A Sonnet to My Constant Inconsistent Nostalgia
I swoon every day and night with a subtle wile
Scraping the groveling threshold in a whittle
Until I wake upon a lifelong baleful yearning
With my head buoyed and rested upon a prissy garrison
Gravely wrought with memories, now austerely vile
From deluded niceties and eroded delusions all scathingly brittle
That pawned a constant labyrinthine of inclement struggling
Soldering my hostile bed with subdued treason
Of inconsistent nostalgia, like faltering stairs with no banister
Augmenting slivered hopes and tottering chances
And parceling the tatterdemalion knight from his feigned facet
Yet I will endure and follow the hollow water
Beneath this afflicted cellar of plummeting lances
With all that's left, my veins would serve the faucet.
poem by Norman Santos
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Related quotes
Lady in the Lighthouse
The raucous starlight could only extemporize
The chutzpa of a jocund seafaring crew—
That vigor, which ignites the forlorn sailing
Which remained unavailable inside the isolation
Of a gelid helm, where the walls and ceilings moan
Upon blotches of the effulgent full moon
Basking upon the hazy floor parquetry.
As I wrangled with the lullaby of somnolence
I self-consciously sever my scrawny aged fingers
Groping greedily by the steering wheel,
And parceling the immense myriad of tides
Of the devouring jaws of the open sea,
When I saw, from a sentry, a lady of mystique
Her rasping ropy hair wedged the luster
Of the illumination clasped by the lighthouse
Her billowing nightgown ceaselessly fluttered
With the waves that conceived and cradled
My seaward yearning, my cloistered flee.
She bought a pliant undulant hand in motion
Waving and careening, vexing confusion
And creating a phantasm in the gloom
Hues of her dawdling shadows by the sea
That inexorably feigned an optimistic anticipation
Upon the achy facet of my moon-paced wondering;
An endless sauntering in the ornate mind map,
I was enthralled by the harpoons of her expensive
Glasgow smile and her vague but arresting eyes
That had kissed the ring of the esoteric Capitan
And eerily, I had momentarily forgotten
The fractions and distractions that never elapsed
That had brought me to this nautical wandering
And jarringly, I had momentarily ambitioned
To dwell with the illustrious delusions
That I had unfurled in fortuity, by the sea,
In the lighthouse of tangential offerings.
The lighthouse shivered and cringed in the haze
Of a profound astigmatism in my gray eyes
Festooned with serrated and slivered hopes
And the mirage ebbed away with violent eddies
And I, alone and forever, the Capitan
Surrendered back into my forlorn searching.
poem by Norman Santos
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My heart is eroded
The secrets we had,
The tears we shed together,
The laughters and smiles,
The memories may come,
The thoughts at times as well,
But my heart is eroded
The way we kissed,
The way we touched,
The times and all moments,
My heart recoils,
However its eroded
Chances came and go,
The kids we wished for,
The wedding we saw,
And the home we wished,
You broke my heart,
My heart was eroded
The trust you created,
The faith you betrayed,
The hope you tanished,
And the love you destroyed,
I can hear you call,
Yet my heart is now eroded
poem by Gaylord Munemo
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Prissy
There was a prissy missy
with morals, oh so silly
who tripped upon a lily
and fell into a pond.
Not wishing to be spotted,
looking wet and horrid
she never screamed or hollered
for help to come along.
So there, the prissy missy
bedraggled and distressed
did die beneath the water
in her fine new dress.
And as the mere did take her
she'd solace in the thought
that not a soul did see
her bedraggled and distraught.
