We Stopped Just to Hear the Silence

Went for walk today, you may call it a hike, with my mom. We take our time to indulge in the beauty.

We Stopped Just to Hear the Silence

By Tyler Mobley

We stopped just to hear the silence 

see the sky a blue we’re thankful for

a radiant pure blue 

essence of blue 

a blessing blue 

our defining act blue 

atmosphere filtered for our delight blue

life blue 

birds singing blue 

fluff spotted blue 

kiss giving blue 

savor blue 

a reminder blue 

life our gift and breath our work 

each day blue. 

Happy blue  

nothing but sky blue 

watchful blue 

heaven blue 

tip toe in from a late night dancing blue 

your eyes singing blue 

raw genre blue. 

For blue 

of blues 

we know because it is 

a blue for all. 

More Than a Moment

A free write on 2/15/21 revised and stanza-tized into this, enjoy.

More Than a Moment

By Tyler Mobley

More than a moment, 

Count Cristo starship manor. 

More than a moment,

singing circles of soul sayers 

let loose from an environ plane.

Gingerbread men praising a recipe,

some frost lost, now scowling the baker.  

Street carts sell heart of the city 

big lights shine on trying faces,

the weak force as Metallica notes

“Nothing else matters.”

Faint morrow oh sung,

the Sun dropped by for tea,

twinkling mist escapes 

mother’s eye. For what, 

a dash of guilt produced a

criminal record, says the judge

to Soundcloud. 

Quake hath waltz feet

a measure of empire,

felt rumbles of toeing masses

clocked on a standard of living.

Forbear hollow remarks

as wood knocks back 

dulled by your patience. 

Smash hit vibrations 

like the warm beat of 

reporters who step 

into the world, my office. 

Unwrung words told

of stealing the fun. 

Heels thrown up 

bang bang against 

a neighborly wall, the 

sound circumnavigates 

to find the needle was 

never dropped. 

Listening for Ray Charles’ 

The Spirit of Christmas. 

So repetitious the world rewinds

through generations, 

a slideshow of history.  

Explosions tidy up into their 

shells, apes devolve to 

sleestacks, to a few ameba 

vibing over a volcanic vent 

on oceans’ dance floor. 

“What are you doing down here

James Cameroon? 

Titanic is that way. “

Who’s to say it hasn’t 

happened already? 

A moment imposed like 

a waiter who begs for an order. 

“Is the shoelace on special tonight?”

Oh how awful knowing

you’ve ate something sickening,

civilization in a nutshell. 

Advancements worn backwards,

grown into two left feet. 

As miles poo poo

the metric, all lesser 

measures charged with 

their distinction. 

Can’t help but feel it’s 

all going the way of 

the carriage. 

Cobblers out to offend,

I reclaim my time 

to when only birds 

could tweet. 

Hosting The Bachelor 

a so called working life,

standing on loose ground 

where comparisons vanish 

with employment. 

Kindness ushered out with starvation, 

in the name of progress.

Bow to the mob before the 

pot boils over.   

Oyster Jollies

Oyster Jollies

By Tyler Mobley

At it again an ole used to be somebody’s sailor goes walkin between a pair of century old dampers carryin martini olive eyes, soot curls, and a dirty mouth she’d put to use if it weren’t holdin such a cute little grin. A lump of wood at bars’ end lifts a shout, “ain’t you got some business somewhere Ms.?” 

The jingle of her boots fade, silence arm wrestles the room and wins, her head snaps to the call quicker than a wave in a whip nearly drawing the air from the room with the unanimous gasp it demanded from the crowd, silence pursed either as an effect of no soul dare speak or because a vacuum prevented sound to be carried throughout the room, nobody knew nobody cared.

Each step squashing peeps before they happen, she arrives face to face with Lumber leaned up against the bar, rising for a moment from his seat as if a flame were lit underneath his teepee.

Madam looks up, catching him with even more of a crack in her lips than before, “now what business would that be Mr. Forest?” leaning in she could smell fear turn to shit. 

Log cabin falls into convulsive stutters emanating from his lower chip spreading down his race circuit. Mumbles of, “ma ma ma ma ma” again and again interrupted by sudden jerks stifling each proceeding attempt winding up like a little car about to be launched across a kitchen floor.   

“Ahh hell!” she slaps him not too hard across the face breaking the broken recordness arresting his body landing him back in his seat and before he knows much of anything he spat out, “ma acorns!”

A sigh of relief escapes from his chopstick mouth as though having needed to lose an erection before a passing train could knock it off, that sent vapor spittles into her face in a bourbon breeze. 

Throwing back her head in a great “HA!” forcing anything not nailed down into the walls. Tables and chairs slide into leather breeches, glass explodes and falls in subtle applause about the room like an ensemble of fairies hitting pots and pans. Olive eyes narrow on Tinder Box with regained composure she reaches into her vest. Eyes shift around the room curious to the fact that her hand had passed up the shooter astride a rather well rounded hip. 

