joys – ned tobin || poetrix | one a day, everyday

You may think to yourself: “Here is a crazy old lady wandering through the birds
Feeding them like a cuckoo, a lady who’s gone off her rocker.”
Which may and alrighty be correct about myself
But alas! Do you not see the simple joys this can bring to life
Have you never held a poor animal in your hand and stared deep into its eyes?
A moment betwixt, no matter whom the beings, is the fragile state of my mind
I do not have the moments some of you may still have
I have born all my children, raised them as a good woman should
My own two hands most days worked raw to the bone
Scrubbing and toiling to send them off fed and clean
To get a better life than I could ever have dreamt about
And I, the lone patron of this empty house have nothing left to do
Save care for my own mind, my own sanity
Hence my pigeons. My bag of feed I carry endlessly around the squares
Making my home there home, sharing my soul with their souls
Until my children come back home
Until my memory remains, begone.

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.

Tag: joys

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