The moral of this tale
is sad but very true
that if you're a prissy missy
no one will notice you.
poem by Ruth Walters
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Soldering
(beckford & ranglin)
Soldering its what the young girl wants
Soldering
Soldering its what the young girl needs
Soldering
She says she dont want the young buy,
The young boy drink too much white rum
She says she dont want the soul man,
cause soul man fall asleep in bed
She says she dont want the dread lock
cause dread lock smoke too much haile
Soldering its what the young girl wants
Soldering
When you check it out the young boy is undecided
And the dread lock is getting natty groove
While the old man hes watching them move
And the soul boy he start to prove
Soldering its what the young girl wants
Soldering
Soldering its what the young girl needs
Soldering
Oh young girl want soldering
song performed by by Hall & Oates
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Segments Of A Circle
The stained-glass sky flounces and shatters
As the wonder of the night scintillates
Upon the sleeping skin of a promenade
In the circlet roads of a silent ballet
Light perched foots steps trample upon
The maladroit blotches of the porch lights
And beneath the maw of the waxing moon
Was the silhouette of a gaudy woman
She would always be the same woman
In her sapid vagueness, no peculiarities
No sobriquets, no facades, no niceties;
A plummeting ballet herself
She is always in the equipoise of my eyelids
At the beginning and end of rainy days
Quaffing the gray sketches of the atmosphere
Riding the blue winds of tranquilized euphoria
She is always out there like the chirps of a sparrow
Whenever the moon laze in her eiderdown couch
She would be leaning effulgently to kiss the stars
That incinerates with her enigma
Sometimes she would be tender like a conch's whisper
A surging lullaby standing by the bedpost
Crooning in the veranda and the breaking tides
In harmony with the sirens' song
Sometimes she would be a nightmare
A phantom crumpling every reverie
A pristine picture clawed by dementia
Pinned into the frangible ceiling
The nostalgia slumbering in her brittle bones,
The wonder combing her coal tresses,
And the buoyant nights in her screaming palms
Sometimes, I think I know this woman
Before the sun rise and set in the roof beams
I do try to cipher her riddling phantasm
A void silhouette with a potent effect
A salient ballet injured in a pirouette
Time after time, a voice behind the blear
Would wake me from this saccharine dream
Before the steely teeth of veracity would notch
And spray the poison in a treacle cup
And how many times have I denied—
Seeing you beneath the eaves of daylight
Without the mystery but still in anonymity
With the same nostalgia inside the nattering bones?
How many times have I seen you—
Your face elucidated by the hands of dawn
Your name flowing out of my derided lips
And sometimes, in my nacreous eyes?
I think I know this woman of sometimes
The flakes of her grandiosity and her horrors
Perched upon the equipoise of a cycle
In undisruptive segments of a circle
Sometimes, I think I know this circle
Thousand falcate roads for a ceaseless rat race
That never ends owed to the unstable segments
Alluring for ecstasy, calling for quietus.
poem by Norman Santos
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The Road Away The Night
The night perched on its favorite peak
To let down the pall of oblivion and
Murmur temptations into the wind
It's reedy voice swept and perforated
The euphonious singing of the stars
Like a dissonant violent string it shrilled
And shattered the taut smile hoisted
In the harlequinade that comforted
This pilfered parcel of direst and slosh
The aqueous blood of the saline sea
Where the memories drowned struggling
These convoluted meandering that lead
In a rendezvous with death's scythe
Is starting to outnumber the plethora
Of my night terrors and day dreams
And the shadow of my blinded fears
Is starting to blend into the thin walls
That rectifies my ebbing faults and sin -
I am lost in this aimless wandering.
Walking upon this slivers of rues and regrets
And slathered with the profound burning
Of these salty tears of absolution and bereft,
I conspired for my salvation, and still
The only wisp of light in the firmament
And the only peace roving in the air
Was the same treason in these veins -
The liberation to this labyrinth
Is another sweet immolation
Perhaps, the night will always fall
And her phantoms will always call
The vultures will fence my sleep hoping
That I may finally found the valiance
To face the black demise of the night
But with my complacent obduracy
Perhaps I will endure this walk with time
And the scars will fade, but not your face
And the sun would sink, but not my yearning
And the night will wan with all her demons
But not the trepidation in trampling
In the sweetest treacherous roads.
poem by Norman Santos
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Clock and Compass
Ardent arms that never dare halt
The flailing gestures in a dawdling waltz.
