As life
Is called to the root
And winter’s closet,
To sleep
In earthen cloak
And fold
All that was fine summery
And light green
Is made russet
And tinged gold
In withdrawing chromatography.
The once plump
Is made papery
And freckled
With age,
And transition
Is fading display
Of the bold
Brought
To its beautiful knees.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015
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
We argue
As to the flower’s
Divine conception
Or arrival through
Random chance.
Yet there it is
Manifest despite our thoughts,
Unarguably apparent
To the miracle
Of our eyes.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015
Balinese fishermen
Exchange the silver hook
For the metaphorical,
Baiting it
With an image:
A succulent
Tropical idyl,
And a hope cast
To catch
The hungry European
Instead of a fish
In the net
No longer physical
But flow of electrons
Emanating
From a distant screen.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015
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
When prisons
Are lights
And birth places
Of the newly born.
Sanctuaries
For those in need,
The digressed children
Of the world,
Patterned and learned,
Patterned and learned.
Where time spent
Is rich maturation
In the loam
Of love.
Where all who leave
Are first made whole
And go,
Full of heart
Full of blood,
Gifted all
That they would steal,
Gifted all
That was withheld,
Gifted all
That they would need.
Gifted.
They leave gifted.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015
Red throat invitation
To late harvest.
Autumnal fade
To sun stretched yellow.
Leaves freckled
And close
To golden
Old age
And the thin skinned
Invisibility
Before crisp release
And disappearance.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015
Like lights
Jeweling city sprawl
Below the sky borne plane,
Flowers
Are various
In their
Luminous display.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015
Nearly all
Are coaxed
To fall
And join
The swallowing ground
And its earthly convey.
Yet
Some things
Are still
Opening.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015
My novel has become somewhat unruly. Until this morning, I hadn’t seen it for a couple of days. Then when I came down for breakfast, there it was, waiting for me, crouching at the bottom of the stairs. But oh my goodness, how it had grown. It was at least seventeen times bigger than I remember and its mouth parts were out of all measure and proportion.
I must say, it halted me in my sleepy decent. I was a little confused as to what to do. Was I to brush past as if it were normal size and without huge fangs and teeth in their multitude. Or was I to flee, scampering up the stairs to exit through the bathroom window. In the end, it made the decision. For as I pondered my choices, it pounced.
Luckily, my martial arts have taught me much. And so with the agility God has favoured me, I ducked and the beast flew straight over my head. I saw its underbelly as it went in a high arc and my worst fears were actualised. Its gut was plump with far too many words and bulged with a peculiar menace. I estimated that it must be a hundred weight, if not more. A terrible thought entered my mind at that point: I had conjured a monster. I was Frankenstein, and this thing, my work.
As it flew over, I took my chance, dashed below and slipped in to the kitchen where I found two things: a broom and poker from my wood burning stove. With these weapons I charged in to the fray. And all was violent ugliness. It bit and scraped and hit out with a rank verbiage and a mouth so full of words. Yet I parried, deflected, spun on the axis of a dance made of martial arts and hopefulness, and for a moment thought myself to be winning.
But then it unleashed its poetry. Oh God, how that hurt. A thousand lashes of its rhyming tongue. A thousand passages of its disappointments. Its woes fired like missiles to strike me down. All that awfulness rolled in to one grievous assault. Its power knocked me to the ground. I was paralysed. And then, it sat upon me with its full weight. It was a ton at least. A ton of words. A ton of sentences. The whole unedited mass crushing the breath from my lungs. Surely I was about to die.
But no. From beneath I saw its weakness. Its binding was not well strung. In fact, it was still in its crapy little ring folder. I took the knife, that I keep in my pyjamas, and stuck it in the gap. The clasps pinged open; so full was it stuffed. And in a instant the beast was done. It disintegrated before my eyes. Pages spewed and fluttered in the air. The chapters shuffled like a deck of cards. The whole thing punctured and deflating as if it were composed of hot air and nothing more.
But when I saw it dismembered and pitiful, I couldn’t strike the killing blow. Instead my heart went out to it. I gathered up its limbs and appendages. I nursed it as best I could, applying hot poultices and wiping away its tears. I collected the spare words (there were many) and hung the sentences out to dry (they were wet with sweat). When I left it on the sofa, watching shit TV, it looked as close to happy as ever I’ve seen. And when I popped a warm blanket across its first page, for comfort and warmth, I think it almost smiled at me.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015
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