Tag: brook

Dusty Socks (day 2228)

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Onward my heart
To the soaring distances I’ve been dreaming here of
To the leafless gaze
The toothless grin
A window frame caught amidst a midsummer storm.

And if fractions should call against pure chaos
That leave impressions upon my spine that bends over just so
Let the memory of what has always been past
Echo longingly into the recesses of my soul,
Let winds blow my hair around and into my eyes
So that my remaining senses cannot see, cannot hear, cannot feel,
But sing like the babbling brook
That chaos has dipped her toes into.

And here I will become
A saucer for sorrows over a campfire smouldering
A spirit stung with madness so crippling
This flag that has been chosen to fly
Shall linger softly
Like the ocean breeze that watches your excitement gather
Upon smooth rocks with dusty socks
And a sealion dipping below.

Search O’Er Lain Land (day 1590)

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Glen to glen
I’ve wandered brooks
Searching for my
Crag with a hook

Little, though
My hearts dismay
Could effort swing
Precipice lay

For o’er lain land
My hoof she ran
Like orphaned seeds
Autumn’s light breath

Dagger be given
To the laughing lady
High atop as a
Clever tight rock

For no path could be laid
No gorge to ford
No eye to twinkle
Amidst sun-lit wrinkle

Now guide thee home
Pulse in thine known
I hear the clean broom
And dear Mother’s boom

20150825 - Monashees Mushroom Picking - Ned Tobin - 19

My Dear Loon (day 1154)

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Upon the brook I sat a while
Whistling my long & lone tune,
I thought I heard a critter come
But it was just the moon.

It echoed off the water so clean
That my heart lept at the thought.
And soon my mind was back again
Amidst this lone lagoon.

In my tarry I carried a pack
Stuffed with my new booty.
Not filled with random this and that,
But of my especial boon.

I held it close to my lone heart
As I breathed in the vista,
And just as I approached depart
I was greeted by a loon

Who whispered my heart a calm.
I knew once more, with no regret
That as I sat and whistled along
It would be time to go home soon.

Love Steps (day 1029)

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What does it take to love you?
What does it mean to hold your heart?
Like a delicate silk perfectly folded
Into five evenly spaced sides
Without creases.

What kind of fingers dance, prance
About sticky honey-buckles?
Long strands of hair into the deepness of my soul.
For forever was a long drive
Straight West into sunset’s romantic heart.

What kind of foot pierces clear waters of a hidden brook?
What does the water taste like
After it drips off your tentative toes
Recoiling into giggles, riddling squirrels
Into silence.

Exactly 29 Times (day 988)

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Mystically speaking, the proverbs are relating accurately;
Horizontally strengthened with the thinnest of threads
Circled around my baby finger exactly 29 times
In a very tightly strewn pattern, accidentally.

Insomniac. Running at top speeds with wild horses;
That old farmhouse sitting amongst poppies and buttercups
Where I’ve lived once before; a feeling from depths unexplainable
Leveraging it’s way amongst modernities.

So it was a callused palm that broke this frozen spell;
Alone upon a park bench of inner city, inner beauty,
Brook bubbling by with homeless and suits (much quicker)
An eye awoke to stretch it’s glorious wings wide.

To which I had never encountered before;
To who I had never held hands with before;
To where I had never stepped in and amongst before;
To here, to this home of a quietly broken fear.

Berlin - 25062012 (42 of 51)

Earth as We Know It (day 636)

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Apocalyptic desires spread across the landscape into horizons of jubilant joy, needlessly wandering about the edges in a vignetted blur of reason and sacrifice.

All that was known then suddenly became lost, like the vision from the eyes when consciousness is shifted into the willing arms of a sideways glance, a flicker at the edges of a landscape.

Energy begins to build with anticipation and excitement; roaming birds know this feeling well, they make love to the feeling on sunny days when warm winds blow fresh scents of motherly creations of earth upon their nest.

Laying absentmindedness at the door, whipper-whisps swap the mind to the present, dust floats up from the awoken floorboards hitting sunlight that delights lovers, playing with time and space it’s exchange grows with anticipation into one final exultant gasp and releases such a tremor the rest fall into a deep dark sleep.

Deep within runs wild, from all except the grumpy gnome, the soldier of harbouring resentment, who scowls at all life and pushes away forthcoming joys to create for himself the place he never wished he had.

Alongside this dwelling of darkness runs a brook wild, over mossy rocks, through gnarled trees, past covered bridges, and out into the pussy willows and lily pads.

Taking away with it, from upstream down to the lowlands, all hate, love, magic, potions, desires, misspent emotions, and dying flowers into a new season of germination where new things shall sprout and grow with playful arches of sun that float onwards and away as the magical fruits of earth we know.