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 earth’s pulse
Is felt:
Some attune,
Some tarry,
Some skip ahead,
But all
Are gathered
In the end.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015
Sometimes
You just gotta unwind,
Slouch
In to the re-cline,
Slump
In comfort’s
Loosening ground:
Belly out
And legs astride
The sound of purring.
The whole body
Relaxed
Akimbo style
And feeling the feel
Of being
Feline’s true kind.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015
As if
The mind
Were idle fascination,
Full of dreams,
Full of inconsiquencial
Speculation
And non-participation
In the formation
Of the physical world.
As if
Our behaviour
Were cut loose,
Let loose
Unrestricted,
To roam free
Upon the earth
Without ownership
To count
The scores
Of futures conceived.
As if
We were vagrants
Who’s vagrant belief
Were not owned
In the body
But put out
To all visible peers
In blames
Savage hand
And life’s
Absent redundancy.
As if
The mind
Were not
Conceiving machine,
Coating every idea
In touchable cloak,
Transmuting
Idea’s ethereal stream
From unseen secret
To the solid matter
Of the corporeal.
© 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
Sometimes
I reach for the beautiful pen
Wanting
Loops
And graceful turns
Of poetry
To please the page
But find
My fingers fat as sausages
And the pen,
A cactus.
And my heart
Pumping sand
Through the plaque
Congealed
Narrowness
Of my veins
And so I write
The wrongness
So it might
Shift
From staid
And stillness
To the curves
Of energy flow,
The hopeful pen
Smooth on inky magic,
And once again imprinted
With tenderness untroubled.
© 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
Balinese fishermen
Exchange the silver hook
For the metaphorical,
Baiting it
With an image:
A succulent
Tropical idyl,
And a hope cast
To catch
The hungry European
Instead of a fish
In the net
No longer physical
But flow of electrons
Emanating
From a distant screen.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015
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