Anatomy of Rue
The far flung tirade bellowed
into the gray reflection
and the resistance knelt
before its banquet of rue
but sleep was neglected
by the sullen eyes,
and tales were still narrated
into the frosted-glass
fearfully staring daggers
like a hysteric pistol
crying at point blank
knowing well that the only eyes
it can look into are the mirror's
The seasons passed hurriedly
but solace never came with
the showering yellow petals
and the breadth of trepidation
grew like a feral bush of ivies
and its thorns instilled
false-hopes in waiting futilely
for the sound of keys
unlocking my ajar doors
And here, in the decapitation
of my cloud's phantom-musing
I fell into a monastic languor -
limbs falling like yarns
untangled from the web of life
and in the wanton silence
I listened to the veracious absence
of pliant footsteps chasing
the setting of my red cooling star
It gave way for oscillating sequins
of the night to enthuse aeons
to go back to their weaving
of nostalgic poisons and
the monsoon beat like wings
escaping the hunter's net
Obdurately, the bridges held strong
even when the constitutions are burned,
I remember you as who you are
with a stark pang of grandiose
and remembering is no different
than breaking bones just
to prove that you are still alive
And as death sieges my garrison
with myriad auguries sifting through
the spurious altering lights
outside my cellared window,
the casted shadows on my walls
can only bring a cloak of life
into this steel-cold self-incarceration.
poem by Norman Santos
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Empty Stations
Orbs of light drifted in the window
Along with coffee spells and smoke
The cold comes down with the dark
Quietly rippling the engine's roar
And sleep struggles to tranquilize
The hysteric sea resurging inside
In this transitory life I have waited
To be filled like an empty station
Marauded by forlorn passengers
Looking for right doors, numbers,
And tickets and vacancies;
I watched them mordantly
Remembering how hopeless
It is to search and stay,
Our feet are made for departing
Our arms for their arrival
And we can only waltz
To an inconsistent forever
In the plenitude of doors
And sleeping stations
Knocks would always arrive
Like a meaningless song
And some would come in,
Some would come out,
Tired, uninspired; searching
Hopeful, open; found
In this groaning repose,
Veiled by tobacco scent and
Shielded by a sooty window,
I held my ticket waiting to be torn
As I futilely wait for my own peace
When sleep heralds the night
And shifting unconscious states
Where you remained alive.
poem by Norman Santos
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Point Blank
Do you still say your prayers little darlin do you go to bed at night
Prayin that tomorrow, everything will be alright
But tommorows fall in number in number one by one
You wake up and youre dying you dont even know what from
Well they shot you point blank you been shot in the back
Baby point blank you been fooled this time little girl thats a fact
Right between the eyes baby, point blank right between the pretty lies that
They tell
Little girl you fell
You grew up where young girls they grow up fast
You took what you were handed and left behind what was asked
But what they asked baby wasnt right you didnt have to live that life,
I was gonna be your romeo you were gonna be my juliet
These days you dont wait on romeos you wait on that welfare check and on all the pretty things that you cant ever have and on all the promises
That always end up point blank, shot between the eyes
Point blank like little white lies you tell to ease the pain
Youre walkin in the sights, girl of point blank
And its one false move and baby the lights go out
Once I dreamed we were together again baby you and me
Back home in those old clubs the way we used to be
We were standin at the bar it was hard to hear
The band was playin loud and you were shoutin somethin in my ear
You pulled my jacket off and as the drummer counted four
You grabbed my hand and pulled me out on the floor
You just stood there and held me, then you started dancin slow
And as I pulled you tighter I swore Id never let you go
Well I saw you last night down on the avenue
Your face was in the shadows but I knew that it was you
You were standin in the doorway out of the rain
You didnt answer when I called out your name
You just turned, and then you looked away like just another stranger waitin to get blown away
Point blank, right between the eyes
Point blank, right between the pretty lies you fell
Point blank, shot right through the heart
Yea point blank, youve been twisted up till youve become just another part of it
Point blank, youre walkin in the sights
Point blank, livin one false move just one false move away
Point blank, they caught you in their sights
Point blank, did you forget how to love, girl, did you forget how to fight.
