Like a water droplet
It buds, bulges
And balloons.
But unlike the split
And silver rivulet
Dashed to multiples
The bud
Breaks its silence,
Stands tall
And reveals.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015
writing
Ultra Violet
In near dusk
Ultra violet
Glows
As new purple
Sheen.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015
Chance Late Flower
A chance
Late flower
Matures
Even while
All around
Become wearisome.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015
Violence Of The Self
If at the core
There is violence
Of the self
Against the source
All the health thoughts
Conceived
Or applications put,
Won’t alter
Or bring life
To the body,
Who’s passenger
Rejects
The fundamental
Principle
Of love
And murders instead
The energy
As it emerges
In free form
Child emotive.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015
Sieve
A sieve
To strain gusts
Of leaf fall
And spore heady
Deluge
Strewn crisp
And thick
As winter snow.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015
Brothers In Colour
There is something
Victorian
In his whiteness,
A correctness
Disciplining the rest
So regulation
Rules in dry doctrine.
And to his eye
His black skinned brother
Is carnal opposite
To the structure
Rigid in his self
And he fears
The hot power
Of a primitive.
And thus
The black man
Is subdued
For being
The outward heart
With body filled
With blood and vigour
And the white man
Gelds himself,
Separates from his pulse,
His inner fire,
Grows cold and stiff,
And with backstroke
Of his incising knife
Flays
His collateral brother,
So in neither
Is the life found flowing,
And in both
The cut
Equally deep.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015
Dance
I would speak
With you,
Entangle our words
In the salsa
Dance,
Close and breathy.
As partners in art,
In converse
Verbal
And intangibly said,
In the heat
Of closeness
And skin
Touching skin,
I would ask you
To pirouette
So you might hear
My whisper,
And smile
At my music in your head.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015
Muse
In your work
I find mine
For my brush
Does seek
The peacock’s flush
And strut
And flares
The more
For your
Flouncing parade,
Your fan crowning,
Colourful display.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015
Tungsten Flare
Only the cool,
Faraway sun
Diminishes
Age
With last autumnal
Tungsten
Spectrum,
Burnishing
Dying leaves
In beautiful flare.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015
Earth Clock
All are called
By the clock
To conform
To the great weight
Of pendulum earth
Oscillating
In the deep groove
Of the universe.
But we’re still offered
A second or two’s grace
To find
Our own pulse
In time’s
Unwinding.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015
distilledvoice 