spring

To The Garden I Go

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To the garden I go,
To pace the concrete path
Bordered by greenery.
I examine the bud, then the tender
Shoot delicate in its unfold, changing
Each day imesaursbly. I witness the
Plant beings flush under the sun, their
Greenness quivering, their buoyancy
Mesmerised to reach for the high
Happy sky.

I step away for but a spell and to my
Returning astonishment I find a new
Garden, in place of the wonder I had
Left, yet more richly itself and bolder
In its expansive space.
The air too I breathe and find thankful
To my lungs, for the garden’s world is
Richly textual, a sensation in to which
I too unfold, as if all my wanting
Dreams of elsewhere heavens had
Been called home and yoked to the
Simple matter of a flower’s beautiful
Event.

Nymans Garden – A Picture

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Someone, a time ago, painted a
picture in the living stream of garden
beings. Their beautiful idea, via seed
and years of seasons, and the tender
touch of gardeners’, comes to me as
this:

A flush of crimson azalea.
And there a grotto in which generous
rhododendron blush and bloom in
roughs and frills.
And there peonies unclasped.
And there cherry pinks and white
petals lazily falling.
And there a dappled garden of
magnolia, like so many flamingos,
proud swans and poised egrets alight
each bough and branch.
And beneath in clusters: fritillary,
anemone and daffodils.
As if all were floating on a magical
mist of sunrise beginnings and first
dew drop breaths of times absolute
unfolding newness.

If I were an artist I might use this
fertile gift and call good thoughts
from fresh enriched wholesomeness
and wish them forward, so in a time
ahead, someone might find what I
have found and be likewise captive
and spellbound by nature’s gladness
to willingly adhere to the picture’s trellis.

© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015

Sunshine On My Face

~ distilledvoice ~ 4 Comments
I feel sunshine on my face
And on my back.

And inwardly I feel the heat of
Positive thought.

With one happy sentiment
I am warm and beautiful

And glad and grateful
For my life.

I feel better in the knowing of
Sunshine’s wealth,

Its gift in energy,
In endless stream of

Waveform or particle.
Its substance endlessly brought.

The infinite process of giving
Begun each new day

With dawn’s first light
– A slither of newness

Delivered as forerunner
Of all that will be

Doubtless and faithful –
Trust’s fine principle

Wholesome to my heart.

© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015.

Air

~ distilledvoice ~ 2 Comments

I breathe deeply
of the sweet morning air,
the scented air; touched and
touching, marked and marking,
impressed and impressing
all within the glorious space
in which I find myself alive.
This morning I am fragrance of
sunshine-warmed leaves and an
energetic April wind tussling the
combs of Scots pine. I am scent of
rain in the night, drying quickly in a
patch of light. I am blossom of early
flowering shrubs and molecules
rubbed close to the tulip’s ample
bosom. I am fresh as ever was the
world.
I breathe another grateful breath for
there is another one, and another
after that, waiting to be deliciously
inspired.

© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015.

Magnolia Spring

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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.

The Rain Has Come

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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.

The Very First Beginning

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I’ve been living in the cave of winter
and only knew it fully when spring’s
pulse flushed first in snowdrops and
buds bulging on the stems.

I’m awakened to the ground rush,
natures upsurge and levity behind
each tender shoot: the whole earth
intent to leaf and reclined to the
photon sun, its matter poured
eternally.

Like this my new garden arrives to my
eyes: a new flower gift each day, the
unexpected brought on spring wave
as herbaceous kind are called and
charmed, powerless on the tendril
energy.

With the scent of first flowers and
the colour of first butterflies, and first
bumble bees quick on the first sun
blasts, I realise the spring and wake
once more, as creatures wake from
their hibernation. All of us drawn from
the darkness to the light, new
warmness, the air crisp and perfect
as the very first beginning.

© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015.

The Evening Is Still

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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.