Point blank they must have shot you in the head
Cause point blank, bang bang baby youre dead.
song performed by by Bruce Springsteen
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Gray Skies
Gray mornings underneath
the plummeting of silver beads
is a cold seraph sitting upon
his celestial wings of fire
shedding petals, caviling for silence
willowing in a soft psychastenia
and of steel-bruised dreams
and the avalanche of his realm
he lost the tangled threads
of his adamant musing
but the heavens cannot speak
and unravel his constellations
without quelling his mirrors
and his vapid etude pounced
like a chain of spears from
the vaults of his commiserating
as he vied against his flaming aeons
and become the mausoleum inside
the bones of the gray morning skies.
poem by Norman Santos
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The House Of Dust: Part 02: 10: Sudden Death
'Number four—the girl who died on the table—
The girl with golden hair—'
The purpling body lies on the polished marble.
We open the throat, and lay the thyroid bare . . .
One, who held the ether-cone, remembers
Her dark blue frightened eyes.
He heard the sharp breath quiver, and saw her breast
More hurriedly fall and rise.
Her hands made futile gestures, she turned her head
Fighting for breath; her cheeks were flushed to scarlet,—
And, suddenly, she lay dead.
And all the dreams that hurried along her veins
Came to the darkness of a sudden wall.
Confusion ran among them, they whirled and clamored,
They fell, they rose, they struck, they shouted,
Till at last a pallor of silence hushed them all.
What was her name? Where had she walked that morning?
Through what dark forest came her feet?
Along what sunlit walls, what peopled street?
Backward he dreamed along a chain of days,
He saw her go her strange and secret ways,
Waking and sleeping, noon and night.
She sat by a mirror, braiding her golden hair.
She read a story by candlelight.
Her shadow ran before her along the street,
She walked with rhythmic feet,
Turned a corner, descended a stair.
She bought a paper, held it to scan the headlines,
Smiled for a moment at sea-gulls high in sunlight,
And drew deep breaths of air.
Days passed, bright clouds of days. Nights passed. And music
Murmured within the walls of lighted windows.
She lifted her face to the light and danced.
The dancers wreathed and grouped in moving patterns,
Clustered, receded, streamed, advanced.
Her dress was purple, her slippers were golden,
Her eyes were blue; and a purple orchid
Opened its golden heart on her breast . . .
She leaned to the surly languor of lazy music,
Leaned on her partner's arm to rest.
The violins were weaving a weft of silver,
The horns were weaving a lustrous brede of gold,
And time was caught in a glistening pattern,
Time, too elusive to hold . . .
Shadows of leaves fell over her face,—and sunlight:
She turned her face away.
Nearer she moved to a crouching darkness
With every step and day.
Death, who at first had thought of her only an instant,
At a great distance, across the night,
Smiled from a window upon her, and followed her slowly
From purple light to light.
Once, in her dreams, he spoke out clearly, crying,
'I am the murderer, death.
I am the lover who keeps his appointment
At the doors of breath!'
She rose and stared at her own reflection,
Half dreading there to find
The dark-eyed ghost, waiting beside her,
Or reaching from behind
To lay pale hands upon her shoulders . . .
Or was this in her mind? . . .
She combed her hair. The sunlight glimmered
Along the tossing strands.
Was there a stillness in this hair,—
A quiet in these hands?
Death was a dream. It could not change these eyes,
Blow out their light, or turn this mouth to dust.
She combed her hair and sang. She would live forever.
Leaves flew past her window along a gust . . .
And graves were dug in the earth, and coffins passed,
And music ebbed with the ebbing hours.
And dreams went along her veins, and scattering clouds
Threw streaming shadows on walls and towers.
poem by Conrad Potter Aiken
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Non-Rose
Non-roses, yellow frills of breathing dew,
airy apparitions
flapping your stiffening petals like houris their dancing veils,
along the jagged thorns of a non-bush
I pluck you not.