From the vest she pulls a small bronze cylinder and removes the cap in a slow twist. Holding it before Match Stick, in a way he could note the color, which was unusual. Containing an element of glitter magnified by the truest amethyst, emitting a spectrum such that anemones would fight for it’s hue, lilies tell petal-tales of it’s shade, it drives monkeys bananas, and sends unicorns out shopping where they discover in passing a mirror their horns’ held the color all along. 

“What they servin you here, seventh sin?” Arms a measure animated. “How bout I freshen you up?” 

A gleaming nub grows under her touch, then guides the rocket stick towards Saw Dust’s face.

“Hold still now, you haven’t want me to get this wrong.” Reaching behind Splinter’s head to keep fast his shuttering chin.

We have touchdown. From a deliberate hand eights roll onto his wood chips, a trace resembling a trail of a psychedelic snail after several crossing of his balustrade; inducing a most peculiar spell. Building with each completed pass Plank’s corks pucker ever more. 

In a sudden pressure release eyelids flutter his harmonica hums and steam blows out his ears. Withdrawing the wand and placing it back in her vest, she takes a step back to admire her work n play horse. Block’s head a ringing coo coo clock, his body a black and white image against the vortex drawn on his castle. 

Placing a boot in his dividers then before going any further she turns to address the room, “now if any of you ladies want a ride you’re gunna have to wait your turn.” Pressing on his stirrup her legs swing over his shelves for shoulders she saddles on his music box, taking up fingers of each hand as reins, feeling like bark bits in her grip. 

For an imperceptible amount of time her business carried on in such a comfortable manner you’d think she were alone. Wedging into a joist her charged body expands a field of static potential gathered from forces present and beyond.    

Breaking from her rhythm for a look at the faces frozen into the wall, some still pinned by furniture. 

“Do yall really wanna see what this pony can do?” 

They weren’t sure, nobody answered. Madam twists his ear shooting a puff of steam down the bar, Jenga teetering on edge. On a well lathered face glimpsed between flickering hips patrons saw eyelids batting at thousands of rpms, a pair of bee stung bruises blowing hard brass, a tongue zapping that could turn a toad envy green, the corrupting color covering his complexion resembled a tumbleweed turn tropical fish. 

The lights in his jukebox went out right as hers finished, both rattling in opposite ways. Leaving, months later, suspicions in those who witnessed the event as to whether his spirit had been sucked out by her answering machine like some phone booth in The Matrix. Only this here is the nineteenth century so make of it what you will. 

The ride met its end, in dismount she leaps off brushing against his chopping block, the force of her impact jostling a dead Stump loose from his seat falling to kindling on the floor. 

Giving herself a once over she smiles down at the Pollock piece between her thighs and runs a finger up her seam front. In passing she drags the dabbed finger across the cheek of a still giant, neither spoke. 

Within moments a jackhammer awakens inside the giant inducing in him a tapping twister with rumba manners, the bright cheek streak metastasizing his body through Tasmanian whirl.  

The audience fixed on another transformation hadn’t noticed her slip out, and let out a still murmur when a cow hatted and curled head popped her peach back through century old wooden doors, “Y’all be careful with this one, damn near lost my pearls,” with a yodeling chuckle, “so long.” 

With that patrons peeled off walls, and found themselves dumbfounded around the rutabaga vibrator they knew as Earl. 

Aboard Nimbus Nine

Most falls in during morning flows. Pen & Page be-pressed for days. Welcome to the Xander Zone!

Aboard Nimbus Nine

By Tyler Mobley

Does the world speak through your eyes? To know is to know anything at all. No fantastic beast, a spice caught mid drizzle down forearm scruff posing to the onion if the slice was worth the cry hoping the answer may remain to remind of what is present, like shower confidence carried into the world, a Sesame Street stride “a good day to garbage grins, bird, thank you for your song, Tree wood you settle your branch brood and leaf yourself blown, any stranger can tell you’re a bit knotted up.” Is that enough? Ok one more, “I went for pizza last time Mr. Tree, leaving your wallet in your trunk is no excuse.” If only money grew on … our backs. 

For the love of God traffic lights have more personality than some elected officials. Respect the runway’s duty, a performance demanding stage. Floor is yours, the lights hot, dance as if you’ve practiced all your life, no doubt you have. Imagine every word spoken by a congressional member must include a jig or dance at a minimum of eight counts, carried out before or after the statement being left to the members discretion. Not a thought mind a movement goes unweighted in expression, art or ability the absolute passion for life shines under recognition in unbearable fashion, if one were to gaze directly at this primordial flare the result would imprint itself onto all seen thereafter for embracing our undeniable order, complexity maintained under elegant guise, meditating bottoms know to sink to rise, morphing bubbles on surface ascents, a dance perhaps, prescribed to those who’ve not thought through the depths from which they’ve sprung.

That ought to sort things out a bit. Dance if a lash bash is all you can manage, propel your mind with Saturn sneeze rockets any less is just another dance, pads of melting butter for skates, we must roll, a days roll presents no choice and every option each time time time time time time time.