Through white noise
My lines
Find your eyes,
And for an instant
Our minds touch,
Bridging
Inconceivable distance.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015
writing
Impossible
The door
To this staircase
Is made of gravity
The conundrum
Is written
In my reflective frown
Some days
Life just seems
Impossible.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015
In The Protectorate Of The White Adult
The soldier wears his face
Expressionless; his body
The unimpassioned tool
Of a government, his self
Hidden deep, but watching
Immobile, as the rolling news
Archives refugees in their movement.
White faces wear white masks
While the multitude are naked.
If you could see the lips speak
Behind the West’s veil,
You’d hear these words:
We don’t want your disease
Or your brown, unwashed skin
Unless sanitised in servitude:
A cocktail offered by a waiter
On a faraway beach –
Given to the money flushed king,
Sweating in the midday heat.
Don’t you know:
Migration is a one way valve
And impoverishment a birthright.
Remain in your grubby seat
For you are the brown child
In the white adult’s protectorate.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015
Red Chemistry
Before the fall,
A flash
Of red chemistry
In the streak
Of autumn’s
Dying blaze.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015
Autumnal Gold
The Autumnal gold
Of a faraway sun
Attunes perfectly
With the leaf litter
Strewn loose
And curled tan
In brown banks
Of crisp exsanguination.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015
For Sake Of Beauty
For sake
Of beauty
I turn to the pen
To scrawl the music
And the word
And the rhythm’s verse
In gliding ink,
And trace
The shapes
Of worlds,
Following their forms
Like a child
Whose love
Is absolute
And brimming
With what perception
Endlessly births,
In riches unfolded
To the mind’s eye.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015
Autumn Scent
Now
With reluctant light
The wet earth
Breathes at last,
Breaks its dry fast
And puts
The eager tendril
Of must and spore rot,
Conveyed in shadow-damp,
To the dismantlement.
For what falls –
The withered leaf,
The stem, no longer turgid,
The petals browning,
– Mould will impregnate
And make an earthly scent
In season rich lament
And sad fermentation
Of soil and soul bound things
Untethered and unfettered
In their sinking sleep
And matters cool release
From forms previous.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015
Nib
The mind
In the nib
Of the pen
Is the light
Switched on,
The wire
In electrical flood,
The synapse of seeing
Open eyed
And transposing
Ideas
Directly
In ink
As if
Their true form
Were black marks
Made upon the page
And not images
Wrapped in similes
And metaphors
Translating the link.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015
Pointless Poem
This poem
Has no point
But
For the pleasure
In the curvature of words
And the feeling of forms
So malleable
In the mouth.
Just writing it
Is beautiful elocution enough.
Speaking it
Is satisfyingly pointless.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015
Autumn Begins
Autumn begins
In the leaves’ metamorphosis:
Flames’ tongue
Scorching the green retreat.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015
distilledvoice 