And why not not?
There is much nought to pluck. Lots.
The blank book of life that shuts with a bang so full
of endless, dizzying doings,
of dynasties, stays obdurately open.
By your hand shield your eyes.
Don't stare. Ignore.
Bothersome muses of the void
before the collect
don't let your gaze
graze or take print
of this Veronica veil, the morning,
and to God
whose gifts aren't worth it
wheelbarrow them back.
poem by Morgan Michaels
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The Dreams
Spare a little candle
Save some light for me
Figures up ahead
Moving in the trees
White skin in linen
Perfume on my wrist
And the full moon that hangs over
These dreams in the mist
Darkness on the edge
Shadows where I stand
I search for the time
On a watch with no hands
I want to see you clearly
Come closer than this
But all I remember
Are the dreams in the mist
These dreams go on when I close my eyes
Every second of the night I live another life
These dreams that sleep when it's cold outside
Every moment I'm awake the further I'm away
Is it cloak n dagger
Could it be spring or fall
I walk without a cut
Through a stained glass wall
Weaker in my eyesight
The candle in my grip
And words that have no form
Are falling from my lips
These dreams go on when I close my eyes
Every second of the night I live another life
These dreams that sleep when it's cold outside
Every moment I'm awake the further I'm away
There's something out there
I can't resist
I need to hide away from the pain
There's something out there
I can't resist
The sweetest song is silence
That I've ever heard
Funny how your feet
In dreams never touch the earth
In a wood full of princes
Freedom is a kiss
But the prince hides his face
From dreams in the mist
These dreams go on when I close my eyes
Every second of the night I live another life
These dreams that sleep when it's cold outside
Every moment I'm awake the further I'm away
These dreams go on when I close my eyes
Every second of the night I live another life
These dreams that sleep when it's cold outside
Every moment I'm awake the further I'm away
song performed by by Heart
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Ruse of the Pink Flamingo
My eyes swan through the sunward sand
Falling with the summer rain and the mist
That shrouds the haled halcyon raiment
Like a gray nostalgia unfenced but tamed
By an inclement drizzle, and here I am
Breathing with the moiré banana leaves
There was a stillness - a vertical line
Erected in the lugubrious susurrations
A silver thread fixed with the marionette
Wistfully frolicking in the aqueous mirror
And sending undulations without a sound
The enthralling artistry was my muse
In this void ulcer of the land, a pink blotch
In the postmortem dirge of savagery
My eyes swan through her wayward dance
The weathervane utterance of the wind
Spoke of the silence's response
To the dipping of her svelte legs
Into the unwavering poise of the pond
And its ageless skin rippled with subtlety
That the sun casted a shower of yellow light
Borne into the dawn of shriveling moths
Upon the mirroring of your charming grace
The tilting legs raised and lunged like a danseuse
With an undertone of vengeance but swathed
With the tired hoping for vindication
And with every mellifluous lift and sway
Was a hint of hope for another day
She careened her head into the dusk
And pivoted her salutary statuesque
Dancing for the reflection and the song
Of the trespassing swallows and storks
Titivating the chasing of the crimson dome
And becoming the ebullient light of the void
But the song will sojourn with the season
Of your gossamer inflection of carnation
It withers like the petals on your waist
And the amusement of your own reflection
Until then, who do you dance for?
