amanonthehorizon

[amanonthehorizon]

The House of Tapestry-

In this house of tapestry,

The curtains sullenly watch from the window with their arms chained to the ground.

Placed off to their sides they hold their hands indecisively.

In this house of curtains I pave the way through stitches

Locating the cut,

Finding the imperfection in dimples

The tear in the crease

I force the needle through the wound,

The torn desperation of fabric,

A broken piece inviting heavens glow to be refracted into the space,

letting the light deep through the skin of my interpretation and into the hall of my heart.

In this house of tapestry, I pray.

“I wish you would close these curtains

Close the casket of these heavy eyelids, and bring those bearers at once to carry this heavy rush of emotion”

A commotion begins downstairs, the breaking of a dropped bowl, a woman’s small prayer before her fathers funeral breaking her speech into pieces.

—-

Do this for my father,

Please, close all of the curtains

The tapestry hung over his body is far too much of a contrast,

the way the light hits the baseboards reveals all of my father’s imperfections.

You can see the holes in his heart

The holes in his stories

The holes in this fort

Like a window, a crack, a slit wrist letting the light creep through the hall and shine upon the chains of a man’s reason.

Please sir, close all of the curtains. Yes I know, the dust will still settle in the corner

but for now… we can embrace it, hold it tightly, and call it Papa together.

—

In this house of tapestry I want to flee, flee from the stitches,

From the streets of strangers.

A stream of solid colored fabrics spiral out of control from cotton clouds

They lie like the wreckage, they smudge their oil onto the canvas, a rag to be stepped on, the concrete floors attire.

Close your eyes my fallen tapestry, roll up your wounded breast, sigh deeply your defeated hymn, down the earth you roll over and over down the hills.

Rolling in the fields of clovers.

My dying wish is that you will find something of value from these fraying stitches of a home.

—

Oh Papa, don’t you remember, what life was like before the veil was pulled.

Before the curtains raised their eyebrows

Before the mirror never felt the same in the presence of your own light.

Oh Papa,

And how you did shine.

In the alter, over the frame of a young girls mind, and how you grew to become softer than your wool edges allowed.

How warm you grew with the embrace of another.

Oh Papa,

Do you recall when the sky sang in burgundy and red hues, do you remember the fondness you felt for a house dressed in the tapestry of your words?

Do you remember the ink that stained the pages of our fond memories?

Do you remember the tapestry as it was when we first printed it, when the binding was fresh.

When you were hardly close to finishing yourself off.

Oh Papa, won’t you dig your fingers into the pages with me and read out loud for us again?

—-

Oh Father,

How the days would continue, the cost forever to be paid back, the world would toss and revolve.

Like a curtain left cracked open

Where the sun would turn on and off, and the light would run in one solid beam onto the bed and tap on your closed eyes.

And I.

Would knock on your door another time before rising.

And I would enter without you knowing, to pull at your pillow,

And all the while.

The dust would settle on your cheek in the form of a kiss, and I would love to watch it be returned.

But the days push on.

This tapestry, will always be complete…

even in all of our error.

#poem #poetry #poet #poetsandwriters #spoken word #photography #madrid spain #amateur poetry

[amanonthehorizon]

Concrete floors carpeted in stained rags, scattered mouse droppings.

A belt driven fan on the ceiling dedicates it’s attention to circulating,

Oxygenating the hot blood of air that consumes such a blank space.

The heart continues,

beating despite the worn rubber…

-

I pan the room for a corner to lay my conversation with, to contemplate the space that I find myself in.

I rise from a night in a storage room,

behind the garage doors, cross legged against an engine waiting to crawl awake, the steel shivers, bending back like minute petals, a bud reaching for the sky with the high pitch whistle.

Jet turbines,

a long stem of lines siphoning the fuel needed to feed this flower of death,

peering gaskets curious enough,

to speak to the momentum of yet another rotation.

Another shift.

