Behind Your Calculations
Your svelte hands
zithers the abacus
that calculates
your reluctant fandango
like how it played
the harp
in the nights
where the pebbles
are sharp jewels
And the dexterity
of your tumbling specks
of gaiety
is a regal piece
of oblivion
Your summer sky
hailed a silver gilt
in somersaulting rifts
of the sun's corolla
And underneath
this impeccable
façade of cordiality
is a clandestine
volition,
like shards
of porcelains
roused from a wound -
A nurtured
compulsion
or, perhaps
repulsion
Is this why
you pawned the plumage
and its eloquent stride
for the symmetry
of reality?
Your forfeited simplicity
is a prolix riddle
under the myriad
colors of a mirage
and those
with poor visions
will never encompass
through your promises
and its drifting
haze
The pollens on your face
always blossomed
but your roots
are gnarled
Too tired
from its stoic poise
yearning to bend
backwards
past the irony
of the stagnant trees
swaying away
from the milieu
and maybe find
the effervescent eyes
watching you glide
into the waters
towards the dusk
Your postcard smile
cuts like a paper cut
and mends
like a lithe soldering
saddling the evocative
back into
the flailing reel
And I implore
for your subterfuge
stashed in the veins
with all
the browning pages
of your tales
and poetry
so we can slur
the sharp
constraints to lull.
poem by Norman Santos
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Related quotes
A Crowded Trolley-Car
The rain's cold grains are silver-gray
Sharp as golden sands,
A bell is clanging, people sway
Hanging by their hands.
Supple hands, or gnarled and stiff,
Snatch and catch and grope;
That face is yellow-pale, as if
The fellow swung from rope.
Dull like pebbles, sharp like knives,
Glances strike and glare,
Fingers tangle, Bluebeard's wives
Dangle by the hair.
Orchard of the strangest fruits
Hanging from the skies;
Brothers, yet insensate brutes
Who fear each other's eyes.
One man stands as free men stand,
As if his soul might be
Brave, unbroken; see his hand
Nailed to an oaken tree.
poem by Elinor Morton Wylie
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In My Reflection, You Are Not A Stranger
I saw your face
caught in my reflection
bending backwards and
contorting past the
gaping hands of the sun
because another month
was caught suspended
in the silver latticing
of our eternal ties
I saw your hands
pull the bell rope
and rang the alarm
that disturbs the shadows
of the unforgiving unloved
that dislimns the pageantry
of our terse lacings
still gnarled on the blue veins
of my fingers and wrists
snapping without a sound
I saw your cordial smile
in mine, because to hope
is to defy defeat
I washed away the grime
and pierced the veil
of the acquiescent night
mantling my sunken eyes
so I can bemuse myself
with your porcelains
and clatters of your chortles
slithering past my simpers
and grinning crooked teeth
I saw you in my statuesque
and monastic imposition
the bones shivering
cold, bitter and alone
in this September chill
because I want to see you
desperately, because
to be desperate is to love
the consequences of love
And like a feather plummeting
into the moon's parsimonious gravity
blissfully struck by the milky
phosphor of Luna's kiss
I flummoxed down into
the asylum of misery -
a black hole sucking everything
in the chamber of memories
And in this illusion:
you, me; trapped
in a single reflection
I succumb, like how a hand
slips inside a glove and
battle out the shivering
This pictures of hope,
this travesty of coaxing faith
leans on me like a sun
seething on my nape
inveigling the obsidian to repent
and soldering your names
across the lines of my palms
Because in my reflections
we are not strangers
and flustered timetables
flew above serendipity
of what used to be us
on my sanguine reveries.
poem by Norman Santos
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To Plant A Seed
Like the enigmas woven upon
the regal tapestry of dreams
we instill niceties into
the desperate and famished earth
razing our own barricades
and knotting golden tethers
upon the forests that we make
And nights will perch upon
the lovely slender boughs
And days will park on its eaves
filleting the lofty fences
veins crawling, sprawling
unto the cradle of distant stars
and their scintillating talks
while the grandiose inculcate
a flummoxed aeon down
into the heart of a dead star
But we forget them
when we lose our own maps
and constellations
from the fire of our conceit -
we lose the monarchy of trees
which kept our secrets
upon their clandestine zithers
and the quintessence
is lost amongst the memories
Amidst lights, my penetralium
is a dislimned diamond -
obstinate and lustrous
against your scouring
trembling with coruscations
though every word cadenced
for the breath pawned
for your sleep's quiescence
is another seed planted inside
the fissures of my defense -
A bliss draped in the most
atrocious sensation
We are surmised
when we planted a seed -
puppets strangled with
our silky strings of
strangling vines,
and we are blinded
by fear and pride
A tree rooted, gnarled
upon a lifeless boulder:
A seed planted
and now rupturing
to be castrated
and thrown into the
hearth of malignance.
