,
And transition
Is fading display
Of the bold
Brought
To its beautiful knees.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015
We argue
As to the flower’s
Divine conception
Or arrival through
Random chance.
Yet there it is
Manifest despite our thoughts,
Unarguably apparent
To the miracle
Of our eyes.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015
Red throat invitation
To late harvest.
Autumnal fade
To sun stretched yellow.
Leaves freckled
And close
To golden
Old age
And the thin skinned
Invisibility
Before crisp release
And disappearance.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015
Like lights
Jeweling city sprawl
Below the sky borne plane,
Flowers
Are various
In their
Luminous display.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015
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