For sake
Of beauty
I turn to the pen
To scrawl the music
And the word
And the rhythm’s verse
In gliding ink,
And trace
The shapes
Of worlds,
Following their forms
Like a child
Whose love
Is absolute
And brimming
With what perception
Endlessly births,
In riches unfolded
To the mind’s eye.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015
When high ideas
Condense
To reachable possibility.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015
He puffs on a cigarette
In the manner
Of the ancients
And the Native American
Smoking a peace pipe
And thus inhales
Only pure divinity.
Watching,
The one who disapproves
Inhales the self made smoke
Of an acrid thought
And breathes pure air
Laced with the power
Of negativity.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015
The blue earth
Hints
At curvature
Where horizon
Mists
To a dreaming
Faraway thought.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015
When it wakes
It hears the flowers
Call in scents.
It desires
The ultra violet
Of colours
And the deep
Well of love
In which nectar pools
And collects.
When it wakes
It thinks of nothing else
But the warmth on the wing
And the burrowing head
Thoughtless in the dream
Of pollinating.
When it wakes
It be itself
And thinks
Not a thought
Outside of its being.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015
Man’s Detritus
Cast high
With crisp seaweed
Under the bleaching sun.
All is soluble
In the end,
For the solvent
Washes twice a day
And more
In salt air
Corrosion.
Metal is eaten
Mottled bite
By rust smudge
And leafy fragmentation,
And plastic twine
Frays and becomes powdery.
The plastic bottle too
Loses integrity,
Degraded by the claiming sea,
Scrubbing every edge
To the smooth curve of bays
And roundish pebbles consistency:
Perhaps mocking us
For our solid forms
And legacies,
Our memories
Held aloft and alive –
To never die:
Or perhaps treating us
As equals on the path
To unbecoming
And the endless tide
Of things passed
And passing
To the voluminous being:
Then from dissolution
And constituents floating,
Reformation
Of something new and free.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015.
The sum
Of all that you are:
Your loves,
Your hurts,
Your truths, beliefs, perceptions,
All that you have learned.
Your dreams,
Your feelings,
Your heart,
And all the spanned divides.
Remember
There is no argument:
Another’s point of view
Is an equation
Unknowable as a distant star,
With strands of reason and belief
Meshed and matted
As the synapse brain
Is thus complexly wired.
There is no argument
For personal right
Is derived from what arrives
To the matter of the mind,
And in that
We are all paradoxically different
Yet siblings side by side.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015.
The scientist say they know it.
The religious say they own it.
Societies loosely adhere to common
Agreements of mostly hearsay,
And we all bumble along
As if we lived in the same world!
But the truth,
(If I dare be so bold,
Or at least, my personal
Understanding of it), is that
There are worlds in multitude,
Understandings in multitude,
Perception in multitude,
And to claim one truth
Above and beyond,
Is of the finest, beautiful egotism,
For no man knows the whole sum
And lives as he drifts with glimpses of
Moments, brief meetings and
Encounters, dances with partners
Ever changing:
All deeply relevant,
Deeply relevant to him.
Truth is heart close.
Mind close.
Soul close.
And individual in its unraveling.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015
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