poems

Drift Dive On A Coral Wall

~ distilledvoice ~ Leave a comment

A fan worm spreads out its feathery tentacles to collect the plentiful nutrient.

Coral polyps reach in to the current
and grab minuscule particles, while in symbiosis with the sun, they feel green algal blood oxygenate their livelihood.

Palatial sponges sift and gulp
vast quantities of the plankton soup.

Encrusting species cling to every
projection, cliff face and under hang, ever tasting blue movement.

Flecks of fish in sinosoidal pulse
weave and dance on the constant
flow, and shoal in bodies of mirroring.

Anemones and soft corals loose in
the waft, put up their ploom and
await sustenance borne upon the
liquid conveyor.

And more fish flutter in plethora of
colour and swim like May cherry petals fall.

One might infer trust, if a thought
were at all buoyant on the coral wall but thoughts aren’t currency
underwater, and to think is to divide from the source of it all. Yet the coral wall endures as ever it has. And millimetre coral growth spans perfect meters in a statement of enrichment sustained.

Only man conceptualises a synario in opposition to what the corals and the fish simply know.

 

copyright 2016 Ben Truesdale & distilledvoice

Robinson Crusoe

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image

Palms swoop to blue utopia
And sands are refined powders
For the wave washed feet.
And sea water is full spectrum
Aqua marine, visiting every
Denomination between
Palest lagoon and deep oceanic.
And the fish are straight from Eden,
As is each paradise bird,
Paint pallet dipped to definition
By God’s own artful hand.

And from a spring, among rocks,
In the shade of ancient trees,
Sweet water froths and gurgles
To a pool in which a man
Might wash his skin
Of all the sins his choices
Have brought and indelibly marked,
And rise anew,
His face clean, his mind refreshed
As the unlearned infant child
Comes naked and without a thing
In to the clutches of this island world.

 

Copyright 2016 Ben Truesdale & distilledvoice

Sunset

~ distilledvoice ~ 1 Comment

image

In the last hour
When the setting sun
Elongates our shadows
And en-goldens our skin,
There is stillness
Of last long light
In the gentle stroll,
And quiet in the wavelet’s
Sodary pulse,
And timelessness
In the lulling
Of seawater swishing
Upon the cushioning sand.

 

Copyright 2016 Ben Truesdale & distilledvoice

Authenticity

~ distilledvoice ~ 2 Comments

image

With a face from the front cover of the National Geographic the old man carries the burden of paddy baskets with entrepreneurial spirit, balancing his load for each photographer and grinning with a toothy and well practised smile. More than anyone else, he knows the value of authenticity and clucks eagerly for the next shutter click to capture his own in the stillness of film.

 

copyright 2016 Ben Truesdale & distilledvoice

Old Boat

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image

Half a boat
Long ago dragged
To moulder on the tide line,
Relaxes in splinters
Shed like bark.

One day
They’ll be but bevelled plank
Jutting from the sand
And a fibrous thought
Left in the memory

Or perhaps
Another wreck
Lent sideways
And slack upon its keel,
Fading in the inevitable time.

 

Copyright 2016 Ben Truesdale & distilledvoice

Mirror

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image

From the sand
Sprout tubular mangrove,
Dusty and leaf stripped
To the bare essential frame.

An idle bike, left to the sand’s Abrasion somehow mirrors their
Natural form, as if all were equal
Within the shade, beneath the sun.

 

Copyright 2016 Ben Truesdale & distilledvoice

Fishes

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image

In the miraculous fish
That come again and again
Like tide to the table
Forever sustained
And always providing
A predictable nourishment,
We encounter
The earthbound principle
Of abundance
Found in habitat
The world over.

If only we could open our eyes
To the reality of the fish
And discard
All those meagre imposters
Who swim the dark waters
Of our fearful minds,
Whispering demise
Instead of flourishing
On currents
Of forever replenishing
And upwellings of bringing
That swell in offering
Despite our reluctance to see.

 

Copyright 2016 Ben Truesdale & distilledvoive

Bougainvillea Cascade

~ distilledvoice ~ 1 Comment

image

Over most the world
She cascades,
Ever and always
Downward she falls,
And yet sometimes
In her ramblings she climbs,
With rings on every single finger
And butterflies in dreams,
Settling as momentary flowers
And garlands lifted beyond.
O she’s beautiful in her fringes
And ethereal reaches,
Beautiful in her bow
And salutation to the sun.

 

Copyright 2016 Ben Truesdale & distilledvoice

End Times

~ distilledvoice ~ 1 Comment

Still the dogged pioneer spirit
Owning protocol and government.

Still the époque of first footsteps
On the shore of the new world.

Still strident explorers
Followed by makeshift populous.

Still the gold-rush
For buried commodity.

Still value of money
Above the the richness of place.

Still the dampening
Of primitive voice.

Still the damaging hand
Assassinating loveliness.

*

These are the end times
Of carelessness,
The deep tectonic shift
In the solitary man,
In the mind
Of every man,
From rootless
To gia-joined:
The umbilicus revealed
In waking of earth
In the feeling body
And connection
To all that was disembodied
And heartless pushed out.

These are the end times
And times of new beginning.

 

Copyright 2016 Ben Truesdale & distilledvoice