If there was a word
Better earned
By the bee,
Than friend,
I do not know it.
For friend
Is as warm
And yellow
In it’s gift
Of honey
To the land,
And comes symbiotic
With sunshine,
And plenty’s
Open handed flower.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015.
Settles to the sweet
And pollen clad
Heart of the world
Sun bathes
On quivering petal,
Voluptuous ruby shades.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015.
Bark touched golden
And green needles
Bronzed
By the lateness of the hour.
Our outer heart
Reddened by atmosphere
And light speed
Through it.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015.
Sea born rhythms
Arrive in blueness pulse
After blueness pulse,
And where the shallows
Show in pale shoals
And the globes of stones
Glow egg-like and shimmering,
The waves rise troubled
And breathe the air
To the new azure
Of their turbulent lungs,
Curling and introvert
In their wet work
Until the almost perfect
Curve of the rolling surf
Slips from the form and balance
Of its clothes
And seeks abandon
In bubble
And white water surge:
All its energy fragmented
And absorbed
In the froth and melee
Of interface.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015.
Lazy in the shallow stream,
Silken bellies tickling
The golden gravel.
Heads toward clarity
And clean new
Flush of gills,
Absorbent and capturing.
With but a gentle pulse
To keep stillness,
The shoal mimics
The sinusoidal weed,
In greens scribing wellings
And turbulence
Fingering the sinuous flow:
And leisurely,
They face forever
And the sweet taste
Of always coming,
Always there,
Always flowing,
Always there,
And the tranquil
Cool beginnings
In every moment.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015.
By hapless chance
Or fine design
Bees are miraculous.
In the scheme of being,
Created Nevertheless.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015.
Bees are litmus to the land.
In their contentment
Is our milk
And sustenance,
For they are single minded
In nature’s plan
Of balance in the gathering:
Their Society
For the benefit of all within,
And kin and neighbours too
Are thus glad
For their best harvesting.
Bees are litmus.
They speak now
About man
On Earth.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015.
To each fine
Ripe strand
And purple
Crowning wand,
Alight the
Balance of bees,
In gentle weight
And measurement,
As stalks bow reverent
In ease.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015.
Delicate species:
So light and feathery
In the air
With filamentous thoughts
To touch the breeze
And call from it music
And the swishing
Of sibilant verse:
Its delicate fingers
To the wind’s instrument,
To feel and disperse
And cast its seed-spec progeny.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015.
Dedicated to Emma Bullet https://emmabullet.wordpress.com
In the summer dusk
all is sweet temptation
in musk of earthy being:
even the grass
is dew sugar first hay,
tender and sun soaked elixir
to horsly kind,
frolicsome and effervescent
to pink noses everywhere.
And what air: warm as comfort,
barefooted and shirt undone,
base note to the roses flood
of velvet, lusty tantalisation:
a shedding of potions loving
and daintily perfumed.
What dwells in this scented night,
but creatures of the stillness,
hid deep from our slice of daily life,
nocturnal to it
and waking only to the moon
and sweetness magic from
disgorging night-flowers.
A hedgehog snuffles and is alive.
Moths are vibrant,
aerialed to the pheromonal moon
and unseen currents high and trail like.
And beetles alight the moonbeams,
unfurl their hidden wings
and step to the unsteady air,
to taste and be beside
the molecules abundant.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015.
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