Truth

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

Writing Poetry

I reach out in to the right side of my
brain, two inches back and two inches
above my right eye. I look through
that lens and call what I find to my
tongue, where I roll the matter until
vowel like and three dimensional.
Somehow my heart coats the thing
with a feeling until I can almost taste
the roundness of spoken word.
It lives for a moment in the excited
now until I cast it to the paper of the
page where, in ink, it lies back down
like a photograph or a pressed
flower’s two dimensional memory.

© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015.