Those Trees (day 2524)

What trees came out of here?
What harm has been done before
How could we have ever saved you
Ten thousand miles away?
Chainsaws and axes thrown
Into your hearts of gold
Good soil twisted off again
Broken away and shipped beyond
Pretending another way.

Darkness returns in your future’s growth
Overstory large and bark
Grabbing at a curious mind
Peaks and valleys roughening
Softening along the floor
Moss returns again.

Moon at Midnight – Part V (day 1979)

(part IV)

The waning gibbous that night
Had nothing impeding it’s projection
Into the palm of my hands
I sat for a long time watching
It’s shadows across the meadow
I recognized how colours, now dull
Made for an entirely different landscape
I understood new energies
That floated about in midnight glow.

I feared reaching out, touching tufts of grass
That set aside momentary worries
I feared moving should it startle
What slumbered in the vicinity
I feared making a sound
For it should surely echo for ages
Like smoke signals at daybreak
I feared breathing to vigorously
Should my heartbeat change the hour
To a warmer beat.

I sat cross-legged
With my blanket closely wrapped around me
Slowly hunching over into my sleepy legs
That wanted to sit aright, erect
But my slowing thoughts calmed by thy moon
Let me feel comfort in falling backwards
Into the fur covered ground mat
That awaited my simple slumber
Assurance guided me there
When I reached for my nearby pack
An unreasonable yet simple reassurance.

I awoke with the same comfort I had fallen asleep with
Yet yearned for more time with that powerful moon
Watching the fire curl around its victim
Provided some of this amazement
And as life slowly flooded back into my body
I accepted the passing evening’s mystery
With an abundance of life all around me
Eager for my wandering pathway
To lightly pass through, eager eye open to all
Eager heart open to adventure
The journey was in every moment,
Not to be held for singular moments.

With the familiar motion
I swung my pack comfortably upon my back
With momentary shifting
Aimed to soothe each grumbling bump
Night’s slumber had produced
That, once assembled,
Found me beyond
What I had previously called my home,
Once again upon this road
Through magnificent giants,
Expansive ferns, soft mosses,
Sprouting mushrooms, drooping lichen,
And countless birds singing me hither.

part VI

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Moon at Midnight – Part IV (day 1978)

(part III)

As I sat crosslegged in the little clearing
Hidden as I was, deep within the forest
Heading East to the land of the Old People
I wondered about the faces I might see,
Faces of the men and women who would greet me,
Faces of the children playing in fields
And fields growing with the vigor
Only well cared for fields of tender hands can grow
I knew I would find
In the land of the Old People.

Beside me was a little patch of buttercups
That skirted the edge of deeper forest
Fallen logs and fir needles of this land
I could still hear the brook I had crossed
Calmly gurgling in the distance
My canteen still cold from its fill
My belly still churning from its fill
My fingers still wet and a cold
Only fresh mountain water can give,
A cleaning happily taken
Where I had let my bare feet soak gently a while.

My eyes scanned into the forest
Of an age I guessed ageless
Not a stump to be seen
Finding geometry in naturally fallen trees
Trees standing so tall my guess couldn’t reach
Moss covering so gently
I envisioned the industry nestled
Deep within the safety net of moss
That lay about thickly covered forest floor
Fungus’ mycelia layer hidden well
In healthy circles around the Ancient Giants
Old Man’s Beard hanging low
And spider webs zig-zagging
With its delicate fibers of care.

My pouch was always on me
No matter how far from camp I wandered
So as I moved away from my opening
I felt instinctively for my tools
Stepping over former soldiers
Rotting as life continued its circle
Through the efforts of decay
My soft crunch avoided the mounds
Finding edible mushrooms was easy
This early season of harvest
Upon edges of clearings I’d find strawberries
And blueberries and salmonberry brambles
So thick I’d get high
Feeding so heartily on such sugar
I knew it wouldn’t stay forever.

Fire starting was an economy no man could do without
No sane man that is,
For plenty of nights I’d been cold
In pure darkness of deep night,
But this night I had supple moss
And accessible wood dry enough to start
A warming dance in my blood
Soon the coals were hotter then the wood
That burned inside their whispers

My bed was simply a roll
The hard ground was something I was used to
I carried soft fur of a bear
On the top of my bag
Which I’d lay under my roll
To soften each night’s cold
My dream of a sheepskin
I had read about in books
Of old foreign herdsmen roaming
Highlands of Scotland
But I with my simple roll
Laid out on the ground.

part V

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Dreamland (day 1866)

I woke into a space
I could not call time
Magical fires burned
And mushrooms grew
Below thick layers of dewy moss.
I, the explorer,
The harvester of what could be
Looked upon the land
As opportunity to
Let loose all dear things
Go as I could plan.
Here the gold
Of my mind
Could leach its way about
As if a blooming grape
Growing up
Out of a four year and scored stem.

Rowboat (day 1658)

A sadness which has my heart is the deepest joy I have ever known. A snaking coil in my veins that surges with pressure of an ancient gale, fierce in spirit, surfacing upon it’s vista. I have come to realize I am the coloration, the reminiscent artifact of ashes smearing an impossible black sand beach at the head of the trust waters. My song is what trees sway to, sitting about the shoreline untouched by humanity’s destructive progress and filled with such contrast, from lightness to a darkness deep within the bosom of her mossy embrace. My song reaches to the toenails while standing barefoot upon this cold black sand, embracing wind as it blows every last hair drawn fabric about thy heart. My heart is forever in liberty, just as these black pebbles cackle at retreating waves. My heart is a mariner with a squint of foggy shorelines, and my sadness is forever the rope mooring our rowboat beached upon this black sand beach.

Rowboat-by-Ned-Tobin

Mushroom Picking (day 1554)

I crawled through thick underbrush
To reach a mossy patch,
One which I had felt
Would bring bounty to fill my pack.
As I stared into the beast
I had heavily prepared for,
In front of me I beheld
A patch to make me cry,
A patch that was so full of life
My bags began to shutter
In great anticipating weight!
It was like gold!
It was divine!
It was so heavenly I began to fly!
Bending at my knees
I scooped in fast,
Arm in arm with my comrade’s heart
I dove, neck deep, into mushroom.

mushrooms - Ned Tobin

Opacity (day 1366)

Mist hovers around distant peaks
In layers of varying degrees of opacity.
This romantic gesture of nature
Elegantly caresses the rolling edges
Of Oceans’ depth,
Lapping in anticipation of condensation,
Of erosion, of a life ready for swimming
And torrents swiftly moving debris,
Leftover madness,
In a slow waltz towards decomposition.
For life in its continued cycle
Sweeps all amongst its grip,
Heaves and blows, wisps and snows.
And goes and goes between distant tree tops
Of deep hidden green
Where damp darkness within hallows out
Moss and lichen’s dear nest,
Amidst fallen giants, long ever lasting,
With hearts of true desire so deeply brown
That all surrounding colour forms a perfect match,
Like needle covered ground,
Healthily swept clean of fungi
By the little nature cleaners,
Bacteria and organisms alive in depths
Scarcely observed in fleeting moments of daylight,
Heavily felt as clouds consistently continue
Rolling along distant peaks
In varying degrees of opacity.