Flowers grow wild
And free and succulent
On the forest floor’s
Delicious nutrient.
They ‘are’
Without a single thought.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015.
poems
The Life In My Phone
In to my phone
I look
As if there was
A life
Held magically inside,
A world
Interesting and full
Of images
And lives lived
So fast
And so newsworthy
And so,
Ever so, momentarily brief.
My eye
Caught for but an instant
Before the
Next colourful thing
Arrives in
An excited flickering
And is
Gone with the very next.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015.
No Words
There are no words to describe
the sky’s deep blue intention,
the free thoughts of clouds,
the trees’ monochrome assertion.
Only an image
conveys the actuality of its imagery
and unburdens itself as it’s seen.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015.
© Image http://www.theochalmers.com
The Pebbles Soothing
In the beginning I was sharp:
Hewn and fractured and split.
And there I lay in the elements for an
Eternity, in flicker of night and day.
Little by little I slid, slipped
And was washed to the river
Where I clattered: my edges
Blunted, broken and dulled.
After eons I found the reassuring sea,
Its salt brine sanctuary,
And was drawn in to wave grind
And the constant draw and push
Of each surge and counter rush:
The rolling swish of a billion
Touching stones caressed in fluid
Musicality and thrown high upon the
Tide line, to lie as almost perfect
Spheres; shaped, refined, defined
And rounded to the soothing curves
Of a microcosmic world reflected.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015.
A Kindness
To the damaged and oppressed
It lays its gentle hand, its gentle
breath, and asks for nothing.
To the wronged and dispossessed
It understands with a kindly hand
And be’s there without a sound.
To the despised and those dismissed
It offers its warm hand to temper
Loneliness, washing the mind clean
And bringing all to the light of wholeness.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015.
The Cottage Garden Calls
Something in the heart of the
gardener is drawn to create worlds
in patches of light and shade’s cool pools.
Something calls to make
billowing folds, pockets
and patchworks of flowers, floral
coverings and scented seas
for the lucky summer breeze.
Something calls for the bees and
their burrowing, smothering search
for bliss. Something calls. Something
calls. Something calls.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015.
Cascade Of Wisteria
There is no air sweeter
Than in May’s cascade
Of colour, billowing
With purple ether
And the lightest elements
That plants might contrive.
Their sexual expression
In fragrant perfection
And tiers of pale lilac
Flowers given
Is the real ‘who’
Of who they really are.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015.
I Would Be An Artist – A Wish
In a room filled with light
I would find my art
In the murmurings
Of my feelings
Introspect and widening.
I would take the time, and with it
Fashion a beautiful gift, spin the light
To fabricate a tapestry of seeing, in which I
Might gaze and find things as yet
Unformed in my understanding.
There would be so much light
And so much time. And my looking
Would both absorb and bring forth
The art of my living. I would live to the
Fullest I could live, happy in the dream
Of ever finding.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015.
Professional Barmen
They are masters of mixology,
Traders in cool.
They work
In the place to be: behind it.
They are it
With their controversial cocktails,
Fine wine wit
And work under loud rhythms.
The knife edge of fashion
Is theirs:
Firm hand shake
And contemporary hair,
Their tools
In the – look good,
Play hard – life
Of those
Who shake and stiiir.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015
A Warm Feeling
I am a sponge
Drinking through my porous
Skin, drinking energy.
The air, the sea, the fluid of reality
Washes through me
Like a fresh born wave.
I float. I am held. Warmth allows
Each cells place in the world,
Space for every identity.
I am a sponge, welcoming
With open arms
Life’s movement through me.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015