Clock and Compass, and the solitude curse
That leashed their hands onto their hearse,
Whilst chasing the tails of tales of vicissitude
The blasé endeavor, the blithe ineptitude
Of the labyrinthine revelry, where they frolic
And tinker, the macabre in the melody is chronic.
"Clock, in your hands that fumble to rock
An infant to ripen in a tale of another deadlock
Take me in a cavalcade to the shards of your ocean
Jarred in your veins, with tides in constant ashen-
Currents, and I shall fumble to catch your waves
Immortal cradles in a flimsy steady pace
In your flannel tux and silver scaffolds
Tell me what to consume, tell what to hold."
"Compass, lead me down into your darkness
Into your clandestine garden, into your nest
And I will seize your tired moribund arms
Lithe arms of sentries, broken arms of tramps
You're a faceless void, a nameless face
With gilded frames and such liquid lace
In an orchid gown that extends too far
To guide my trail like the northern star."
"Clock, you are surmised to a predetermined sequence
An extensive pre-morbid saga in feigned eloquence
That matured every epoch, every decade, and every second
Baneful with the repletion of a wish to depart and abscond
Let me caress your arms, rigid and enfeebled arms
That caught every instance but never possessed charms
To hex all that saunters past these circlet roads
And touch your gallant frames weary from its loads."
"Compass, your fate is callously casted
To obliterate your path left encrusted
With hopes in tombs and scornful chances
And nary praying arms, but throbbing lances.
I will hold your impositions, with hands oblivious
With its erratic directions I would gladly reduce
Myself, and my own coerced path will vacillate
To induce pain, for pain is life and it will regulate."
poem by Norman Santos
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M1...
i do not wish to have a halo
above my head
this early morning
angel,
just be invincible
i have always maintained this in
my mind
i am better in this
frail body, these brittle bones,
these tiny fingers
society gives respect to
the kindness of feigned weakness
the humility of
having to appear like a hollow tree
as i step out of the door
i take the shape of this pigeon
the messenger of soft wings
whiter intentions
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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To The Aggies Of Ateneo De Davao Around The World
nostalgia is the word for all these now
we have the urge to look out the window and find
who we were: the joys of the college years that will tickle us
old friends and their memories like innocent children
coming on our laps asking for our embraces
old pictures make our hearts shrink a little only to grow
bigger like a bread from the pan
fresh and fuming with the flavor of wheat
nostalgia is the word for it
and time is its mother that nourishes with its milk
the past comes to us always with something greener
and a breather of mint and rosemary
some peppers and honeyed lemonades
nostalgia is the word for it
when our wings have gone far beyond the lands of our births
dissolving in the horizons of other lands
when our chirps are gone
nostalgia is the word for it
when we come back stronger this time and lovelier
with our wounds that healed
with our pains that lost its trick
nostalgia is the word for it
such is she a beautiful woman still even though the hairs have turned gray
and the breasts sag and the bones rattling like brittle sticks
nostalgia is the word for it and no matter where the winds of this world
and its cyclones and waves have taken us
we are back looking for the glitter of each other's eyes
and then we laugh and then the world has heard us
yes, nostalgia is the word that people seldom use
as they move on with their respective lives
but we are here once again
nostalgia is the theme, it is here and soon it will leave
we are once again full even for once
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Sleeper Cell
Black blood, dark kiss
Winter resides in your lips
Amidst the forlorn woods
The frost benumbs the wounds
Impaling the Myrtle trunks looming
Sealed deeply, surreptitiously the afflicting
Sheathed malady, silenced peal
In treason lies your thrill
Infesting the glacial brooks
Annihilating my favorite books
Scars in the seams too narrow
Smothering lungs in gallows
Folded eyes, crystal sleep
Hoisted in a muffled weep
Buoyed in a vapid shore
Hibernating all three-sixty-four
A parade lingers on the sixty-fifth
Wake the bosom in the summer whiff
Crowning sun, summer breeze
Waking for all you missed
Riveted by the forest's roots
This cell is your only route
Cradled by such deceit
Feigned a feeling too succinct
The amity, the felony
Muzzles blazing with tears of agony
Beneath the bed you sleep
A flightless Eagle you dearly keep
To kill the sleeper who lies beside
To free the watcher's shackled pride
Scorching sun, crying skies
Rain on your parading lies
Red velvet draped the bed
From where the winter raise its head
Beseeching glory in bereft
The sleeper cell rouses and left.
