writing

Now Is The Time For Poetry

~ distilledvoice ~ Leave a comment

The times have changed for poets.
Long gone are the notebooks piling
high with frustrated prose and lyrics,
dust bound and irrelevant, for thought
is fleeting as the modern world and
synapses now demand the instant in
the instant.

The poem was born for this. The
living form of a moment found, both
infinitesimally small and profoundly
long lasting. The supple being that a
poem is, thriving once more, rising to
the position it was supposed to be.

© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015.

The Rain Has Come

~ distilledvoice ~ 2 Comments

The rain has come to change the
world, submerging with wetting
breath, all to humid flux of delightful
moistness. Only here do plants
fluoresce in emboldened realness,
vivid as green stars, flushed and
plump as turgid cells drunk to their
fullest.

And though the sky is grey and
misted hazy close, to this speak the
scents of May flowers: all their
headiness poured forth, all their
potent force to the fluid of the air, all
their sweetened voice given: as if
their beings were vaster than the
boarders of their bodies.

© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015.

In Your Purest You

~ distilledvoice ~ Leave a comment

When she cycles she enters the dream of her belonging.
Her vintage bicycle with sun-silvered basket, well rung bell
And leather saddle warped to comfort’s fit, conveys her to an Elysium
Of country roads, wildflower verges, hedgerows brimming
And the golden wheat of harvest-time, strummed by a playful wind.

In her basket there are flowers: a pose of fresh picked beauties.
And in her delicately platted hair there are entwined stems.
In her mind there are flowers instead of thoughts. And all
The day is yellow-flowing with myriad light. A realm
In which she finds herself and all the happiness therein.

© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015.

WordPress Fisherman

~ distilledvoice ~ 3 Comments

I cast the net
To the deep
With but my words as bait
And a hope that I might feed my readership.

I haul in the net.
And there, a wriggling Like,
A silver excitement with a life of its own.
And next a bigger catch, a
Follower, meaty and perhaps adoring.

I am a WordPress fisherman. And I
Must write and cast the net again.

© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015.

In A Parallel Universe

~ distilledvoice ~ 2 Comments

A spell of introversion has settled upon the land and humans are gardeners of the heart. Human needs are met in the home, being small and easily administered to. Happiness is the peoples’ occupation and time is their friend. Space is a fluid and is known to expand. No one really travels much because of the comfort of home: so many are artists and musicians. The world is a village. There are unnumbered country roads, beautiful grottos, silent places, sanctuaries of mind, laughter filled spaces. Nature abounds in colourful denominations of kind.

Each human mind is a node of abundance and creator of wonder. This is the world’s equality. No place is the same or even different. There are just endless wellsprings and outpourings of creativity. Much is manifest and much more is left to the imagination. Wholeness is thought important beyond other principles but no one speaks of such matters of fact, as fun’s subject is more pleasing and much more interesting than that.

Every day is richer than the last. Every day understanding widens. Every day appreciation warms and grows. Everyday the sun rises and allows all the wide open eyes to see the true reality of things.

© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015.

On A Cornish Cliff

~ distilledvoice ~ Leave a comment

Crouching in rock gardens,
Among the hardy flowers
Strummed by the sky’s wide wind,
She finds her perfect moment
And is moved to art,

As if the moment had found her
To carry out its wish
To live beyond its simple richness:
Live once in being witnessed
And then again and again
In the paint’s still vivid kiss.

© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015.

WordPress And My Mind

~ distilledvoice ~ Leave a comment

Each time I Press
I take a step
And reach out
Far in to the mists

Of the unknown.
For Me it feels
As though the cutting edge
Of art arrives

And happens now
As I reach
In to the mists of mind
And bring back

All that I find there.
And then I Press again,
And wait.
And just like the mind

Beautiful things emerge,
Personalities materialise,
Worlds unfold,
And I realise

The myriad forms
The myriad souls
The myriad stars,
A billion hidden constellations

Out there,
Awaiting discovery.

© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015.

Writing Poetry

~ distilledvoice ~ Leave a comment

I reach out in to the right side of my
brain, two inches back and two inches
above my right eye. I look through
that lens and call what I find to my
tongue, where I roll the matter until
vowel like and three dimensional.
Somehow my heart coats the thing
with a feeling until I can almost taste
the roundness of spoken word.
It lives for a moment in the excited
now until I cast it to the paper of the
page where, in ink, it lies back down
like a photograph or a pressed
flower’s two dimensional memory.

© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015.