Idea number one hundred and fifty-two: Hold Firm

The limited one

Who’s listened and learned

And thought

In all manner of spiralling pathways,

Listing reason, rejection, and facts

And one hundred and fifty failures,

Leading to failure

Number one hundred and fifty-one,

Says: you’re just not good enough.

And chatters, chatters, chatters on.

Yet, the one unlimited,

Says: speak

For your voice

Is a voice to be heard.

Go on always forward.

Write with the wind behind your pen,

Unleashing genius upon the page.

Let your life flow in ink

For the joy

Of ideas metamorphosed,

Ideas grasped from realms ethereal,

Buzzing alive in your head

And conducted

Into the matter of the book

That will be read

If you but put your whole mind behind

The creation of it,

Knowing the limited one

To be a friend enlisted,

His chatter a misused tool

Not a hindrance,

His ideas, gold,

If only directed,

His creative urge

Your own wand

Through which the magic unfolds,

Emboldening your life

And the script you must be

To be wholly yourself,

Holding firm to the pen that you love.

The Writer’s Heart

The lusty heart
strains and fills to full,
pumps for the pen,
swells with the voice,
reaches through the hand’s device:
unburdens oratory cascade
in reams of white sheets impressed
with the ink of its desire to be,
and speak of what it feels
and finds upon the page.

© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2016

Stiff And Staid

Sometimes
I reach for the beautiful pen
Wanting
Loops
And graceful turns
Of poetry
To please the page

But find
My fingers fat as sausages
And the pen,
A cactus.
And my heart
Pumping sand
Through the plaque
Congealed
Narrowness
Of my veins

And so I write
The wrongness
So it might
Shift
From staid
And stillness
To the curves
Of energy flow,
The hopeful pen
Smooth on inky magic,
And once again imprinted

With tenderness untroubled.

© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015

For You Out There

The Likes
Stamped
On my offered work
Are certainly
Gratification,
But
When you,  genius friend –
Whose work
Is masterly
And touches
The substance
Of the wide eyed bridge
Between mind
And beautification,
– Like my words,
I am enthralled
With the closeness
Of creation
And I wish
Our touching
Was a friendship
In the real
Matter of the world.

© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015

Writer’s Block

At first
It’s hard as metal.

Or is it
More like hard cheese

Or maybe butter
Straight from the fridge.

No,
It was left in the sun

And now
As silky oil,

Runs in rivulets,
Clarified and melted

To the yellow-shine
Of a different entropic state.

© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015.