poem by Norman Santos
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If I lived back in the Wild West days, instead of carrying a six-gun in my holster, I'd carry a soldering iron. That way, if some smart-aleck cowboy said something like, 'Hey look. He's carrying a soldering iron' and started laughing, and everybody else started laughing, I could just say, 'That's right, it's a soldering iron. The soldering iron of justice.' Then everybody would get real quiet and ashamed, because they made fun of the soldering iron of justice, and I could probably hit them up for a free drink.
Jack Handey in Deep Thoughts
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Water Wings
Water Wings
I am of the water, and my dreams foretell my home.
I have dreamt of the water, it is where my mind does roam.
Life manages our paths by the steps that we take,
I want my path to lead to the ocean, where the waves do break.
The water glistens in my soul, and runs through my veins,
And when I am one with the water, I carry the reigns.
Whether on or under or flying above,
The water is my passion, it is my true love.
I wake from the night, from my hopes and my dreams
I wake to find a world with all water themes.
Surrounded by love and caressed by the air
I see the lord has accepted my little dare.
My dreams have become life, and I have transformed.
I am now an angel of the sea, and water wings I have formed.
The ocean, the sea, the lakes and rivers blue
They give me my strength and my life they do fuel.
My water wings glide and are as smooth as ice,
They are gift from the heavens and they much more than suffice.
I sit here and I rest, on the shore of the land,
Knowing, the lord is my savior, and my biggest fan.
poem by Rik Bertrand
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The Spirit's Depths
Not in the crisis of events
Of compass'd hopes, or fears fulfill'd,
Or acts of gravest consequence,
Are life's delight and depth reveal'd.
The day of days was not the day;
That went before, or was postponed;
The night Death took our lamp away
Was not the night on which we groan'd.
I drew my bride, beneath the moon,
Across my threshold; happy hour!
But, ah, the walk that afternoon
We saw the water-flags in flower!
poem by Coventry Patmore
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To The Man of Multitude
In a jet black guise
With the patina of bold vying
You are the nighttime sky,
You are the fathoms of the pit,
And the quintessence of the labyrinth
Is within the scars of the manacles
That had marred the luster
Of your candor vision
But the lurking predators
In the fringes of your capitulating flame
Could never halt nor corrupt
The spangling splendor
Draped in the jet black guise.
I've seen you knead against the quakes
Sullied by the caustic impalement
Of a sardonic rebellion
To oust the dexterous entanglement
In a cajoling bereavement
But more than this, I have seen
You eruditely build lofty sentries
That divulges a binary path
For a tatterdemalion comrade
And yonder what I've seen, I had unfurled
A gyroscope of chances
Within your vestal core
Dabbing with its own remedy
Amidst the clangors and vexation
You remained resolute
To your sheering honesty
And it had baffled me
When you said you were reticent
For in each of your gutters
You propel your own current
Like a stern windmill
Looming amidst the mayhem
And the slapstick charades
Never delude in their consoles
For your sifting sagacity
Possessed an intrepid heart
You are a savant owl
Of enigmatic marquetry
Who had witnessed surfeit requiems
Of thousand floundering souls
Like that of a comely soul
Educed into a comely man,
Or like that of a lone lion;
And the sooty plumes
Of your subterfuge
Is just as enthusing as
The struggling vagabond
Beneath the puissant wings
And the labyrinthine eyes
I'll keep you in my loins;
A chanting spell against
The beguiling of the sirens
For you are teeming
With codes and keys
To a profound sublimation
Of verve and valiancy
Inside a prolix prose
Where I had found myself
Slurring in the eddies
But buoyed and riveted
In the esoteric resilience
Mount the insuperable gorge,
And I shall heave your lissome string
So you could set of far, adroit kite
And I wouldn't be cumbersome
In the blear of your frescoes
But if you could seize me
Please, let your winds ferry me
For you are so many!
