If nothing else
Then coffee’s
Bitter roast warmth
And bite back,
To light
The cold night
And cold morn,
And twang it
To a bit-better
Vibrational resonance.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015
poems
Effortless
Under blue-grey clouds
Red kites find
Effortless updrafts
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015
Winter Welsh Cottage
Not more
Than rockfall,
It dwells hunkered
Beside the spate
And the wizened,
Moss bearded,
Lichen fleece trees,
Bent to authority
Prevailing.
Its stone walls
Sieve the moor wind
Of its cold fingering,
And heather herb scent
Sweet on its fidgeting tips
Ingress on drafts
Under the mischievous door.
The mist is low
And sight is brought close
As weather-fallen
Days and nights
Resemble the gloom
Blurring the edges of the world.
How can this not affect
The mind of the old man
Thoughtless before the stove
Burning low on enclosed
Vistas of wintertime?
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015
Muse
In your work
I find mine
For my brush
Does seek
The peacock’s flush
And strut
And flares
The more
For your
Flouncing parade,
Your fan crowning,
Colourful display.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015
Tungsten Flare
Only the cool,
Faraway sun
Diminishes
Age
With last autumnal
Tungsten
Spectrum,
Burnishing
Dying leaves
In beautiful flare.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015
Earth Clock
All are called
By the clock
To conform
To the great weight
Of pendulum earth
Oscillating
In the deep groove
Of the universe.
But we’re still offered
A second or two’s grace
To find
Our own pulse
In time’s
Unwinding.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015
Gifted – A Future
When prisons
Are lights
And birth places
Of the newly born.
Sanctuaries
For those in need,
The digressed children
Of the world,
Patterned and learned,
Patterned and learned.
Where time spent
Is rich maturation
In the loam
Of love.
Where all who leave
Are first made whole
And go,
Full of heart
Full of blood,
Gifted all
That they would steal,
Gifted all
That was withheld,
Gifted all
That they would need.
Gifted.
They leave gifted.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015
Refreshment
Somewhere between
The infinite
And the minuscule
Globes quiver
In skin
Spherical and lensing
Chlorophyll light:
Every one
In pert tension,
Succouring
To leaf
In mist cleanse and refreshment.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015
For An Instant
Through white noise
My lines
Find your eyes,
And for an instant
Our minds touch,
Bridging
Inconceivable distance.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015
Pointless Poem
This poem
Has no point
But
For the pleasure
In the curvature of words
And the feeling of forms
So malleable
In the mouth.
Just writing it
Is beautiful elocution enough.
Speaking it
Is satisfyingly pointless.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015
