Need I use guiding word
And direction:
The thing – described, imaged,
Processed through the brain of I:
Not here
Where the boiling and molten sky
Directs without narration.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015.
poem
In The Summer Dusk
In the summer dusk
all is sweet temptation
in musk of earthy being:
even the grass
is dew sugar first hay,
tender and sun soaked elixir
to horsly kind,
frolicsome and effervescent
to pink noses everywhere.
And what air: warm as comfort,
barefooted and shirt undone,
base note to the roses flood
of velvet, lusty tantalisation:
a shedding of potions loving
and daintily perfumed.
What dwells in this scented night,
but creatures of the stillness,
hid deep from our slice of daily life,
nocturnal to it
and waking only to the moon
and sweetness magic from
disgorging night-flowers.
A hedgehog snuffles and is alive.
Moths are vibrant,
aerialed to the pheromonal moon
and unseen currents high and trail like.
And beetles alight the moonbeams,
unfurl their hidden wings
and step to the unsteady air,
to taste and be beside
the molecules abundant.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015.
Days Are But A Flicker
Days are but
A flicker
To the lichen’s
Liver spot
Upon the rock’s
Weather worn skin.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015.
The Blogger Plant
Like creepers
And tangled vines
Urging for the high light,
Bloggers speak out
With leaves of thought,
Search for every photon dealt,
Yearning daily taller
In appreciation’s height
For sunshine on the face
Of their creation.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015.
Darkness Shapes
Darkness shapes:
Defines green feathery fronds,
Allows light in to being.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015.
Primordial Stream
We set off up the stream,
Beginning in sunlit glade
And shimmer of water,
Licking each golden stone.
A pair of wagtails flit bold
In their territorial patch.
The banks are meadow flanked
But soon rise to steepness.
Beech and oak find purchase,
Dappling and putting much to shadow.
A luscious gloom settles, heavy
Breath of deepest, dimmest forest.
The stream becomes primordial,
Carves bowls in stone, cups to which
Birds might sip and swallow swirls and falls
As channels form slowly deeper.
Moist darkness crouches in
Underhang and ferns as endless
Kingly crowns sprout in revelations
Upon the earthy tiers, and foxgloves
As colour pronged diviners speak
To purple heavens reaches.
Trees too die. And some span the crevice,
Long ago fallen and half rotted soft
With moisture’s seeping ingress,
Wearing a jewellery of mysterious
Polyp, their woody hearts absorbed,
Transformed to plate-like fungus.
A coat of moss clings to every
Surface: beard of the forest
Spirit, wizening to bark and stone
Alike, a mat of tendril and twisted
Whiskering leaf, bog wet and reservoir
To humid air’s closeness. And gnats,
Fast in an escaped sun beam, find their
Golden scribbling above a still pool
And with their swift speed mark the
Quantum stillness of the hollow in the
World where time flows only as the stream,
In gurgle’s timeless ever movement down.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015.
Light’s Equality
The bridge, the cloud, the sand
And the mirror of the tide,
Burnished bronze in light’s equality.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015.
Notes On Monochrome
Last, withdrawing light
Caught in a mirror of sand
Sheened with molecule wetness.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015.
Horizon
A sea wind
Strafes the land
With sun scold
And cloud shadow,
And skylarks hunker,
Warbling in the low gorse,
And bluebells weather
On the seaward slope,
And foxgloves sturdy in the verge
Allow bees their leeward staircase.
The sea is to the full horizon.
And beyond, there is likely
More for thought, for the nothing
In the globe’s curve holds the eyes
To distant possibility: and to the mind
bestows its ponderous question mark.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015.
Earth’s Gullet
From the earth’s gullet
Gurgles a spring:
A damp throated chuckle
And breath
As moist as love
Seeps and clings
And an echo
Finds the nook
To be homely shadow.
A grotto of green
Coating beings,
A mist of epiphytes,
Sponge dwelling moss
And primordial simpleness,
Cups droplets clean
To reflect and magnify,
And hold spherical worlds
On silver, meniscal skin.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015.
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