Dustpans (day 1834)

I’m going to experiment with
My tongue tied around
Cruel witches dustpans
In the fall of a deep winter.
My hands will mix
An elixir potent enough
To knock sense
Into unsensible madmen
Rambling back and forth
In front of trailheads,
Circling madness
As the drugs take hold
And my tongue unfurls.

Beautiful People (day 1824)

Why are people so beautiful?
Some days the ruin of my heart
Lingers upon my tongue
And touches my nose with the faintest scent
Of midsummer’s rain.
I cannot handle this pain
In the easiest of ways,
Waiting for my touch to return
And senses to die down.
For I am only a man,
Saddened by a never ending toil of life
To which I patch holes
With beautiful people in my heart.

Beautiful People by Ned Tobin

Three (day 1816)

Human is at last on my mind
Nine fifteen nine fifty three
Easy my modal
On stride in a day’s lemonade

If it goes to three
Then land on my hill
Let ours be and then be
Motion set inside of me

Advantage atmosphere
Advantage tip of my tongue
Burning without gasoline
Summer night is my number three

Three by Ned Tobin

Hearth (day 1603)

I am waiting for sunset,
For the sky to enliven
With one last hurrah
In a brilliant exposé
Of memories lingering
Upon baited tongues
That stopped,
As if frozen by a single call,
To gasp, to breathe deep,
To inhale and then
Sing as a dove does in flight
And then whisper
Like ignited fire
Deep within the hearth. 

Proper Soldier (day 1514)

My warrior became a proper soldier,
Fell in line and obeyed command.
It was a salty tongue to bite,
It had its perks, it still had fight. 
And when the road was muddy with
A thousand footsteps come before,
It was a comrade there to say:
We’re here with you all the way, mate. 

Mind Space (day 1278)

I want to fall into a little break in space
Like angels upon lazy-boys,
Smoking cigarettes with the nuns.
My open mind shifts constantly
Between a bad habit and good morning sun,
Where there’s no better maker,
No fuller shade of gray
To take care; once was into the future.
French rhymes upon my tongue,
Little tea cup stains around my working scribbler,
Two dollars for the road,
And my mind’s not made up yet.

image

Awakeless Surrender (day 1121)

Glaciers awoke my surrender.
I am not a window shopper,
A figureless void of deadly consistence
That scrapes along the expanse
Of doubly criss-crossed salt scapes;
Littered emptiness.
Vast emptiness
Crawling up the back of my spine,
Lightly dusted with ten days rolling.
This is the heartbeat.
The beat.
The heartbeat, beating.
Surrender in a tight grip.
Moments before forbidden flavor
Hits the freshness of thy tongue.
Laughter in childern.
Sounds of awoken footsteps,
And I am not crawling.

Whispers from My Tongue (day 1115)

This sky, and whispers from my tongue
Through fights: torrents and storms.

I wonder what shakes them forth…

So then my whispers should linger
Like my footsteps echo through these halls;
Cobblestone roads and rickety signs,
Darkness offset by lanterns dancing with my mind.

I let it shake and I cannot sigh,
For winter’s warmth stayed awake today
To brandish my armor as I let them fly
Upon winds that returned my whispers.