To the tight
To the tearless
To the dried
And desiccated
To the dead
Who still inhabit

I wish
The hot breath
Of Aslam
The gentle touch
Of Jesus Christ
The Buddha’s smile
Mohammad’s light
And the unsung strength
Of every mother
Who loved their child
And the fathers
Who stood
Strong and watchful.

© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015

We Are Of Two Minds

These days
The lonely words spoken in your head
That seem to shout, condemn
And measure you
Against just about everything else,
Pronouncing you lacking
In all of what you could, would and ought to be,
And thus leaving you
Feeling quite sorry
And down about the mouth,
Can now be named


The modern day, 21st century singular self,
So – individual
So – off the peg,
So – go it alone
So – going along with everybody else,
So – I don’t need anybody
So – in need of every other one.

Where speaks the other language,
The older self beyond the singular
Where love is prolific
And condemnation
Is past magic
No longer used
In the mind’s
Spacious vessel
Of new beginnings
And things born
To freshness
And the moods
Of kindness
Flushing the body
Energised and clean?

Where speaks the other mind?

© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015.

Night After Sunshine

I walk barefoot
And feel the sun’s memory
In kiss of warm concrete.
And then to the cool grass
To which I feel the earth’s body,
Lumpy and imperfect
But encompassing
The gentlest hug.
And there
I perceive personality
In night-sweet
And night-flush,
The scently gush of roses
Dripping the pollen of their love,
Feeding nocturnal bug and drab
Moth alike, just as butterflies of day’s
Light take their nourishment.
For the dark is full of giving
And the rose seeks no commitment
But gives
To all those wishing
To sip the nectar of its life,
Knowing them as equals
In the wholeness
Of the wholesome day and night.

© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015.

Sympathy For The Sorry Self

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.

It Is Given

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