Sometimes
Just the simplicity
Of blue air
And the golden
Ripening in to it.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015
photography
The Dream Of The Balancelle
En Francais
Il es une balancelle
In English
A swinging chair
Hung in the languid air
Shaded by the rustling oaks
And caressed
By a honeyed breeze
In to which
The birds twitter
So the mind
Is temperate
As the perfect afternoon
And thoughts
Are spaced
As the young apple
And the quince tree
In the orchard
And time
Is the lolling arm
Let loose
From a snooze
And the comfortable rocking,
Gently to and fro,
Dans le reve
De la balancelle.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015
Voracious Hunters
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
Drunk In The Thistle Head
Drunk in the thistle head,
Bees become
Comforted
In the leisure
Of the drug
Emitted like scent
And colour.
No longer
The wary leg
Raised
And body tilted
In defensive
‘Keep away’
For heads
Burrow deep
As forgetting.
And what was happy work
Is just the blissful dream
Of being
Carefree and abundant,
And being so very drunk
On the utter taste of love.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015
Inspired and for la petite maison bijoux http://grahy.fr
When He Manifest
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
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
In The End
Our paths
Seem so solid,
Yet with the seasons
Even the most meagre
Stone strewn soil
Grows vast
With fertile grasses,
And weeds
Rampantly colonising.
Our roads
Are temporarily cuts
In the swathes
Of verdant magic,
That will one day
Draw closed
To absorb our footprints
In the luscious gloom beneath,
As if the soil
Was never once
Touched or trodden
Or even impacted
By the swish
And speed
Of our passing by.
.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015
Beauty Happens
Time
Comforts us
With its work
In sweeping curves
And the pebbles
Refined
To grain equality,
Sorted
In gradual conformity
To the long shore laws
Of water physical
And air scouring
And light,
Daily ultra violet.
As the globe spins
On smooth mathematics
And physics
Impregnated with a spark
Of living light
Beauty
Just
Happens.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015
The Very Light
Sometimes
Things just burn
So vivid
With spectrum
Energy,
Almost more
Than the very light.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015
Wildflower
Amid the stalks’ voice
And rustling breeze,
And upon the gently swaying stage
A perfect purple plate
Delivered
So sweetly to the need
Of butterfly, moth
And bees:
A flower for all
On which to feed
And burrow deep
Within its pleasure.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015
distilledvoice 