That sometimes, my oppression envy,
And a moniker is not apt
For your puissant authenticity
Carry on, brother!
You're a man of multitude.
poem by Norman Santos
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Where The Roots Sank
The incarcerated echoes
Inside your robust cage
Of ivories and porcelains
Resonated your name
Coiling into the navel
Where a brambly foliage lay,
Where one fates to fumble
Rummaging for an enigma
Ensconced in a solitary rose
With soldering petals of flame
Enervating the void dark
And the austere ravine stark
To pounce yonder your eaves,
Swell mellifluously condescending
Malignantly ascending
Like a staircase pummeling
The heaven in you tresses
And it reached my low canopies
In an eloquent fashion
Resembling the sun's expedition
Skipping through sodden trellises
Ineffable and esoteric
As how tomorrow's gloaming
Can set before today's dawn
Your infernal flower possessed
An enthralling redolence
A mystery more puissant as
It entangles its thorny vines
Into the slicing vesper's face
A labyrinthine for a rat race;
A phantom damsel for a dying knight,
An adversary for a chivalrous crusade,
An ensnare for the despondent beau
Of aphorism and ideals, all the same
A vermillion spit of life
Licking the brittle bones
No grander than the comported semicide
Ablaze my graze as I submit
To your inveigling light
Usurp my entity and bury me
In your fastidious color
And I shall thaw in your amber
Like a wax molding to morph
Brand new visions and inflections
I shall swim through your blood
And reside in your pulsations
Let me sink yonder your lips
Ajar and trifling a perplexing limbo
Of Eden's horrifying grandeurs
Until I become one with the flames
Its prancing and its stings
And the plummeting of the cinders
Spewed and ousted from the core
The warm hearth where everything
Is enticed to thaw, to sink.
poem by Norman Santos
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Seize the Autumn Mist
Amidst a horizon of sporadic seasons, stood
A wayward gambler of sangfroid optimism
Wreaking of departure in the eyes of an interlude
Cascading with a wintry streak of a prism
A rapine of the grandiosity banishing all subdued
Words that vessels emotions in taut surrealism
The aftermath of golden deluge and sullen drought
Fore the wintry rape and frosted cellars bolt
A beautiful shedding, the mist of copper hair brought
Comported in a poise deeming the sun a harlot
For corrupting the radiance it spun and wrought
Undeserving of abduction; a beautiful fault
Hoping for amends but the more it is changing
The more the season of withering remains mundane
With aloofness of untainted bliss, tethering
A tatterdemalion vagabond in a flee too profane
Erred and flawed hands can't carry the bosom of the writhing
Season of falling a gambler can never abstain
Ephemeral autumn days encumbering perpetual bliss;
Dormant abrasion in a feigned cinched delusion
Should I resign a kiss? Should I deprive the mist
Of autumn yearning to be seized in revulsion?
Ambivalent in complacent hues of your own fist
Little yielding fist, wave your sweetest tides of gravitation.
poem by Norman Santos
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Evergreen
Me and the trees, losing our leaves
Falling like blood on the cross
I want to be evergreen
Everything dies, I know last night
Part of me wasn't around
I want to be evergreen
Yeah, evergreen...
Waiting, and listening
Hoping and missing all of our time left alone
I'm the one cutting the rope
Frostbite in winter, 'cause like a splinter you come and follow me down
I'm the one cutting the rope
Yeah...
