In to the tentative spring
encroach magnolia flowers.
Some new, the nibs of fine pens
poised to inscribe heaven sent
possibilities.
Some full, festooning the leafless
branches as if a flock of glossy birds
had taken brief and perfect rest-bite.
Some old, their floppy bodies without
will to hold beyond a falling stars
burst and thrust and flair
in to momentary being.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015.
Sometimes I just want to write
something beautiful: to conjure the
mood, to call the feeling, to be the
beautiful pen as it translates the
energy of self and brings something
new to my world, and the wealth
found in being it.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015.
The times have changed for poets.
Long gone are the notebooks piling
high with frustrated prose and lyrics,
dust bound and irrelevant, for thought
is fleeting as the modern world and
synapses now demand the instant in
the instant.
The poem was born for this. The
living form of a moment found, both
infinitesimally small and profoundly
long lasting. The supple being that a
poem is, thriving once more, rising to
the position it was supposed to be.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015.
The rain has come to change the
world, submerging with wetting
breath, all to humid flux of delightful
moistness. Only here do plants
fluoresce in emboldened realness,
vivid as green stars, flushed and
plump as turgid cells drunk to their
fullest.
And though the sky is grey and
misted hazy close, to this speak the
scents of May flowers: all their
headiness poured forth, all their
potent force to the fluid of the air, all
their sweetened voice given: as if
their beings were vaster than the
boarders of their bodies.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015.
When she cycles she enters the dream of her belonging.
Her vintage bicycle with sun-silvered basket, well rung bell
And leather saddle warped to comfort’s fit, conveys her to an Elysium
Of country roads, wildflower verges, hedgerows brimming
And the golden wheat of harvest-time, strummed by a playful wind.
In her basket there are flowers: a pose of fresh picked beauties.
And in her delicately platted hair there are entwined stems.
In her mind there are flowers instead of thoughts. And all
The day is yellow-flowing with myriad light. A realm
In which she finds herself and all the happiness therein.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015.
It is enough
That the poem is opened
In the writing of it
And the truth
Is found and understood.
It is more
If the poem is read
For the gap is breached
As souls touch
For the briefest, beautiful instant.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015.
I cast the net
To the deep
With but my words as bait
And a hope that I might feed my readership.
I haul in the net.
And there, a wriggling Like,
A silver excitement with a life of its own.
And next a bigger catch, a
Follower, meaty and perhaps adoring.
I am a WordPress fisherman. And I
Must write and cast the net again.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015.
A spell of introversion has settled upon the land and humans are gardeners of the heart. Human needs are met in the home, being small and easily administered to. Happiness is the peoples’ occupation and time is their friend. Space is a fluid and is known to expand. No one really travels much because of the comfort of home: so many are artists and musicians. The world is a village. There are unnumbered country roads, beautiful grottos, silent places, sanctuaries of mind, laughter filled spaces. Nature abounds in colourful denominations of kind.
Each human mind is a node of abundance and creator of wonder. This is the world’s equality. No place is the same or even different. There are just endless wellsprings and outpourings of creativity. Much is manifest and much more is left to the imagination. Wholeness is thought important beyond other principles but no one speaks of such matters of fact, as fun’s subject is more pleasing and much more interesting than that.
Every day is richer than the last. Every day understanding widens. Every day appreciation warms and grows. Everyday the sun rises and allows all the wide open eyes to see the true reality of things.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015.
Crouching in rock gardens,
Among the hardy flowers
Strummed by the sky’s wide wind,
She finds her perfect moment
And is moved to art,
As if the moment had found her
To carry out its wish
To live beyond its simple richness:
Live once in being witnessed
And then again and again
In the paint’s still vivid kiss.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015.
Think of the wonders yet to be.
Think of the discoveries yet undiscovered.
Think of the possibilities not yet uncovered.
Think of the dreams unborn to our world.
Think of the cures yet still embryonic.
Think of the could be’s, the maybe’s,
the potentials not yet invented,
the time spreading out like an unending road.
Think of the hidden
and all things yet to be conceived.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015.
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