Tapestry: A Collection of Poems, Writings, and Letters to My Father

By Miles F. J Smith

A spiritual sequel to Out the Mouth of Babes, Tapestry is another reflection on adulthood, life lessons, and how it is all intertwined. Following themes of love, death, mental illness, and poetic romanticism, the narrative and style has transformed into that of a young adult seeking identity and purpose.

As it is woven, the threads intertwine,
The colors begin to meld,
Although a pattern is sought after,
The loom occasionally misses a row.

Although by no means perfect,
This cloth is my latest.
My history, my story.

Let me weave it for you.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Jun 1, 2018
• ISBN: 9781546244639

Miles F. J Smith

Miles Smith started to write poetry at fourteen and ultimately sought to make his passion a career. Suffering with a case of cerebral palsy from a young age, Smith channels the hardships into his poetry. Author of a previous work: Out the Mouth of Babes. Miles hobbies are reading, writing, and anything with a screen. Please feel free to contact the author at [e-mail]

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© 2018 Miles F.J Smith. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse  05/30/2018

ISBN: 978-1-5462-4464-6 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-5462-4463-9 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2018906488

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Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Contents

GOLD

JET BLACK

DEEP BRONZE

BRILLIANT SILVER

CRIMSON

LOOSE THREADS

For my Father, The Trobairitz, and everyone who has supported me in the latest weaving.

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To sit and weave a tapestry

Out of so many different threads

Each pointing I their own direction, theme-less

Like a spider’s web – half abandoned or directioned

First you have the gold threads.

The threads about them.

But mostly about her.

About my journey with this one-of-a-kind,

A friend like I’ve never had before

Who helped me grow by what I feel is no accident

But she feels is by no design.

Then I have the jet-black threads.

The disturbing realities of my war unto myself,

The victories, the battles, the wounds along the way.

Where I stand now on this cyclical path

There are threads of a deep bronze,

Which return to the earth,

Focusing as the Others did,

On the Reality that surrounds them.

Lastly, are the threads of a brilliant silver,

High fantasy – the attempt to explain the mundane,

And how it feels to fantastical to me.

As it is woven, the threads intertwine,

The colours begin to meld,

Although a pattern is sought after,

The loom occasionally misses a row.

Although by no means perfect,

This cloth is my latest.

My history, my story.

Let me weave it for you.

GOLD

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I listen to her voice through the floor,

The ceiling the same.

The song she sings is one of peace,

But also one of pain.

I sit and I wonder,

Who the song is for,

The girl I am under,

My own sweet Lenore.

Yet she warns me from prominent Poe pretentiousness.

Preceding prevalent punctual pungent proceedings.

Of active alliteration,

And raven references.

She is not the character we think she is,

Indie, with a touch of flair,

She is a full person, and my friend, my compatriot.

Finalement, laisezz-faire.

Love internalized rots,

Yet the treeline of the houses on the horizon stays the same,

As do the changing tides.

Ours is not a bond, easily broken.

It’s been fun.

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I hear the same strums,

Laissez-faire

The sequel is never quite as good as the original

But I hear her pain, and I hear her time coming to and end

(Not for what annoys her most), but rather her mental acuity

With just a little bit of ignorance and a helping heap of paranoia

The strum of vibrating metal on gaping wood

And gaping mental states, wounds (literal) come to bear

Bear!

I hope and I prey,

I hope and I pray,

With my tainted words, and banned songs,

To a deity I don’t believe in.

To my deity that has fallen with the burden, she smiles.

Her voice sweet outside the habitat, the cave.

She will of course, overcome, and be strong for different reasons,

(Reasons my therapist tells me I need to redefine)

She is eternal, like the fire, and the warmth,

And the smell of sea on rain.

Like the sweet sounds and vibrations through the floor-ceiling

Smashing through the glass as she defines what she sees.

(What she remembers worries me though)

I could continue, filling chapters and chapters,

Books and books,

Yet it will be the same.

It’s been fun.

(And will continue to be)

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As I sit in squat and squander.

I can not help, myself, but wonder,

Surrounded by knowledge, legend, I will never read,

Predecessor’s precedence I will not precede.

I think of her again,

And write loudly in a talent squandered.

Squelched

For as my feelings, and fingers wander

And lyrics sung in hushed tune

Come and make their