Coyote Song (day 2242)

Like a warrior’s window
I have taken my bold chance
Sent my spear forward, spinning
To make my impression
In your days ahead,
Gypsy on a river boat.

Set idle by your fire
In an old wooden rocking chair
Watching tomorrow set away,
My spear slows down to rest;
River dances away.

In earnest I ask
Which old coyote song
Begets a lone call from you tonight?
For fear makes me
A sentimental man
As lines running through
An old hickory handled spear,
Rocks in a river bed.

Softly Cried the Orchid (day 2189)

My shallow scoop has left graceful dents
Upon the eves of my tomorrow;
Pondering a moment here leaves me
Wishing I hadn’t left my tear
So delicately upon your shoulder.

I grew an orchid that cried so softly
When the rhythm of the moon filled
Each crystal chalice with translucent waves
Softly swirling in my hand
Wishing I wasn’t so damn ready.

And as I watched the sun gallop
Over the Eastern horizon from my chair,
I hummed a tune in my favorite key of D
So low it had rumblings of a tumbling dream
Which pressed me between cold sheets for another day to begin.

Resonant Romance (day 2173)

You’ve become the edge of resonance
Reason I’ve forgot my chance
I’ve begged you once before
Now I’ll scratch down that door
Original seduction going on
Through and through my veins
Dancing down a hall of reverence
This is a heart attack, baby
This is our last romance.

So you sat there guiding me home
From the head, a Priestess’ chair
Booming towards climax on
A loudspeaker of ancient worship
Cold stones on my wishing knees
Like a glass of white wine
Condensation on my mind
And the moon breaks through calmly
Resonating through halls of a silent home.

Overturned (day 2157)

Holding on to a memory
Like a rainy afternoon
Through a window.
An oblique vase casts
Two shadows upon its inanimate post:
One small shadow from the heavily diffused daylight,
The other, much larger
From the pulsating heart
Laid bare upon the table.
Heavy splatters pointing fingers
In every direction
And a wooden chair sits overturned,
Too cold to stoke the fire.

Moon at Midnight – Part VIII (day 1982)

(part VII)

I helped Amy and Frank chop wood for five days
In exchange for…
Well, I guess it would be food and board
But I was mostly staying for the company
As they were both such enjoyable humans to be around
And their two lazy dogs, Rudd and Jip,
That I still don’t understand why
They weren’t the first to greet me
And Claire, who I nicknamed Clarinet
On account of my sweet mother’s favorite instrument
Who was the child I had heard Amy speaking to
Upon my arrival.

They came from the South
Frank’s old man was a cattle baron down there
Whose ruthless ways, along with his two brothers
Had driven his kind heart out of there
Before he found himself crazy
Kind enough to send him off with
His share of the ranch, though
Amy was his sweetheart
And probably had a lot to do with his tenderness
Having been in love since they were thirteen
Holding hands in the pews at the Sunday sermons.

Amy was the only daughter of the towns only Doctor
She was tall and kind
And treated everything she came in contact with
As if it were the most precious thing around
Yet balanced it with just the right amount of sternness
That kept any good family working smoothly
Her parents missed her dearly
And came to visit once a year after the thaw
To check on the health of the family.

Had I set my heart out to build a more perfect house
I don’t think I’d have been able to
The patio afforded a view
Stretching out in front of the house
Down the meadow to the small stream
At the far end
The exterior had board and batten
Of pine that Frank had meticulously fired
Into a most beautiful looking color
Inside, Amy’s oven was perfectly stoked
To afford just enough heat to boil a pot of tea
But not enough to break a sweat
Which sat on the kitchen side of the middle of the main room
And on the far side were two rooms
One for Amy & Frank
And the other for their planned family
That currently was filled with household items
Amy needed close at hand
A sturdy table Frank had built
One met on the right just as they entered the house
And to the left upon the wall
Was where shoes were left and coats hung
And following along was storage
And more chairs to see to it
That no guest was left standing at the door.

part IX

My Sweet Game (day 1950)

Remind me of the garden I’ve floated in
Tea you used to share
Your laugh to my sweet game

With history on our steppe
I could mark every book full of stars
And still your voice through halls of love

Let me lose years since it’s been
So much to wish and to share
Let us find two handsome garden chairs

As dead leaves fall Autumn around
My heart pulls home warm cups of tea
And family speaks free in your hair

My Sweet Game by Ned Tobin

Ode to a Lonely Pine (day 1769)

Like my grandfather that came to rest
Rocking slowly in his old pine chair,
You watch the vista with an open air
Shaking loose your frazzled hair.

