If only I
Could grasp
The ineffable spirit,
Harness in all the times
Of my life.
If only I
Were buoyant bright
In every instant
Of my being.
If only I
Could alight
The serendipitous mood
And be there
With its lucky light,
Never once outside
Its kindly,
Luminescent beam.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015.
I offer sympathy
To the sorry,
Lonely self
Who burned the bridges
To the wider self,
Severing from his larger entity,
To go solo and hurting
With a wound
Of self reducing,
And isolation
In the mind
Restricted from the universe,
That could be his
If only he could recognise
The wideness of his nature’s truth
And Accept his home
Beyond the reaches of his skin.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015.
Light
Beams
Irresistibly.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015.
What more
For needs met
Than lift
Of soul
Buoyed and self held
In deepest respect.
The harming hand
Changed
From ill will
To loving intent,
And energy accepted
As gift
Of freedom sent
And shift in mind
To wind of happiness
Free about the body.
The only reality
Is the wand of choice
And liberation
Of abundant spirit.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015.
Not in the stone
Or the frame of the flowers,
Not in the lawn or the trees
Or the generous borders.
Only in the eye
Who perceives,
The I
Who perceives.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015
There but a breath from here
Flows the ever stream
Of loveliness.
There in the body
Flows its warm mist,
Delightful as spring energy.
It says without words.
It says
If listened to or ignored.
It says nevertheless
And cares not for being heard
Or even acknowledged.
It is gift
For it is given without clause,
No distinction
Is Required, demanded or extorted.
It is a gift for all,
Without division
Or judgement imposed.
All may quench their thirst:
Worthy or unworthy
Good or bad as they come.
It just comes
For it is given to all.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015
All the energies of man
In cold swirling maelstrom:
Chosen fast to power’s grip.
All the energies of man
In warm loving expansion:
Choosing now freedom’s release.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015.
Flowers grow wild
And free and succulent
On the forest floor’s
Delicious nutrient.
They ‘are’
Without a single thought.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015.
To the damaged and oppressed
It lays its gentle hand, its gentle
breath, and asks for nothing.
To the wronged and dispossessed
It understands with a kindly hand
And be’s there without a sound.
To the despised and those dismissed
It offers its warm hand to temper
Loneliness, washing the mind clean
And bringing all to the light of wholeness.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015.
These words belong to us.
As I write these words they belong to me.
As you read them they belong to you.
I write them from a long time away.
You read them from an equal distance.
I feel satisfied as understanding reveals what I didn’t know.
You feel the feelings arriving to you.
If you see light: the light belongs to you.
If you see darkness: that too is yours.
If you see beauty: you are beautiful.
If you see ugliness: you have found your troll.
In the mirror between us on which my pen rests I see my face.
In the mirror between us on which your eyes rest you see your face.
These words belong to us.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015.
distilledvoice 