The days begin and end.

I sleep with the cardboard boxes.

In the corner to left as soon as you enter.

I sleep with the dust, I flip through the text, and I hold a pillows hand like a child

-

The fan continues to click, turning over in his sleep.

I found myself here,

So I listen to the scurrying stories of mice,

bending the morals of their tails.

Almost, subconsciously, I change- growing evermore,

my clothes,

my diction,

my uniform,

Even my blankets crumple themselves up with poetry and give in.

Draping themselves over yet another body, begging for forgiveness.

The engine sits idly in the corner.

Listening for an angels infliction.

-

For the fourth night I fall from myself and I wonder, where does a man go if he falls from faith…

I’d like to believe that he would wander to a storage room, to stretch out on a cot before the storm of dreams, to sit upright with a damp shirt, awaiting their arrival.

To go to contemplate his own heart’s song in the scientific nature of a motor.

-

The fan continues, the belt slipping back into place, terms reached, a rhythmic motion of rotations.

The metronomes squeal now grows tender.

I awake changed, ever so slightly.

An acceptance to my surroundings.

Imaginary bugles play, a dawn of white lights slowly grows brighter and less bitter.

A fondness of faith found in a storage room.

#poem #poetry #poetsandwriters #spoken word #poet #apache #photography #helicopters #aircraft #prose

[amanonthehorizon]

Stone Walls of Reason-

Imagine creating a reason.

Like a stone wall being built, it as aggravating as it is satisfying.

The throat of the mortar filled with thirst.

Drying and heaving, dreaming to create something solid in the flesh of a man’s wake.

Like a wave, dried upon the coast, yearning to give away its salt from its sated tears.

In hopes that something monumental will be brought about from the task of being alive in the first place.

Brought back from the indulgence of existence, brought to bay by tidal pulls of resistance, brought to life by the rising ovation of lungs breaking through the surface.

A second chance offered.

In the moment we take it, floating on into the straits-

Drifting into decades as we watch the horizon with hope, seeing Heaven's ship pulled up by the hoist, the fishing net capturing shipwrecked sailors.

But when will it be our turn?

Dreaming of the divine efforts given to angels for only surviving, rewarded for accomplishing such a simple sin, as simple as planting the straw into the basket.

Into the monotony, into the silent waves that sit still with crossed legs, on the beach looking outward- seeing only inward, the corners of our bedrooms on the dark ocean floor.

the rough edges of their coasts,

the clouds of their throat-

The turbidity is given in parables of carbon

I hope this Decadence will finally be enough to be proud of us.

#poem #poetry #poet #poetsandwriters #spoken word #dark poetry #dark poem #natural #environment #coastal #oceanside #philosophy #philosophical #thoughts

[amanonthehorizon]

The Men Of The Story-

The motion of boots being laced, notches marked between calluses 

The bow caressing the cello, the worn leather carving the tallies of months.

The hand across the string, the imprisoned knot resurrected.

The street dreaming, scuffling in their sleep

The foreseeable steps, uneven terrain, rotted out stumps, pitfalls

The ankle’s twisted tales, dragging into flames, 

Creeping Into war with themselves 

They walk into the woods with a torch in hand. 

Guidance be to the stars, praise be to the everlasting flame. 

Young men hiding behind the concealment of briars, 

The thicket of skin, the furrows abusing the leather tips of boots, 

The lacerations, opening up the hollowed out logs, set ablaze, 

The empty uncharted hearts see the light of day. 

The artisan's resourcefulness, the ax hews the timber into a home.  

The beast becomes a man, with a flame lowered from a candle, the landscape painted vibrant with an ounce of Hell’s inferno. 

Destroyed to be born again.

The work that allows men to contemplate their ungodly imaginations. 

The men remove the hide from their heels, unveiling the days scars unimpeded, 

Blisters molded from the motion of boots, finally they lie down their restless conversations with boots undone.  

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