Chorus:
Holiday end, I'm here once again, and I'm left alone on the bus with my
Head on the ground, In hopes that I'm found by you this time around
The sun will rise soon and tackle the moon
Chasing it still in the sky
All that I've got is tonight
Excuses and reasons, and now it is the season
For all that I never got right
All that I've got is tonight
Chrous:
Holiday end, I'm here once again, and I'm left alone on the bus with my
Head on the ground, in hopes that I'm found by you this time around
The night is a crow, saying come hold me
All that I know is that up and so lonely for thee
All that I know, all that I know, found myself under your rain
I want to be evergreen
I want to be evergreen!
Chorus:
Holiday end, I'm here once again, and I'm left alone on the bus with my
Head on the ground, in hopes that I'm found by you this time around
I want to be evergreen, I want to live all year round (4x)
song performed by by Switchfoot
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Unfettered Kite
Permit the effervescence of the wind
To don on your dishabille glacial shoulders
And take you in a sailing apt for your besieging
To an island heaving of palm trees
Swaying and combing of forking possibilities
Chances are, well, ineffable they are
And I cannot paint it with words
Because my palette is dull and eroded
But I know and I submit to believing
That chance will guide you in, by your elbow
To a promenade, a cavalcade, or a castle
Where no eyes had ever been to musing
Not even conception can even pry in
So leave this undulant slumber
And sear past the poignant clouds
Because you cannot be tethered in a ground
In the semblance of an effulgent specter
Invisible, lingering and malingering
To twine and string your unfathomable fate
And as you submit and remit
The jewels that shall permit
A key towards emanation
Of greater chances, in greater grounds
I shall heave you back difficultly
When I stare back at your backward glances
Yet I will endure and pull your emollient string
So you would only set off farther
Yonder the aptitude of your strings
Past the inclement horizon
Floundering past my aqueous vision
And I shall unstring you willingly,
My unfettered kite
And sedate myself with vicarious oblivion
As I muse upon the turgid azure skies
That you dominated like an adroit bird
With the aroma of yuletide breeze
And pantomimic carols tinkering
On the rustling and toppling leaves
Of the gyratory December, the last 31st
Of the first last year, and I will be,
Myself, an unfettered kite
As I lay in solitude and jealousy
Unfettered from the very start
And when the wind blows upon my spine
With no hands to pull back my strings,
No one to point the nonexistent escape door,
Fended by blithe despondent fingers
Of another egotistic specter in a ballet
Beneath the melody of her own canopy
I am left with no other submission
But be taken to my bereavement
And not to the island of chances
For I am a hapless, flightless,
Unfettered kite.
poem by Norman Santos
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Fortuity for a Mnemonist
Corrosive maps of calamitous sailings
Shambled with the shivering pebbles on his feet
As he vied to mould in this shaping
And molt from a smothering predicament
In grills of iron for an ill-fated mnemonist.
As he acquaints with the candid kind of hope—
A cheap analgesic, an unstained gleam of faith,
And eviscerate the forlorn kind of hope—
Tethered in a bipolar dagger of suffering;
He shall digress like an intrepid blackbird
From the debauching glacial torments
Of the menmonist's veraciousness—
Purged of idealisms, and direly maimed
By reminiscences of the fine languid rapiers
Of your comely trivialities and particulars
Shrilling like the jaunty risqué razors
Of the wintry famished slavering mouth
Of the pasquinade discreetly wrought
In the solitariness of his brooding soul
And tied up in a pillar of memories—
Of delusions in your dearth presence;
Your absence in this unparallel existence
That whittles a lingering tinge of wonder
In his dangling weary wrists and veins
Teeming with both kinds of hope,
He would still remain a mnemonist;
This striving tatterdemalion vagabond
With ornate maps from prostrate courses
But with a stronger gossamer vindication
Unscathed of greedy truculence that corrodes
With the toppling of your interests
He shall envision of the plethora of chances
As the blue birds sing by the awning
Of his brand new lacquer eaves
He shall recuperate from atrocity
And divulge in a munificent enshrouding
Of nakedness; another kind of hoping.
poem by Norman Santos
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When I first came down stairs, for two or three minutes I went down cellar to the water closet.
quote by Lizzie Andrew Borden
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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