No one can obscure
The ever present sun
Or its infinite
Lovingness.
Only we can shroud ourselves
From ourselves,
In storms of ideas
And emotion’s maelstrom.
When the turbulence clears
Our hearts
Are the love
We were never parted from.
writing
The Path
In the ever present now
We find ourselves
Expanding
In knowing –
That we are infinite being
At the crisp edge
Of happening:
Becoming ourselves
In the unfolding of the universe.
And sometimes we forget,
Dawdle lazy
On the road
Of our making:
Obstacles scattered
By our own hand
That make the journey
Seem tiresome and long
And effortful.
And sometimes we remember
The ever present now,
And step inside ourselves
And the universe,
And the being
That we always were,
And see
We too are always infinite,
And the road
And its obstacles
Are but illusions
On an illusionary path.
Only Our Thoughts
Only our thoughts
Deny the lifting spirit
Holding us buoyant
In the being alive.
Only our thoughts
Cage our minds,
Eclipsing
The wealth
Filling us
Until brimming,
Until our hearts
Are overflowed.
Only our thoughts
Obscure the love
Streaming out
Through ever cell,
Streaming out
Irrepressible:
Infinitely giving,
Infinitely wise.
Only our thoughts,
Our harmless thoughts,
Our transient
Substance-less thoughts
Believed to be strong,
Believed to hold
Power over us,
Believed for so long.
Only our thoughts
Are burnt
Under love’s internal sun,
And brought to nothing,
Our bonds loosened
As thoughts are seen
In freedom,
Seen for what they are:
Just fleeting thoughts,
Not owned,
But passing through
Unhindered, unclaimed, unchained
From who we are.
The Wealth
Not one of us
Upon the earth
Is anything less
Than the whole sun
Shining in being,
Illuminated in the endless wealth
Emerging from the formless realm,
The nothing and the nameless,
Our infinite self
Ever at our finger tips,
Infinitely Infinite and infinitely free.
–
It is only our crowded thoughts,
Straight-jacketing us rigid.
Gripping us to an idea
Of a drought-ridden self,
Stiff within our skin
And so hopelessly lonely,
That thinks us
Thought-severed from the Source,
And made bleak as a separate entity.
–
And yet, those thoughts separating
Are but tenacious thoughts,
Combined, conjoined, layered,
Believed, stiffened, judged
And felt solid enough to be real,
Each one hiding us from the truth:
–
That universal love
Is the absolute fundament of our nature:
The life force propelling,
Filling us up,
Upholding the fleeting entities
We call our selves,
Buoying us
Even when we deny we out buoyed.
–
Not one of us
Is anything less
Than the soul
That is all,
The one,
The only one,
The love emanating from Source
Becoming something,
Ever unfolding as the form-ful manifest.
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.
Rest Awhile
Come thought,
Dogged and persistent,
Rest awhile,
For you have laboured
And toiled and tried
Yourself weary.
Rest awhile
For there is nothing
You can do,
Nothing you can improve
Or fix or even make right.
The world is as it is
And you are small,
A child in all of this.
Rest awhile
For the thoughts you think
Only momentarily eclipse
The love
That holds you in the world.
Rest awhile
And you will see,
You will feel,
All is well,
All is as it should be.
Love Connects Us
Though the days
Are heavy with loss
And the winter of grief
Holds us too close,
Love is yet
The deeper principle,
For all are borne
On love’s unknowable meandering,
All are borne upon life’s lifting back,
And though we are all
At some time recalled
Beyond our mind’s reach
And beyond the veil
Of substance and reality,
Love accompanies our passing,
Holding our hands
And whispering
That we are loved
And that those parted
Are not truly torn away
But still connected,
Still with us
In the union
That does not faulted
Or ever end.
Awareness
When he speaks from Source
His heart is whole in his chest
And fears do not trouble his thoughts.
Even his troubles are untroublesome
For the Source holds all,
Sees all with beautiful clarity.
With time and memory absorbed,
There is but the now to behold,
A now of infinite plenty
Where he is alive,
Alive with innermost energy,
New as a universal birth.
When he speaks from Source
He stands at the expanding edge of the
Universe, singing the song he is,
Being none other than himself,
None but he who sees:
The very wellspring of reality.
Peach Of Plenty
Breathe upon
The subtle scent,
Allow your lips to linger
On its soft flesh,
Then,
Take a bite,
Chew the sweetness
And swallow the juices running freely:
Feel the plenty
Absorbed and nourishing,
Sustaining your life.
–
Look again,
For the peach is whole,
Untarnished, unbitten,
Perfect in its entirety.
–
Breathe upon
The subtle scent,
Take a bite,
Shortage was just a dream
For the peach is infinite
And you may take all you need.
Feast upon the ever-giving gift
And eat whenever you are hungry:
The peach of plenty
Is always yours.
Ⓒ Ben Truesdale 2020
A Traveller’s Sweet Moment
All the various people toing and froing with bags pause as heads tilt to orange lights capitalising arrivals, departures, long lists of destinations, or mill about waiting to board.
A deisel thrums, fuming up the place, and a tannoy mumbles. The sun shines, diffused through skylights stained with pigeon droppings.
And in this intersecting place which is no real destination, I find happiness in the happening of reality unfolding, suddenly miraculous as if the being in me, my heart, had melted like butter in the dish next to the half eaten croissant disintegrating on a plate.
And as the guard blows a whistle my insides break from something solid to a free flowing fluid made of nothing but lightness and space and the joy of dying, where all paradoxes balloon inside until my skin seems a transitory coating, a boarder and yet an open door, a bubble’s width transparency, in which, and through the world I momentarily glide.
distilledvoice 