The machinations of the elegiac song
Strummed by the plethora of leaves
And ornamented by the astray petals
Played with the willowy dancing feet
And this ruse held her in the oscillating waist
And manipulated her pensive ballet
But when the fix is pilfered
Who will you dance for?
poem by Norman Santos
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My Zithers Sang No Melody
Like an arachnid, I constantly weave a web
as I swing across transatlantic roofs and trellises
to catch little mildews and a menagerie on the latticework,
I knit the metallic sheen of their wings and armors -
these little quasars of my sundered oceans
and the nebulous framework creates the quintessence
of every single thread I veer and embroider from drudgery
Like how a marionette is played by strings, I tethered myself
into these lissome rivulets running behind our old hills
but when these bridges are toppled from the constitutions
all these filament enshrouds my void, flimsy frame
like a folder of daggers puncturing the tiny vessels of the blood
that shall deluge me from the inside to suffocation
Without these manifold stairs of escalation, I remain
riveted into a seamless sea - a glacial rock standing amidst
the turbulent lashing of the waves, washed by setting suns,
all the muses assailed into a furtive sculling away from me
Without these laconic multitude, I am small, I am little,
a little notch in the fringeless world of shadows
zithering myriad of strings that sang for nobody
I capitulate before these inverted bastion where inside
I incarcerated myself, bereaved of the network
that extends my breath into your mornings and
sent forth my frothing eyes upon your breaking,
and like a dragonfly in a drying quagmire
my wings hurriedly beat on to reconnoiter
the drought of the air as you slowly dissipate from me
and I shall not halt, for I have none to lose,
until I am finally suspended in my own famished cord.
poem by Norman Santos
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Darrel
On his shoulder
are the weight of his struggles,
his prostrate grief,
and esoteric quintessence;
the impending doom
that defeat riveted
On his hands
are burns from cigarettes,
an empty bottle
and everything else
lifeless and afraid
On his eyes
are shut persiennes
veiling the shadows that
love has casted
and its silver web
of emptiness
On his brittle bones
shivers the abhorrence
for ephemeral amities
and its affinity
which is the love
for weak beacons leaning
on tired sunsets
He traversed skylines
like arrows assailed
to the stygian flames
and to get out of his track
is a distraction from
the eternal malaise
that he is trying to chase
and escape all the same
He counted little deaths
and little details -
like felled petals,
and lambent sighs;
like the sequins
and tears evocated
Darrel was not his name,
because his existence
is but a fallen grain
in the hour glass -
he was jeopardized
a beau not,
a confidant not,
a wise not,
a luxury not,
a poet not,
but he was an eternal child
who knows not
but the home built
with monoliths
from scoured grace
And to be given
a home with walls,
frail constitutions,
a hearth for warmth
where nobody
had a name
despite myriad of
regrets and failures
that a man wouldn't
even surmise
was a splendid bliss
for Darrel
and Darrel
was his name.
poem by Norman Santos
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The door way
I speak through my hands in space.
At a closed doorway, handles with diamond.
Where your eyes are the keys to enter,
where gardens, paradises of this life lie.
In the time that adorns my soul.
The new havens of happiness lie behind that door.
In your journeys, while watching the reflection in my eyes
and suffers while your eyes kiss me.
She got up and approached slowly.
In her eyes dipped, I choked, while she skimmed my lips.
As a goddess of dreams, fell from the sky,
overflowing my heart. Strange silence, walls of enclose towers, in the centre of my heart. Listen to this echo, a dream of falling in a ditch crying,
Crying tears of efforts to silence. Like a bridge, lowered in your moat. I want to go beyond my thoughts, run through the fissures of your lips. That my soul forever wanted to kiss.
poem by Luca Menin
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When the Pendulum Swings
You are the warmth of summer's hum
Scintillating the sleepy splendor
Vapid lances of the sifting sun
Palming the ashen stupor
But when the pendulum swings
A pall would mantle the sky
And hail mad daggers of tears
Obliterating what I can espy
From your morsel graze and leers
Until the climate whisk its cleaning
A hung filigree of drab smokes
Fecundates with a thrill
On two sundered souls in cloaks
Of solitude and eyes of steel
But when the pendulum swings
A blotch of lubricious red
Demented the tacit saturnalia
In convalescence—a tirade
Of false hopes in echolalia
Binds these lungs in ailing rings
The impassable infinity
Treads an incandescent trail
Nurturing our revelries
A chaste but treacherous veil
Because when the pendulum swings
We will regurgitate from the banquet
Purged by the ephemeral lies
And no hunger shall be whet
But the evisceration of this guise
A purveyance for subsisting
Hark the mendaciloquent secrets
That the zephyr whistled through
The threadbare fortitude of your facet
A recalcitrant membrane shan't undo
But when the pendulum swings
This bastion will devour you
Like a soul in a chrysalis
Altering your machinism's screw
And beleaguer you with your own tricks
When time expand its wings
Posses the klutz lattices of time
And slosh with mediocre hearts
Contend to remember this rhyme,
Rival to forget the dilettante art
But when the pendulum swings
The lurid mirror will shatter
And unlatch the demons who stole
The innocence that kept us safer
From persnickety time's siphoning hole
Digress in attrition, live with the sting.
