poetry

Writing Poetry

~ distilledvoice ~ Leave a comment

I reach out in to the right side of my
brain, two inches back and two inches
above my right eye. I look through
that lens and call what I find to my
tongue, where I roll the matter until
vowel like and three dimensional.
Somehow my heart coats the thing
with a feeling until I can almost taste
the roundness of spoken word.
It lives for a moment in the excited
now until I cast it to the paper of the
page where, in ink, it lies back down
like a photograph or a pressed
flower’s two dimensional memory.

© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015.

The Evening Is Still

~ distilledvoice ~ Leave a comment

The evening is still:

But for the blackbird bold on his
chimney pot promontory, his
conversation a shrill and beautiful
song.

But for the wood pigeons clumsy,
erotic flapping.

But for the silent gnats dancing in
scriptures and fine invisible writing.

But for the red setting sun behind the
silhouette of new spring trees.

But for the purr of a distant car
comfortable on the road.

But for the gurgle and murmur of a
conversation in a garden two fences
along.

But for the imperceptible growth of
plants.

But for tulips drawing closed with
nights subtle encroachment.

But for all that is happening.
But for all that is happening.

© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015.