For in the cold months
You stand tall and proud,
And in the dark days
Your silhouette is my lighthouse home,
And in crisp mornings
Your tips refresh me
Like my eyelids breaking free.

But before I walk up to shake your hand
I wait for you to permit me through,
For your roots stretch long beneath the floor
And touch my home, forever more.

a lonely pine covered in snow

Initials (day 1753)

Your heart laid there
Wrapped securely to an old oak tree
That had two initials carved deep.
Your heart was calm,
Reminding me of silent moments
I’d hold my breath for
Watching a little robin
Bounce about the clearing
In search of daily food.
And the midday sunlight
That lofted my thoughts
Towards an overused chair
And a cold beer to ease the pain
Of those two initials intent.

Tibetan Orbs (day 955)

While straddling my time between Christ the sugar bowl and Don, the rather small teapot
I kissed the roasting bacon nuzzling up against my clothes, a warm glove
“Ouch” said the lonely spot of a remnant hot plate as I smooth talked her into a gentle coo
From here, I could almost hear the other patrons, busily slurping their medium roast over
Minding the color swirls developing in their half and half and brew mix; mind the honey, sugar
I twisted wildly to see a maiden, one of fairer skin and lovelier smile than this twirling vinyl chair I’d been making eyes at
I couldn’t quite understand her stuffed down puff jacket obstructing her twisted cursive
As she coiled and rounded the blue ball point pen about the pages of her soft red scribbler
But my eyes were taken by her small Tibetan orbs delicately dangling from her lobes
I wondered how far she had come today, and if it meant to her as much as it meant to me
That she was also sitting by her lonesome, like I was, at a buck fifty diner, romancing wildly with Christ the sugar bowl and Don, the rather small teapot

Dragging Left Wing | Chapter III (day 939)

VII

I liked to call her Julia, mostly because it was a name I’d heard long ago in a black and white movie based in Paris that was laid so thick with romance even the reel to reel it flicked upon was heavy of heart. She always laughed and smiled like she didn’t know what I was referencing, nor did she attempt to recognize the pure emotion I was laying thickly about the dense air.

She knew my routine: a thick coffee I could eat with a spoon, a medium sized side-dish of whiskey. Just to get the gears oiled. My pen flowed more freely with the coffee; whiskey was for my tongue. Julie liked my charm.

VIII

I never had errands about town like the rest of them mobsters and cowboys had. Like Clint Eastwood who always had to saunter across town to get a shave and a bath, and of course to shoot a few men who didn’t like the way he looked. I romanced about it, but it was never required. Not even once. It wasn’t that I was packing, but still, my cowboy boots had the romantic feeling required for such a scene, my pants were as dusty as Clint’s ever were.

I always had a lover waiting for me though. That much I did have in common. The lovers were magnetic at the worst of times. I had that sort of charm, and I hung around the right places – possibly by design. I had that loose charm and fresh stubble that fit the part. Walking stereotype.

IX

She would always come over and turn a chair backwards to chat with me a while; the rest of the joint fully satisfied. I knew she eyed up that seat the minute I walked into the joint. You could tell with these kind of girls. That nervous chatter about their bottom lip as they sat in casual cool. I always wanted to ask her if there was something more on her mind, but always told myself this dusty saloon wasn’t the place. My mind was always elsewhere anyways. I knew what I wanted.

I’d make up little scenes as my eyes would get distracted by a noise out of place. I’d watch as drunken fools would fiddle around in a stupor with their own thoughts and sadness. I’d watch as young couples would come in feeling the same romance I’d once felt in such an intimate place, sitting deep within the booths. I’d watch as businessmen would walk in with out of town clients looking for something to loosen the tie (and no doubt signature). I’d lose myself in their little romances. I’d watch them as they made little touches and laugh at small talk jokes. I always felt that my deep soul was much more conscious than theirs, staring out from the beaten corners of my favorite haunt, walnut filling my soul with history.

[note: to read full epic follow dragging left wing]