When the pendulum swings
Its constant beckoning.
poem by Norman Santos
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The Star outside my window
It was late
I couldn't sleep
The moon lit night was seaping through my window seam
i quietly rolled over on my tummy
as i gazed out at the starry night
i felt so small and weak looking at the millions of stars
just then one star caught my eyes
It was the biggest most spectacular star in the sky
at first i thought it couldn't possibly be a star
i sat still for minutes staring at it
it didn't move
not once
so i closed my eyes in the dead of night
and carefully made my wish to the star outside my fogged up window
i layed back down my eyes blinking shut
a smile on my face
i fell asleep with the sweet though that it might actually come true
that star still shines outside my window every night
my wish never came true
poem by Deja Noelle Rupp
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Pictures Of You
I've been looking so long at these pictures of you that I almost believe that they are real
I have been living so long with my pictures of you that I almost believe that the pictures are all I can feel
Remembering you standing quiet in the rain as I ran to your heart to be near
And we kissed as the sky fell and holding you close
How I always held close in your fear
Remembering you were the song through the night
You were bigger and brighter and whiter than snow
Screaming at the make believe, screaming at the sky and you finally found all your courage to let it all go
Remembering you falling into my arms, crying for the death of your heart
It was stone white, so delicate, lost in the cold, you were always so lost in the dark
Remembering you, how you used to be, so proud you were angels, so much more than everything
Hope for the last time, it'd slip away quietly
open my eyes but I never see anything.
If I'd only I thought of the right words, I could have held on to your heart
If I'd only I thought of the right words, I wouldnt be breaking apart...
All my pictures of you
Looking so long at these pictures of you, I'd never hold onto your heart
Looking so long for the words to be true, but always just breaking apart.
My pictures of you
There is nothing in the world that I ever wanted more than to feel you deep in my heart
There was nothing in the world that I ever wanted more than to never feel breaking apart
All my pictures of you
song performed by by Lit
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Face in the Mirror
She calls out to the face in the mirror
And runs her fingers down the varnished frame
Then she lights a cigarette and inhales deeply,
Leaving the lighter lit and staring into the flame.
The sun shines in through the half opened curtains
It lights up the room but not her face
The mirror still darkened as the face stands staring
Darkness wraps around her, concealing the empty space.
She never chased the dreams
Or ran through the morning light
She was never heard above the screams
She just hid in the darkness of the night,
With the face in the mirror.
Now the sun's gone down, she looks through the window
At the faces and places and motion below
The face in the mirror watches her shadow
As she sits on the window ledge waiting to go.
She sees cars drive by with their bright lights
She hears voices carrying away into the night
The face in the mirror incites her to jump
And she leaps and falls downwards flight after flight.
She never chased her dreams
Now she's chasing the ground
She wasn't heard above the screams
Now she doesn't make a sound,
And the face in the mirror smashes.
poem by Mark Hopwood
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Reflection
Reflection
By: Adam M. Snow
The reflection in this cracked mirror shows only two;
my essence, my soul; it's also true.
My soul is tainted, my essence is numb;
my dreams grew dark, this is what I've become.
My reflection is cracked; I'm out of place;
my heart grows cold, I need your grace.
I'm falling apart; I've lost my way;
what else do you want me to say?
The rippling water's a mist how can that be?
