White Blues (day 1921)

It was late, early as the birds wake. The sun making it’s trajectory project through blind slits that tickled my nose and ruffled pure white sheets that smelled of everything I had ever dreamed. I wished I had worn my own button up so she could wear it, cotton thoughts underneath the purest thoughts I could believe, her ear lobe dangerously close to my sanity I buried deep into the sleepy eyes she wiped away.

She was business and I was coffee on Sunday morning. Her ancient wooden bowls with carved and stained mosaics sat on bare shelves between three curiously new vinyl records I had yet to identify or spin, so my bare feet sadly ripped spaces beside this cocoon to leave invisible heat scores on a treasure hunt around pieces of clothing that each had still alive memories attached, each a little puddle of our reserve that began as we stepped towards our island.

As the needle scratched dangerously towards the first note, it was the crackling that trumped even her cigarette into casual, I spotted her pinstripe skirt, now draped across the wicker chair underneath a baby blue Fender Telecaster she had plugged into a tiny hand held amplifier to show me what she knew of blues.

I propped myself up with her pillow and through the patio window I saw she was looking at me.

photograph courtesy of model / Lisa // photography / Jen Hill
photograph courtesy of model / Lisa // photography / Jen Hill

Distance (day 1827)

I hate distance
It makes me anxious
And unwilling to move
And at the same point
Lost in translation
For locked inside
My nomadic heart
Beating upon different soil
Fleeting like broken sheets
And immersed
In a distant photograph
Soiled with the essence
Of a soul wandering,
A soul purely exposed
And awaiting.

photo by and of Danielle Nicol
photo by and of Danielle Nicol

Sheets in Pages (day 1747)

I could write your pages onto sheets of my unkempt bed
Slowly cycling the in-seam with the hem,
And rolling each corner up like a cigarette to smoke slowly
Because love here is so thick it’s impassable;
Between eyes of surrender and a heart of
I’m never letting go.
So I blot my pen into deep white sensories
Circumnavigating each prior night’s creases – expertly –
Until my final stroke has been felt and embraced
As if it were written upon thy own lined back.

Frost (day 1592)

Where are my eyes,
The sad fellows singing heart songs
Along icy Nordic roads
To the beat of thump thump thump –
Hard footsteps to control
As solid Mother Earth
Shuts down her blooming
To awaken the underbelly of life
That slowly crawls in vein-like formations
Through all things
Dead or alive.
Where are my eyes
That I have not let sing
But needlessly fret over wrinkled sheets,
Ignoring the awakening world
In a thin veiled frost,
Laid out as if the spine of her neck
Were strangely tingling
Alerting her of tragedy.
Where are my eyes?

Frost by Ned Tobin

Forgotten (day 1103)

I know that I didn’t lose my answers
When I stepped off late at night.
When I closed the door and shifted sheets.
When I spoke my prayer dance to the moon.
When I laughed heartily
Allowing my soul to saturate
Every breath you exude.
Because this is my intake
And answers don’t get lost here
Where answers don’t get forgotten.

A Discussion With Myself (day 1077)

day 1
What discusses me?
Sits in its bedroom late at night
And debates.
Contemplates.
Deliberates and swaps memories
With fact like evidence.

day 2
What discusses me?
In a large cozied pot
Of herbal mint tea leaves.
A fortune read.
Destiny.
Visions undecided.

day 3
What discusses me?
In my discussions with my lonely mind,
Flip-flopping wrinkled sheets
That crease my minds
Soft footsteps
Through lazy Sundays.

Forward [a Smile] (day 920)

I didn’t think I heard you right
Calling my name like a love bird
“Coo. Coo.”
My baited ear; bent.

But your eye, raised brow
Intrigued my senses,
Tingled my nerves, and
Shook my tailored cuff
Into a slow waltz,
A casual saunter.

Dimmed lights
And a smile that pulled
[Gravitational laws of attraction]
Which spit out the cork
And drank straight from the bottle

A blood red moon burned that night
As lovers made their way
Past steaming alleys.
Sleeping sidewalks glistening
In moonlit silence.
Clip-clop street talk with
Romance in a new nights air.

Forward to waking eyes,
Resting pants [still belted]
Carelessly draped over
A wooden powder-blue picket chair,
So tenderly close to that
Matching vanity with a mirror

Murmurs rustling through the sheets
[Down filled comforter]
And a familiar close to home
Written between
Those smiling lips,
But crying a hidden tear.
A soft memory.

To Harbor (day 909)

It is hard to be away,
To waltz down the street
Without your hand in my elbow.
To eat alone.
Your face my thoughts company.
With moments of clarity
Sparking the fire
Inside my soul.
It’s harder to slip
Into cold sheets at night
Without knowing
When next you shall be waiting,
Giving, expecting.
Warm breath tickling my nape.
Warm smile to curb my blues,
Warm kitchen to feed my soul.
And when last I find grace,
Will harbor – my old bones –
Be welcome to thine dear heart?

To-Harbor-by-Ned-Tobin