Tag Archives: Book

Books (day 2122)

No dear
Don’t open the book
To that page
Its letters were written
On old paper
With a pen
That’s known many names
Crossed out many lines
Filled hearts
And sunk boats.
Here
Try this book.

Sweater I Used to Love (day 1953)

There are sweaters I used to love
Around every worn corner I bump,
Loose photographs falling out of
Grandma’s old favorite books
That wrinkle in my hands
Which don’t look the same
They used to look to me
When I stare back at light blue eyes
From behind sweaters I used to love
And a red geranium in my hand.

Sweater I Used To Love by Ned Tobin

Journals (day 1902)

I want to prescribe my love to a book,
Hold it like dead leaves
Ready for to crumble.
I want my dreams to spill
Into a molten desert
My toes slowly roast in,
Pealing at the seams
As my typed heart scowers
Horizon lines flickering between
Icy reverence and painful reality
And papercuts
That read like smudged fingers
Of a well loved journal.

Journal by Ned Tobin

Dry (day 1891)

Rain, an unending apathy
Soaking away my desire
Feeding my inward voice
To a soothing fire
Of warm socks and books
To take all thoughts
Bundled away by leather strap
Into a tent listlessly blowing,
Heaving and relenting
For a softer night dry.

Of A Time (day 1259)

Remind me of a time
I have always dreamt to be.
Of snowflakes
And hot chocolate, and
Giant balloons in the sky.
And wisdom I’ve learnt of
In dusty wooden books –
Backwards to frontwards
With marvelous hooks.
Lost in the park,
In the middle of a rainstorm,
In the middle of your heart,
With crackers and cheese,
And a bottle that’s real dark.
Remind me of a time

A Chance to Be Faculty and Chief (day 1119)

A valley, like my mind, may look empty on the inside – void of all that makes up matter. Void of all the mass that builds houses and factories and city roads and flower gardens and traffic jams.

For cannot this still matter? I am lost in a wasted land, and the fight challenges my patience along grated edges of wisdom.

Do you hear the sharp bells ringing? Is this the difference that is ringing, or has freedom finally called my name?

The sheath shall sadly fall apart, ragged from too much use like a cocktail napkin at a lipstick party. History shall not scream loudly here. This is not the bitter pages of a non-fiction picture book.

Here we have wrinkled tin garbage cans rolling lifelessly along unkempt lawns of former princes’, former glory holes that believed in a dream. A lifeless dream built on waste management systems and recycling plans.

So I cannot spoil my food anymore. My valley – running deep – is the chance to be faculty and chief. My valley is the early morning breath and the dying chances. My valley is the shortened season and the wilderness.

My valley is me, and I’ve begun to see.

Dainty Little Pixies (day 1010)

Could law we broke figuratively
Demand our justice?
Like clippings sealed in thick books
Observing penance,
Freely battling justifications
And counting down days until extinction.

A cold winter’s breath blows
While a dainty little pixie dances
Towards destruction’s edge.
Flirting with every step,
Every essence of being,
Until fluttering about in a daze;
Imploding into decay

Soakin’ In With Old Smells (day 686)

I’ve been livin’ on a tear drop
Soakin’ in with old smells
Cigarettes and memories

I’ve been rollin’ on these four wheel
Long nights and sad songs
Music keeps my road signs

I’ve been holdin’ on to old boots
Worn through my thick soul
Dollar bills when midnight croaks

I’ve been thinkin’ of a book gone
Left me dreamin’ with wide eyes
Open plains and deep creeks

I’ve been livin’ on a tear drop
Soakin’ in with old smells
Cigarettes and memories