Canvas

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Clouds,
Gale grey
And hasty

Full of
Wind-thrift
And mischief,

Steal leaves
And flick
Them

Rotational
And tumbling,
Gimballed on gust

And inconsistency
Tremulous in the trees
Bare branch

And sway
And creak
And core wood

Straining in root-sap
Xylem tendons,
Dormant and slow

But rope strong,
Green strong
Foundation

To the earth’s
Sound clag
And sucking

Cohesive force
To hold the winter
Skeletal

And disrobed,
And canvas blank
For next year’s newness.

© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015

Storm

 

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From the prevailing west
Cyclonic lows
Push
Wet faced
Across
The foot scuffed
Rough,
Browning upon
The boundary rock,
Greying the low sky
And darkening every
Thoughtful perspective
To a buffeted corner
Of the wind swept mind.

© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015

Storm

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Miasma condenses
Heavy blue
In the brooding
Underbellies
As if the cauldron
Were full
At a point of boiling
And might only ease
In manifestation
Of tearful rain
And reservoir’s
Releasing cascade.

© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015