Life of a Leaf (day 2408)

I’ve grown accustomed to leaves turning my memories from fresh to curled, a well understood paradox that changes the tide so romantically it hurts like the small spots beside the bulging veins growing inside.

My smile has grown lines, my heart has extended its beats, my hearing has begun to dance with angels upon the dead leaves blowing along the roughly trampled ground – are these our memories we have yet to experience, or have they been forgotten and left to dissolve into earth?

So I crouch down low and embrace the softly blowing wind that helps me to see my passing time I used to think I loved, I used to want to love, so here I’m hurting from spatial infrequencies that cup my involuntary spasms from underneath the table and remind me to forget to itch the pain.

Does this leaf know it crumbles within my palm so slowly softly? Did it reach for me in a pure moment of thought, expecting my return upon amber wings of a sun soaked day like an emotional Prometheus on a personal mission.

Then, like the ashes of memories crumbling in scaled hands of our Phoenix, so too shall sun rise again over the horizon of a small family farm to bring with it a wet spring full of insight and gratitude that runs the width and depth of a heart shaped leaf settling softly upon a well worn path of insight.

No More Trees, Money’s For Me (day 2064)

It’s ok that we cut down these trees for warmth
Let’s not get upset about our mountain
Turned crater, shipped to the moon,
Our water is a good memory, a clean memory
A clean memory for my dry lips
Afraid of this purple water
Maybe my dinosaur bones will take me home
To a land full of ten year old trees
Where water flushes the land clean
No more dirty top soil: eroded,
Home where the magical golden clouds
Hover just above the skyline, stinking
And water is just slightly brown
Mycelia? No, my bill fold needs more dinosaur bones
To sink into these fresh water lakes
Chopsticks, chopsticks, chopsticks trees
Get these poles off to the mill
Down that road of rubber and oil
More dinosaur bones and I’m ready to kill
Floating at 70 miles an hour
In plastic rocket ships, towing plastic bricks
And you there, strange looking person
How many toes do you have? You’re not one of us
Your skin is funny and your smell’s different
Let me see your papers that say many things
I don’t believe you can grow your beans here
See, my dead trees and stretched metal rings
Say: ‘NO TRESPASSING’
Get out, leave us alone
You’re filling us with lies
Unless you’ve got tits, beers, football, and guns
Money’s for me, and less of you.

Spoons of Sorrow (day 1959)

When I walk into an empty room
When I reach my palms for the sky
As essence, I’m a ghost
And sunrise brings tomorrow
With ten thousand spoons of sorrow.

I am a prophet in a rose
With two hands tied by thorns,
Fence posts painted white
Along dew kissed morning lawns.

When I sit amidst thousand year old trees
When I wave crookedly in heaven’s winds
My heart becomes a dead leaf
Integrating so effortlessly into a path
Dust to soil to earth to spring.

So long shall my stalk bend
Two ends of a hemp string crossed,
Seeds falling on gray wood
And harvest moon is my birth.

The Boxer (day 1933)

You were a boxer
Every Thursday night
After Big Jim’s Saloon
Took a bottle and you
Out to a cobblestone night.
A muffled mind with intention,
Fireworks covered in mud,
And a slow slur that wound up
Like Roadrunner
Walking a tightrope,
The top rope
Of a dark, four cornered ring.
You liked the big city
Because your slow down
Never coincided with a dead end.
Your betting days
Flashed jackpot on your bedroom wall:
Red, green, and yellow.
And your highschool sweetheart
Hung alone on peeling paper
That crackled back at you
As you walked naked
From your bedroom
To a comfortable routine
You knew so well.

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

Follow Me (day 1685)

Don’t follow me
I am not feeling good.
I am not yet alive,
I am still feeling dead.

You gave your heart to me,
In a better time I
Had my heart alive,
Had my head held high.

Who is my glow out there?
A beacon lost at sea,
An ember fading fast,
A whisper, died at last.

Follow Me by Ned Tobin

Thanking The Season (day 1605)

Did you design the skies?
Did you place heaven floating
Amidst autumn leaves
And fleeting burning skies?
Did you button up cold birds
With warm woolly vests,
And marvelous plumage?
Did you gather piles of dead leaves
To spring board a crash landing?
Did you harvest pumpkins
Each of unique size and shape
To make my summer heart
Shift into darker hues of gold?
Well then, thank you.

20151013 - Fungii - Ned Tobin

Anarchy and His Brothers (day 1387)

With Israel and his son Concordia,
The Conquistadors contemplated anarchy;
“No!” Yelled the city streets
Against windows of innocent glassy puddles.
And thus the lost voice: Arbritage.
So from inside the ancient gold plated doors
Swashbucklers leaned on their pole called history,
Singing songs that rolled off tongues
Like fran├žais of an unbroken heart.

The two shook their secret handshake,
Clasped each a moon of waxing gibbous
Deep within their full hearts of innocent desire,
Coughing on fumes leftover from the army
Who had rolled through these streets
To a machine named destruction.

So who was left crying?
Not the lost brothers, silently creeping along
Dead back streets, poorly lit.
No, not the dead brothers waving rebel flags.
Not the flowers, forever resilient
To tumult and it’s darkness.
No, it was the stone covered city
And it’s sister: splinters. 

Distancing Footsteps (day 1287)

Too many nights
I’ve been
Awaiting your call.
Like a whispering tree,
I’ve spun around with wild wind.

Can you call out
My name,
So I know it’s not dead?
There’s a pen at my study,
Perhaps spell it instead?

Long howls in deep darkness
Play our lonliest tune;
A soloists trumpet,
A clear moon and my
Distancing footsteps.