Do I exist to be with thee?
I am cracked and so is my reflection;
these wounds, they show my affection.
Though I am but one in a reflection of two;
trying to find my place anew.
So let my reflection show who I am;
someone who was to be damned.
Let me be but one;
so that I may be done.
My reflections strain drops of blood;
just leave me here in the mud.
My eyes are stained, my touch is cold;
all I need is someone to hold.
My mouth is silent, my love breaks;
my body's bound, my soul aches.
I am but one in the mirror's looking glass;
looking upon my modern pass.
When will my reflection show;
the truth I do not dare to know?
My reflection is cracked; I'm out of place;
my heart grows cold, I need your grace.
I'm falling apart; I've lost my way;
I'm waiting here for the day.
My skin grew pale, did I died?
I'm here in this corner trying to hide.
My sight has gone; it's the break of dawn;
I'm going back to where it spawned.
The mirror's shattered, not my reflection;
from what I've done this is my infection.
I've been risen yet I fall;
I can't give up on all.
My reflection's viewing pains;
showing me bound by these chains.
I'm forced to face myself in this state;
the mirror shows, this is my fate.
My reflection is broken yet it's whole;
I'm out in the world searching for my life's role.
I'm reaching out through the dark;
searching for the owner of this black mark.
Nevermore does my reflection show;
I'm lost with no where to go.
The mirror's lust has felled;
this is where I dwelled.
My tears fall upon reflection;
this is my resurrection.
The cracked mirror now shows one;
could it be that it's now done?
My reflection's anew;
it's also true.
I'm not the same:
I ignite my flame.
The mirror's now whole with no crack in sight;
I'm no longer in the dark, but the light.
I only love; I do not hate;
I know now that this is my fate.
I faced myself in the mirror;
now that I can see, it's all so clearer.
My ways I've change from what I've became;
I'm the only one to blame.
My reflection is cracked no more;
my pain is gone just like before.
My future is nearer;
all ‘cause I looked in the mirror.
poem by Adam M. Snow
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Women
The night was gravid with many secrets
And as the fecundated moon probed
Through the lattices of the branches
The giddy wind shook her lovely boughs
And the sinful fruits fell into the ground
Rapidly blossoming to become the garden
Of a woman's clandestine volitions
And women, I spoke of you:
Like a fell star, a woman can make you wish
Or make you hope and believe in promises
Without constitutions, with empty bliss
A woman will glamor and capture you
With her eloquent and elusive wisps
Like a defenseless bird, she would beat her wings
To scull her own wind and you will plead
To be her zephyr and in her slavery
You shall be ferried to a new firmament
Lamented by her flightless incarceration
Like the enigma of flowers, she exhibits her petals
Like bloomed parasols and her wandering pollens
Will smear your face with the taste of nectar
And saccharine pleasures eluding the sight
Of her perfidiously brambly thorns
The willowy night gave birth to women
In her wintery boudoir and multitude of palettes
And nurtured her antipathy and succinct savor
By giving men a sense of responsibility
To warden a woman's querulous misery
And in the vesper's open palms
We perched like contingent butterflies
So women, I speak to you:
Like a fell star, unfurl your scintillated feet
That made you traverse the misconstrued circles
Where I espied your graceful oscillation
Masquerading your inebriated staggering
Falling like a cold tear in an empty sky
Like a flightless peacock, boast with your plumes
And sing your fluently woven songs
But in the night, smear the rouge in abolition
And let me cater to your attrition,
Weave your nest and be your protection
Like the flowers of vicissitude, inveigle the astray
With your redolent entity and corolla of petals
Like a tiara or a filigree, and wither not
When the rain tarnished for the sunny skies
Reveal your thorns so I can succumb to your enigma.
poem by Norman Santos
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The Edge
I thought to die that night in the solitude where they would never find me…
But there was time…
And I lay quietly on the drawn knees of the mountain,
staring into the abyss…
I do not know how long…
I could not count the hours, they ran so fast
Like little bare-foot urchins - shaking my hands away…
But I remember
Somewhere water trickled like a thin severed vein…
And a wind came out of the grass,
Touching me gently, tentatively, like a paw.
