Category: peaceful

Two Five Three Six

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Letters from my ancestors
Have each spelled out ten names
Two to be used in case of emergency
Five for female spawn
Three for patriarchal ties
And six as shadows of mine own heart.

I love each one as any man can
I’ve researched each story true,
Chosen from my memory
I’ve drawn each one out, too.
I hold my head up high for them;
Each they’ve passed to me their secrets.
In my hands I see their scars
So, too, I see their years.

Through their streets I have sure walked
I’ve also gone for a ride
Sitting in the back seat
Of a stuffed full 1965 Studebaker
Heading out on summer vacation.
I’ve opened the door on Union Street
To taste homemade crabcakes and beans,
I’ve rode the long trail home
Passed Devick Lake out on the range.

So each of the names I keep at the helm
Awaiting imminent deployment,
Like roses saved in a jar
A timeless memorial stored as fondness,
An old lined sheet of blank paper
Found in the desk of y’or.

Slowly into Tea

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I wish I could cry on the good days
when my tea is softly spoken
and each of my windows
have snow lightly dancing,
exploring my imagination
in waxing crescent arising.

So it’s said my moon is slowly rising
a wind about my sail
to calm me as I build up to
a moment of my truth.
Where do I sing from?
No microphone or recorder
follows me around
making what shall soon become
lost in a myriad of webs.

Perhaps my days are all of good;
tea awaits my silent lips
even when the sun has risen cold
and my time spent entranced in forest
are met with caribou and grouse.

So maybe the I shall speak a little,
whistle a little to my tune
that whispers it’s short breath inside
each window I look out upon
and lays my ever waxing moon
into swirl of my tea leaves
where my moment comes just as the last
a fragment to be had and gone.

Sound/Vision

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Who are you?
What is your sound/vision?
What guides your call?

Deep gulps of morning coffee
Flickering sounds
An empty wall
With little splash marks
Years of service gone by.

This pen fades
The more I write,
Like fallen leaves
Into enrichened soil
Rhythms have lost my voice
Telling me of better days.

One

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One
Oneness
The Way
A single heart
Forest’s path is empty
Echo is just you
Thoughts are all your own
Beyond reason.. sure
And in good nature, hopefully.

One
Sun
Moon
Earth
One

One
Has distant friends
And one multiplied by anything
Becomes anything
One has its beginning
A small seed
A drop of rain
A heart beat
A tongue

One’s voice falls silent
One’s sight grows distant
One’s touch is careful
One’s feelings are forever lost
In a sea of comfort in one’s own
So one grows tired
This single heart
So one’s thought may stop
Even just for a divine pause
To find one’s way
Again
One

Spring Heart

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Spring around the corner
Spreading all it’s heartfelt warmth
Reminds me of your touched embrace
Glowing readily, evermore.
It reminds me of a melting snowdrift
One drop at a time
Collecting a little puddle of water
Soon to be overflowing
Slowly trickling down
Small valleys that gather more,
Filling up so quickly
Like the coming season nearer
And my heart when you are here.

Numbing

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Snow flies
And so shall I fly:
Stable but absent;
Nose towards sky.

White tiger
Plays softly nearby
Pine tree
Getting decorated.

I gift each breath
The bellow of my chest;
Abdomen to rumbling,
Seated like stump.

I seek nothing
And return to nowhere.
My wings of a vision
Leave me numbing home.

Numbing by Ned Tobin

Lost Wings

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Seperatism loses me
It’s a lost art
Guided by a nobody train
And nobody to sing
Nobody has sung.
I look into your eyes
And I see missing
I see wallowing sorrow
And a stained glass window
Echoing a cold statue
With angel wings
Sainted.
We can be friends
But I wont ask to meet you there
Instead
Walking alone
Listening to nothing more
Than each voice inside my head.

Rose Petals

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This is not a trail of broken hearts;
Fallen crimson rose petals
Reminding me of each cycle
Lost and reborn
Sun and moon dance.

This is a ripening and maturing
A ferment and bottle conditioned
Led by the golden tears
Of Springs fresh showers.

A frosty morning
With birds calling from branches
Yet bearing,
And a sly cat whispering:
Good day Sir, come along.

Bellows

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This cold landscape bellows,
Blowing endlessly
With a high pitched wallow
And I am not a voice in it.
No animated gust of white dust,
No longing wave of seed heads bobbing,
No tall tree, naked and exposed
Arms wide open
Awaiting for the sun.

This cold landscape bellows,
And I sit in isolation
Completely enveloped
By a drawn sensation.
Dampness smouldering the fire
As snow melts to ice I sit upon,
And the red tinge of frozen willows
Keeps this glowing fire
I have not set.