In our thoughts
There are borders,
Endless frictions
And contrary points of view
Fermenting grievances
And ideological wars:
All sides stubbornly gripping
Their high-minded-rightness,
Where ideals are more important
Than the tender heart’s
Love-laced and conciliatory say.
–
While in the heart’s being
There is only oneness.
We wear our race like a heavy cloak
Painting our skins with uncomfortable ideas.
We wear our gender like lead boots,
Stumbling in discomfort proclaimed as ease.
We wear our sexuality like a brightly
Coloured mask.
Our religion and politics
We wear as indomitable rightness.
Our point of view
Is an impenetrable stone castle
Fortified until the last soldier is killed.
Our countries are emblems
For which many will die.
So many are the dividing lines,
The fractious ideas,
For we are tribes
Of a broken mind,
Switching allegiances
Like a fickle tide forgetting the moon,
Changing our image to suit,
Gritting our teeth
In gripped identity
Held as a fist
Shaken at the world.
Are you for or against?
⁃ the what does not matter
In this politics of imagery.
Is it possible we are mistaken
In our hell-bent
Desperation to be somebody?
Could we be
Loose in all the periphery
Of our difference?
Could we see that we one in our being
And the rest is but a jumble of ideas
To wear, not for the war of it
But for the fun of it.
Where is even rightness in this?
Perhaps nowhere
But within the expanse of our boundless self
Containing nothing but the infinite.
Your incendiary words
Are the kindling
In the pyre
In which you stand.
Your hatred
Are the sparks
Falling into the hot oil
Smoking at your feet.
Excite the crowd with an inciting speech,
Encourage the rage of the rage-full
Until they are hot for blood and vengeance.
But ready yourself,
For what you give out
You’ll receive in measures multiplied.
The wounds you inflict
Are both the wounds on your soul
And the wounds
Your enemies
Will flay you with.
Somewhere in it
There is a buried truth
But we
Who blunder through
Find our free words
Banned and restricted,
A gag
Stuffed in the mouth
As if the messenger words
Were the evil
Rather than sentiment
Expressed
Or held in prohibition’s worse
And inward secrecy.
There is much merit
In an ideal
But not one forced,
And not one
Policed by strong arm law
Of uncertain thought
In stance
And put upon the voice,
That makes us speak
With a stuttery tongue,
Unsure of what can
And can’t be said.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015
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
The soldier wears his face
Expressionless; his body
The unimpassioned tool
Of a government, his self
Hidden deep, but watching
Immobile, as the rolling news
Archives refugees in their movement.
White faces wear white masks
While the multitude are naked.
If you could see the lips speak
Behind the West’s veil,
You’d hear these words:
We don’t want your disease
Or your brown, unwashed skin
Unless sanitised in servitude:
A cocktail offered by a waiter
On a faraway beach –
Given to the money flushed king,
Sweating in the midday heat.
Don’t you know:
Migration is a one way valve
And impoverishment a birthright.
Remain in your grubby seat
For you are the brown child
In the white adult’s protectorate.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015
In our madness
We would decline
The love
Of bees
Upon the land
And claim instead
Our MYOPIC
And SHORTSIGHTED
Neonicotinoid coated
Pounds and dollars.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015.
From all the world out there
I come across you.
We meet
With perhaps a word
Or even just a look.
We join for but a moment
And receive our personal gift:
That others in the world
Might understand
And share our view in this.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015
distilledvoice 