Dare These Wings to Fly (day 2595)

Dare these wings to fly
Though they ache like grace feels shy
And the good calls lonely
With each sunset it watches,
Walking away from pennies on the pavement
While holding on to nothing
– No resemblance of life.
Can a rhythm be found?
A pulse of life struggling
With iron clad hemispheres
Buckling down a goodnight.
So there, can flight be had?
Geese migrate South
As these trees set in
For an evening of dew
And a pale awakening
To ancient songs of return.

Wild (day 2500)

A creek trickles its way South
Along the base of Willow Ridge
Leading each wild animal
To fields beyond.

My eyes catch a reflection
Sun hitting a circling eagle
Finding its meal
A superior huntsman.

Mid summer, so no cool breeze here
But running water keeps calm
All the nerves alerted
To sounds of the wild.

Four Winds (day 2230)

I want to be your cannon ball
Your matchstick in the night
I want to shown you everything
Is made just as it should.

For when wind blows to cool you down
A blessing from the North
And when our morning sun does rise
A blessing from the East.

When a tear falls from your eye
To rest upon your lip
A signal to me, your shining star
To be at your evermore.

Like dew drops on a morning leaf
Your heaving breast shall show
Your heart so strong and beating free
Is still about your soul.

When a bird calls to you upon its way
A blessing from the South
Your eyes, I watch, closing to this day
A blessing from the West.

So if your fright shall hold you back
Into my arms you’ll fall
To be at last, as I’ll guard you,
The guardian of my soul.

Four Winds by Ned Tobin

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

Edges (day 1911)

Off you go, into the North
Leaving me here all wrapped in alone,
I see the tender wind a blowing
Guiding you on your way.
All around green leaves are turning,
At first in yellows at the edge,
Then before I know to check my season,
Fully entrapped in brown as vivacious earth below.
This makes me think of how you’ve taken
Over these delicate edges of my heart;
At first you were sweet wind blowing
On a sunny, summer afternoon.
Then you started to set my edges
To warmer shades of home,
Until at last, I fell, expanded,
Into this palm you call forever.
And all the while, I’ve always trusted
An unerring cycle of our earth;
North to South, East to West,
Forest trails from here to there,
And as I turn my inner eye
(Autumn, Winter, Spring, and Summer)
I realize no matter the colour of the sky
It’s nothing, unless you are the colour of my home.

Trembling Fog (day 1281)

There was a fog,
An “I can barely open my eyes
And the cool glasses aren’t just for show”
Kind of fog.
It started circling round my brain
Then slowly moved south towards
Innermost feelings and dire consequences
Like some kind of fire truck
Of intentions, aware and sober
And fighting the repercussions
Of a long lonely night spent hanging on
To old blues songs from the heart.
This fog did not reside in an empty bottle,
This was the sober realization of
Thirty something with a cross eyed and
Hair brained idea,
Shifting from left to right,
Idling on those soft hands full
Of dermatologically recommended’s best.
And that was the fog so thick
Sunglasses were required.

Green and Busy (day 1241)

It’s bewildering how all the
Little kids are dressed in green.
They’re wearing foreign flags and
Scrambling about in some kind of
Scatterbug formation.
It makes me think of the years I spent in ‘Nam.
– And coincidentally a delicious restaurant
Round the corner from here.
Chopsticks between eyes and arrows
And fabrics that tell me not to bring these new habits home.
I’m watching them with curiosity, the kids,
As they make their way about the grounds
Busier than all the ants of the world.
Hands flailing in some random forms of symmetry
That builds to an ecstatic culminations of sorts.
And then I get busy and pants with arrows pointing South
Cross my paths leaving home-job manicured
French poodles pissing about,
Confusing the tiny combat warriors.

Busy at the Crossroads (day 1173)

Before too much longer I had remembered what I had left home to find,
And it was at that exact moment my memory served me most correct.
I could only get there one step at a time
To a rhythm that was rolling like a Bob Dylan rhyme.

The scene wasn’t written in the papers, nor was it written down in time.
I was left with dried pens smashed up against my soul,
Where my concert was mid-encore;
Pinnacle of loudly unspoken madness.

Large Oak trees to my South side, Highlands to the North.
I’ve been busting these long clouds with my pointed perfection
Rattling off my unchained fancy-foot tongue.
And here I am all bustling around.

My Land | Chapter II (day 1125)

It wasn’t long before I could see the dust kicked up in the distance from the pack I had been following. I knew they were hurt and could see it in their movement. They moved quick but I was moving quicker.

My long barrel could have taken them all there and then, and really it should have. I hadn’t time to be wastin’ away from the stead as I was.

I thought of simple things as I headed uphill; my fire stoked oven, hard chair, dust particles changing the hue of the room to match my lonely heart.

From here I knew a trail that tracked the edge of the ridge along the length of the valley. Before we were half way across I would be upon them with a vantage point to pick every single one of them off before they knew where I was. I was a fast shot, even with my long barrel.

I wondered how Tim and Casey Johnson were getting along, just East of my trail, just over the ridge. My trail ran North-South. I had come from the North and was heading South following this rogue pack of wolves that had taken two of my lambs. I was born a tracker, and these were my lands. The wolf was my birth sign, but my lambs were my right.

[note: to read the full epic track my land]

Fly Southward (day 878)

Audible melodies yell out to me
From browns and yellows and oranges
And decay coiling around the forest floor
Waltzing in a downward spiral
Escaping grasping tops of trees
Shedding for coming seasons
And Orchard grass spreading seedlings
About the popular field surrounding
Swept about by gusting winds
Tickling the noses of passing strangers
While squirrels burrow deeper
Birds fly southward
And sun sets earlier

2013.10.09 - Prince George Forest (23 of 176)