Surf rises
To the mirror lip sun,
A moment before
White thrall,
Loose of integrity
And slack
Of reer-up and shore call,
Pales the deep blue
To a lighter shade.
Near the rocks
Haze moistens the air
With sticky salt
Greasy on every surface
And root grasping trees
Survey the consistent pulse
From high, squinting promontories
Stark against the prevailing horizons
And the sea changing sky.
copyright 2016 Ben Truesdale & distilledvoice
In a parallel world,
Much like our own,
The mark of a man’s success
And achievement is measured
By the number and age
Of mature trees he gladly tends
In his garden.
In this parallel world
All men are servants
And nothing is out of balance.
copyright 2016 Ben Truesdale & distilledvoice
Beneath the succulent leaves,
In the shadow cast
Where harsh sun
Fragments
To a gentle dappling,
Proboscis flowers
Scent the musty undergrowth
With sweetness derived
From intense concentration.
Like the artist
Who dedicates the hours
To find a pure manifestation,
The flower too
Is single minded
In its delicate craft
And delights in its creation.
copyright 2016 Ben Truesdale & distilledvoice
Flowers
Like all things
Unwind from their beginnings
Curved by the spin
Of worlds
And helices underlying.
All the earths children
Are so marked
By coriolous force
And inescapable laws
Holding us snug to our place
In time revolving.
Copyright 2016 Ben Truesdale & Distilledvoice
O world
Myriad
And so various
How refined
Your ideas
Brought to definition
In the womb of you!
How perfect
The journey of a flower
In generations’ wandering
And expression.
How fitted this now
In which the blossoms
Burgeon at the lip
Of times curvature.
How right the polyps
Of your creation,
Now
And forever
In your name.
Copyright 2016 Ben Truesdale & distilledvoice
In contrast:
Utility and the flirtatious
Stand unperturbed
Side by side.
Copyright 2016 Ben Truesdale & Distilledvoice
From the medium
In which the leaf reclines
And absorbs
Warm solar muse,
Pure art
Forms as the perfect
Opening flower
And blessed
Replication of the sun:
A depiction
Of the source
From which
All lives spawn
And irrevocably come.
copyright 2016 Ben Truesdale & Distilledvoice
The earth turns
In incremental light.
The day expands
In millimetre shoots,
A green touch
Like lovers’ skin
Mirroring pale light
And new sun contours.
Each bulb nestles
In the mother’s pulse,
Follows exact
Circadian match:
The beautiful dance
Of closest partners.
Like all living things
In sweet, earthy bondage,
Not one strays
Nor splits disobedient
From irrefutable law
And physical fact
Of freedom
To be absolved,
And to shadow
First, ethereal footsteps.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2016
Sometimes
She searches for poems,
Roves over
Innumerable things
With a hope
Her eye might catch
A suchness
And florescence
Glowing real
In the edges
Of interest.
And so to the woods
For knot, bird and lichen
Hosted in the crenellations
Of ecosystems’ burgeoning.
And to the city streets,
Angular in architectural
Masterpieces and rhombus
Network’s crystalline form.
And to the face of child,
Old man and worn woman
Storytelling in wrinkles
And light shining eyes.
But sometimes,
Caught unawares,
She finds the thing
In the corner of her eye,
Like an insistent child
Demanding attention,
A nugget gleaming treasureful
In the open hand
Of the high carat sand
And the riverbed of imagery.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2016
For Melinda https://thepoetryofphotography.wordpress.com
And all the other talented photographers I follow.
In the chalk stone village
Flint glints metamorphic
In shards of black sunlight
Mortared in the strata
Of a time when much
Was constructed from spare
Thoughts left lying around.
In the spring
Fledgling wisteria,
Delicate on the woody vine,
Take to the sky on pale green wings,
And garlands dangle voluptuous
Above each cottage door
And homely window frame.
And in the summer
Swallows spit and daub
Their dwellings under eaves
And flit the pink sky
Scoring invisible patterns
Of impermanence etched
With high swooping cries.
And in the autumn
The plants give up
The flush of summer’s
Vital light, let go the link
For approaching torpid night
And release their fruits
To future’s fertile cornucopia.
And in the winter,
The shabby season’s end,
Expectant bulbs await the sign
To push their green nibs
Beyond the hugging ground
And light the new year
Just as the last was so conjured.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015
distilledvoice 