The drunkard on the street
Begging with dirty fingers
Is no less worthy.
The banker mired in wealth,
Fiddling his taxes
Has access to everlasting love.
The warlord
Entrenched in violence
Could touch the eternal flame.
The everyman
Just getting on
Is a request away from energy.
The robber, the thief, the swindler,
And the police
Are equally entitled.
All are welcomed
Into the heart of love,
The sun inside, shining infinitely.
It’s as if the spirit,
Pale green and new,
Brushed our realm
For the briefest instant,
Igniting the cool magnitude
Wrapped in guts of plants
So all are suddenly aware
And blinking and charged
And rolling on in lattices
And internal xylem flows,
Abandoned to their task
To raise the sexual forms
Of flowers in to the high air,
Burgeoning with all the winged
Busyness and assistance
Brought by the sun’s worship.
Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2016
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
If at the core
There is violence
Of the self
Against the source
All the health thoughts
Conceived
Or applications put,
Won’t alter
Or bring life
To the body,
Who’s passenger
Rejects
The fundamental
Principle
Of love
And murders instead
The energy
As it emerges
In free form
Child emotive.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015
The earth’s pulse
Is felt:
Some attune,
Some tarry,
Some skip ahead,
But all
Are gathered
In the end.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015
As if
The mind
Were idle fascination,
Full of dreams,
Full of inconsiquencial
Speculation
And non-participation
In the formation
Of the physical world.
As if
Our behaviour
Were cut loose,
Let loose
Unrestricted,
To roam free
Upon the earth
Without ownership
To count
The scores
Of futures conceived.
As if
We were vagrants
Who’s vagrant belief
Were not owned
In the body
But put out
To all visible peers
In blames
Savage hand
And life’s
Absent redundancy.
As if
The mind
Were not
Conceiving machine,
Coating every idea
In touchable cloak,
Transmuting
Idea’s ethereal stream
From unseen secret
To the solid matter
Of the corporeal.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015
Warm as I wake,
Still clothed
In the arithmetic
Of dreams;
A few sentiments
Found
Like gold flecks
In the pan,
Tangible and inert
To oxidising approach
Of the fast and probable day.
Yet there they are,
Untarnished evidence
Of my mind’s wandering,
Its sinuous, filamentous
Questioning
In to that untapped,
That mystical
And incorporeal.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015
Delight in liquid sea-green,
Washing pebbles
In transparent equality.
Solvent clear as air
And cool
To bathe the blood
And salve the sun,
Hot on the body.
Perhaps a metaphor
For transition
To other energy:
The ever blue
When we
Were nothing
In the seamless
Beginnings
When freedom
Was our own,
As was
Fluent, weightless buoyancy.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015
She has highlights in her hair,
The butter kiss
Of summer light
And fragrant breeze
Painted there.
But it’s her thoughts
That wear
The gold
Of lifted mood
And tussle
Beautiful
In halcyon
Of lofty space
And blue sky
Incantation,
Where shine
Is gloss
Upon the body
And soul
Is spirit
Reaching through matter.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015
And the mother said
You can turn on my earth
And in a trice
My children
Will be upon
The glistening clods
To do their colonising
And consoling work.
And you may desert
The plentiful place
And turn it bland
With monoculture,
Dampen
The flourishing
With chemical
And beings augmented
And superior
All the while
Dashing yourself down.
But I will love you nevertheless.
And you may
Stricken the fertile
And the life giving,
Blemish it,
Injure it
And put it
To dust
And stone
And I will scar
For your learned eye
And then turn beautiful
With rest
And time
Fallow and forgiving.
And you may
Use me
Like your own heart used
And cut me
As your own blood flows
And deny me
As your own
Loneliness is made
In the crucible of your intention
And I will love you still
And whole
And love you
As only the land,
In its richness can
For killing is not mine
Nor
My children’s
And as the world turns
I will be
As I have been;
The force
The spirit
The energy
The lick of love
The empty space
The possibility
The lift
Behind it all,
The reason
And creativity
Rolling on, and endlessly on.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015.
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