As the night grew
The gray cloud that had covered the sky like sackcloth
Fell in ashen folds about the hills,
Like hooded virgins, pulling their cloaks about them…
There must have been a spent moon,
For the Tall One's veil held a shimmer of silver…
That too I remember…
And the tenderly rocking mountain
Silence
And beating stars…
Dawn
Lay like a waxen hand upon the world,
And folded hills
Broke into a sudden wonder of peaks, stemming clear and cold,
Till the Tall One bloomed like a lily,
Flecked with sun,
Fine as a golden pollen -
It seemed a wind might blow it from the snow.
I smelled the raw sweet essences of things,
And heard spiders in the leaves
And ticking of little feet,
As tiny creatures came out of their doors
To see God pouring light into his star…
… It seemed life held
No future and no past but this…
And I too got up stiffly from the earth,
And held my heart up like a cup…
poem by Lola Ridge
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Drab Splendor Of A Gargoyle
The dark came generously
with storm-troubled wings
The stars are all quelled
and the wind hangs purposelessly
There is a streak of verdigris
on the cicatrizing vault
A corolla of change dangles,
a shifting moon unfolds
and my imposition remained
a lackluster glacial metal
The weather was still as gold
and voracious as greedy kings
the crooked hands of the day
basked in luxurious rendezvous
Whilst I dreamed in hues of gray
weaving poems to the blasé moon
stitching the tatterdemalion tapestry
that mantled the ailing wounds
I found myself waiting
in front of a riddling mirror
with words unspoken off
If you knock, it will echo
If you burst, it will find tempo
My penetralium convalesced
nauseated from a peremptory vertigo
and my wallflower's petals
are paper-thin no more
thorns spangled its sleep
because it will never uncurl
under the searchlight's whim
I picked the felled letters
harried by the erratic gyration
of the ponderous atmosphere
I watched it turn to ash
as lips burned from their harangue
but the lions remain asleep
with the phantoms of their dens
and everything passed by
with deaf-mute miscalculations
To slur in the banquet
of manifold palettes
is a one-way ticket
for a subtle gargoyle
watching cold fountains
rise and fall, dance and topple
and on the gray clouds
lambently walk without
leaving scars and without
knotting prostate ties
Tonight, I rivet back
into the walls of my cathedral -
A pivoting turret that hisses
for the giant's intimidations.
poem by Norman Santos
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Wings of Dreams Beat Hard...
Wings of dreams beat hard
Casting shadows
Rising and falling...
Of huge frames...
Flips d day...
His new face arises...
From bright and vivid...
To dark and dull...
Shadows lost...
For cloak of light...
Removed from the mirror of life...
And where once false
Now the being is lost
For this hour delayed yet shall fall...
Man let the bird land...
As days swiftly swing in the wings of dreams...
For night is delayed yet shall fall...
Morrow's dusk shall extend its fetters till eternity...
poem by Lama Abbas
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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She Closed Her Eyes
She closed her eyes
And let the walls of her prison fall away
The walls that ached with a timeless wait
They had become her walls of this modern tv life
She closed her eyes
And let them fall away
And in her dreams she is standing by an ocean
She is gazing out to sea
She can remember with just a fleeting glimpse
That she was once free
So long ago now, so long it was as if it had never been
Was it a holiday
She thinks it could have been, ah yes, italy
And he closes his eyes
And he is gone far away
Gone from all the confusion
Gone from all the pain
He can easily see what a pointless waste
His modern life has become
Chasing the gravy grain
Chasing the dollar
Chasing the clock
Chasing his male friends
Chasing the boss
Chasing as it was everything
It was nothing
Only the sound of his own breathing was all he had
At the end of the day
And reasons to wonder, reasons to cry
Too late for this selfish sinner who never asked why
song performed by by Chris Rea
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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