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Ian Horn Poem
Running cracks of lead flaked paint, spiders across the front door like a grandfather's
forehead.
Its hinges squeal from years of inattention and forgotten maintenance
Floor boards moan a song of dismemberment and forgotten age
While musty gloom thickens the air – inhibiting, restricting, compressing breaths
Entrance ways lead to hallways which culminate and connect enclosed spaces,
hovering in an atmosphere of haunt and mourn
Conversations linger, echoing within walls of dine and feast
settings arranged from ritual –
two plates,
two bowls,
two cups,
two knives,
two spoons,
two forks,
two napkins,
two chairs,
with only voice and ephemeral trace.
Twisted unleveled stairs, escalate to second stories
letters to love and hate cover ancient mourning boards.
Segmented space divides the infant from maturation.
Cracked spine, chipped rails, exposing the wooden crib core
Superficial angst and rage characterizing the infant's facade,
yet delicate love exposed in clean white linens pressed and laid in perfection
sets the bedding stage for stuffed bears and embroidered blankies
Toppled bookcase defecates bound knowledge across adult wooden bed frame
disheveling sheets, rugs, and right angles,
its half fallen posture exposes entrance way to hidden passages.
Between walls, moving slow as not to catch thread to exposed nail, pipe, or wire
shoulders grazing support beams, pace entranced by flattening florescence bulbed ceilings
Each step enclosing space tighter and tighter
Climax turns to anticlimax as exit opens to
a hermetic cell of textural paint echoing skin blotched and boiled.
Surrounding walls of tattered gold, ulcer red and puss filled purple,
each based with blotched skin.?Encircles full length mirror exposing views of deceased
discomfort –
Black glass glows within frame of ornate wood
spiking and curling with baroque transcendence
Reflecting back a ghost of future deceased persona.
Copyright © Ian Horn | Year Posted 2009
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Ian Horn Poem
Orange bulb lit firefly,
Silhouetted scaffolds delude my reticent pace
Speckling lights flutter to my grazing eye,
Across a barren waste.
Lonesome night breeze crispends forward gaze,
Tomorrow’s evening builds on and on to a swell.
Hopeless hope listens less to reason, but only mad lovers craze.
Only by tomorrow’s touch will such emotions be quelled.
Longing day falls onward, draining every ounce energy welled
‘til yet once more does my sight jump
to dim lit sky, lined by five lights, gas filled.
And cackling crow stands perched on former electrified stump.
What sorrow song do you sing?
Such sorrow to tomorrow, keep beneath your wing.
Copyright © Ian Horn | Year Posted 2009
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Ian Horn Poem
L' amore
Knows no blunder
except that of
Echoes.
Copyright © Ian Horn | Year Posted 2009
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Ian Horn Poem
Stark space
could allow for ease
of breath,
but flooded glow washes
in unrest.
Wood burned mirror
rest in farthest
corner wedge.
Its trim scrolls
heavenward in facile
attempts.
Obsidian glass obstructs
true face.
Instead providing
an image voided
of narcissistic delight.
Copyright © Ian Horn | Year Posted 2009
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Ian Horn Poem
O what forgotten providence,
to which my soul falls victim
on and off and on again,
indecision marking each page
with dog eared brutality.
Know not, want not, we
could never truly return
a moment as inconsequential
as that which marks. . .
Providential Dreams whose ends
are more mutably cataclysmic
than their begins.
Can only be born of indecisive
wonderlust,
Impendent scenes are nothing but
Providential Dreams
As providential dreams are nothing
But necessity.
Copyright © Ian Horn | Year Posted 2009
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Ian Horn Poem
Such a commitment found
between two
supple mounds.
Conjoined by touching
breaths, softly
aired
Tentative words are never
discovered in this
effervescent realm
Lamenting sorrow
speaks and screams out
from loss of subtle
gaze
Held close in wrapping
appendaged stance
No other beauty is known
to contain such
immutable grace.
Copyright © Ian Horn | Year Posted 2009
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