Tag Archives: Page

Books (day 2122)

No dear
Don’t open the book
To that page
Its letters were written
On old paper
With a pen
That’s known many names
Crossed out many lines
Filled hearts
And sunk boats.
Here
Try this book.

Killed (day 2055)

I’m still sick
It’s weakening
Hold me back
Light me up
Fold me in
Sew me closed
And find me all the blank pages
To rewrite this love letter
So I can fall all over again
Into what I’ve killed away.

Wrinkled Saddle (day 1818)

I am a story of now
Without apathy of indecision.
I am a garden in blossom,
Peak of the trail,
Midnight and stardust,
Lover yet exhausted.
My pages are wrinkling
Which I’m slowly flipping,
My saddle worn upon
A horse well ridden,
Dog companion,
And my decision.

Cadaverous Embrace (day 1750)

I marked my diary with a black heart yesterday,
Signalling yet another loss of a piece of me
To a lancet, delicately embraced by a cadaverous hand
Tightly hemmed in mourning lace.
Upon my wrinkly pages I wrote of lament so thick
Leaves dropped freely in my eerie breeze,
And my nigh filled dipping pen
Opulently embarking upon saintly rites
Deep into the cold moon’s full embrace,
For this unsettled heart beat thick.

Cadaverous Embrace by Ned Tobin

Pen Blotches (day 1575)

I cannot grasp what it will mean to send you off again,
What it will mean to let you go;
Finger tips to finger tips and not looking back
And hearing the roar of big jet planes
Overcome my trembling heart
That fleeting moments have left disoriented,
Direction home now jumbled and unrecognizable
Like the clouds you’ll soon be looking down upon.
I cannot find solace in a text to voice ratio,
In a line to line heartbeat filled of stories from afar.
But I will write until my pen blotches all my
Blank pages sad, and leaves my exclamation marks
Simple puddles in a mess.
So come back soon,
Before my heart begins to beat too soft a vibration,
And my pen runs out of black.

Pen Blotches by Ned Tobin

Ashram Day 18 (day 1421)

When this voice begins to rise
Like a letter I did not write
Could you hold your hand out now?
I’m a Saint and you’re the cloud.

If this sound was more then that,
If words were meant for writing
Would the pen keep upright marks?
To pause between the breaths.

All my paper has begun to curl,
And you’re the little triangles
I’ve drawn around the page
To fit between my mind.

The Books (day 601)

Letters die slowly as my eyes flicker across the unlined pages
Counting page numbers unconsciously
Ignoring the silent buzz of the fluorescent
Where I push on, into the dream that lazily floats forward