Slowly into Tea

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.

Inner Bird

What is the real reason for my inner voice?
Is this ego?
Have I whispered so loudly
To all Grandfather trees
That my echo and sensations
Are no longer my own?

Has my inner bird
Whistled alone
In surrounding scenes of chaos,
And called home
Mother Hen
Whom I sit under this great canopy with?;
Oaks and Elms and Maples.

Does my voice match my vision?
Do I see sky blues,
And earthy browns,
With forest greens all around?
Or have I become muddled
Lack of colour:
Grays, black, and cement.

So Long Ago

What is the hardest thing?
A glowing orb at an unending tunnel
Flashing lights in otherwise darkness
Moments of stillness broken by reality
A whisper one still remembers
Sun so long ago
And a night that must end.

But how soft it can often hit
Like haze on a full moons glow
Orbs opening
And a bead of sweat upon thy lip.

Pain can remain
And lost within thy brow
A handful often mistaken rashly
Just as this lingering upper back kink.

Lonely

Lonely
Like this ghost
I whisper my secret stories
Unwilling to chill
My nervous twitch.
My veins have begun to bulge,
My forecast is for rain,
My tulips are still
A long cold wait away.
So this whisper caresses
My ghostly remains
Turning effortlessly
Against swirling wind,
And painting my brightness
Gray, weathered and stained.

Not Spoken

I’m not spoken anymore
Dried in a bottom of dust
Let my soul sing
With fire sparks tonight
Can’t I get along alone
For Coyote whispers
And Dog whispers back.

Forget every song
I’ve written all wrong
Glory and frail,
Perfect and undone
Startling morning sun
My breath: heavy hung
For Coyote whispers
And Dog whispers back.

Empty this bucket
Lost in a sea
Between footsteps
Greeting me
And it’s dark
Close my eyes
To forget
For Coyote whispers
And Dog whispers back.

Forgiveth

I am moody
I’m the gravel inspiration
Of a moonlit breath
Standing naked against
Each whispering hallow
Deep within consciousness,
Though cackles be heard.
And here I stand,
Abreast the fight
Holding a heartache
That’s dazed
But still conscious
With an armful
Of medicine
Tunneling out the holes
I havent made time
To mend yet.
Oh, how art forgiveth.
How loose
Can these boundaries be?
How can thy closing eyes
Retreat once into dream
Twice into heavens,
With hardly a thread
Seperating this moment
And to their’s.

A New Mind

Windows took my heart
And told me to walk slow
Down a dusty path
That never ended
Into the glow.

I walked until I stopped
Took two deep breaths
Of fresh air
Saw a raven whisper thoughts
I could faintly hear.

With all my strength
I took a step
Leading me away
And forth I went
With a new mind
Gallantly aflame.

Seasons

My main emblems
Have begun to fade
Into a soft glow
An aura
Of whispers and tilting
With wind bending
My point of view
So that birds land
Upon my boughs
To which I can take
No meaning hidden
And softly acknowledge
Ancient Gaia’s shift
As seasons go.

Whisper (day 3206)

Whisper-by-Ned-Tobin

This hurts and I’m not sure
And I don’t want to guess anymore.
So I clap both my hands
To suggest who I am.

Not for a way,
Not for a guess,
Not for a little bit,
Not for the end.

And I whisper
Into the death of my vision
So I may not know
The next steps to be taken
With wind in my face
And a slump, lacking all grace.

Whisper of Elephants (day 3137)

And the whisper of tides keep rolling
That makes the engine hardly slowing
In a growing pain of knowing
For all elephants have gone blind.

In an innocent game she was glowing
Until a judge became the one blowing
Lost in depths of spiraling
The end was all she could find.

Then all at once there came a calling
An old standard with sweet beckoning
With wallets that were fattening
Only hygiene long left behind.

So the two and their sweet romancing
Called the pastor who came running
He knew what was then demanding
No opposition of any kind.

And like buskers at the happening
They all packed up and left no remembering
A lot like old elephants fattening
No story left on each their mind.