All loose
From the sap flow
Nourishment.
All ground dwelling
And russet blush:
Egg speckled,
Wrinkle-rind
And pith withered.
All in sepia age
And near translucency,
The fading fruit
Engorged
By the swallowing ground.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice
In the black and white photograph
the 19th century station bustles with
top hats and ladies in feathered felt,
and there isn’t a man without a
moustache or sideburns flanking.
Hot bellied locomotives simmer
in the sidings and polished carriages
queue in timely lines while walruses
inspect pocket watches and point at
the world with portly cigars.
There isn’t a thing out of time: every
article existing is touched by the age,
coloured by fashions of the mind;
the ladies fine frocks of puff
petticoats and pinafores, the hiss
and mist of escaping steam, the
brass tubing veining engines, the
great hall aloft on stanchions of cast
iron. Even the tea cup and train ticket
exude époque and the purity of
happenings coinciding to form all
that was in that moment then. And
when I look I can’t find a thing that
seems unreal. Is this a trick? Will my
decedents look upon the vistas of
our time and see rich nostalgia
colouring the skin of everything. Or
will they see the lack of meaning by
which we shape, steer and live our lives
and want no part of its empty shame?
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015
First frost
Withers foliage,
Yet a few hardy flowers
Persevere,
Blooming ragged
And defiant
In time’s cool withdrawal.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015
In near dusk
Ultra violet
Glows
As new purple
Sheen.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015
Only the cool,
Faraway sun
Diminishes
Age
With last autumnal
Tungsten
Spectrum,
Burnishing
Dying leaves
In beautiful flare.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015
Fishermen haul in their net,
Bring in the unseen dimension
While fair skinned tourists
Haul in a delightful authenticity.
The net is wriggly with silver reflex,
Scales shed as a last desperate breath
Bloodies the gills, and tourists snap
In their own reflex to capture the dying light.
It soon quells as each silver fish
Relinquishes and stills on the beach.
Fishermen tidy their nets and
Tiny fry, caught but unwanted
Dry on the sea of sand,
Embalmed in the photograph
In which tourists preserve,
Just as the fishermen salt
And lay their catch in the sun.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015
Intent on the new leaf
They hunt
By gliding night,
Sensing every
Quivering first bud,
Every glimpse
Of a shoot
Emerging
From the earth’s
Protective coat.
And in slow,
Slow pounce
They are voracious
In their work
And in their appetite,
Stripping their prey
To the tattered
And skeletal
Ragged flags
Of a former glory.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015
When he manifest
He chose
A chestnut vest
And trousers
Laddered in hues
Of orange, yellow and black.
And for a hat,
He took the best
In finest elysium gold.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015
In the purple world
Beetles congregate
To Perform
Minuscule ablutions,
Perhaps hold
Precise insect conversations,
Behave
As if they knew
Exactly what to do
With their lives.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015
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