poem by Norman Santos
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Trampled Butterfly
You danced around the corolla
trampling universes vertiginously
like a butterfly perched on a flower,
a cold dew undulating in its sleep
Colours spilled from your back
sprawled from the weariness
soused in your saccharine sweat
the treacle of your quiescence
pervasively enticing, pirouetting
upon the dread of my stoic yearning
You sleep with heavy breaths
your body rising and falling
the cadence of your sighs
masquerading your half-open eyes
Your lovely bones shifting lambently
underneath the crimson flesh
beckoning a subtle invitation
to eviscerate in purged lust
I watched you, gazed at your infinity
your peace and risqué symmetry,
your gentle iridescence undiscovered
from your inundating inertness
I waited for you to shatter
the shrouding of your chrysalis
and as you lift your eyelids
your yawn will fill the crevasses
of my derided reality and
vividly deluded saturnalias
poem by Norman Santos
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For Sybella
In the blind corner of a slope
Mellifluously painted by her lips
And the crow claws clinging
Into the vividness of her orbits
Was a clandestine damsel
With lithe hands that dangles
Lifelessly for a valiant knight
To fill in the vacant spaces
Of the latticing jocund events
And the silence spoke of so many things
Like the yawning of her ocean's tides
Calling in an esoteric plea
For somebody to arrive naked
From a face, a name,
A myriad of promises,
But a soul made of amber and warmth
Holding a key to the ethereal
Impasse of consistent forever.
In the corners of her rooms,
Weaving a blanket with yarns
To fondle and embrace
The crying maudlin in the nights
Of vying for the rise of the sun
Ornately entangling the strings
And it pulled back to ail
Tightly in her skin of snow
Melting in the ubiquitous summer
But never losing its mistral curse,
Extemporizing gaiety and anguish
To people with cellars for ears
And thieves for hearts
Touching the emptiness
From the belly to the heart
And gorging it with abandonment,
Fueling resentment.
Sybella, the lady of secrets
Have you heard the sun singing
For the warm flight of canaries?
Is it futile?
Do not fall in blind rile.
poem by Norman Santos
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Getting Even With A Traitor
when you give up everything
to someone whom you love like undressing yourself
so she may see your soul and touch it
and even own it
when you feel that in that moment she has cold hands
and eyes distracted by something else like she is thinking of
another day to come
another face to see
.................you feel betrayed,
she is not sure about you and her in that instant
you have the right to stab her with your sharp looks
tear him apart with your knife sharp teeth
like you are the lion king of the forest
eat her piece by piece like you are very hungry
for a love that is completely true
swallow her bit by bit
and make her now a part of you
you will not regret the eating
she took your love away, now you want it back undiminished.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Enigma of Her Discerning Whiffs
Your trifle attention astride the immensity
of your attraction ballasts a sharp saber that luster
to shear the cords of the most painful affliction
asleep in the penultimate scabbard of the heart
or, to a wound, plant a seed of the most atrocious
beauty - a pleasurable devastation, like a wind
astray in the subtle life of a breathless swansong
Your bountiful remedies - terse and florid riddles
like the scintillating interpolations of autumn leaves
inviting a lone wolf to a company of thieves,
whetting the spark behind stygian clouds
And there is no asking how you do it
as natural as the flock of clouds chasing
time to the mouth of truancy, deluding
the silver eyes with a quasar's oscillating tiara -
In a mystified simplicity, you spit the flames
draped in prismatic veils that the irons
desired to bathe in and allow furtive hands
to mold a gauntlet to fill in the crevasses
with platinum-security for these empty hands
A gamine who holds no banister and fears no thorns
Amidst the bestiary, the bison's horn grew icicle antlers,
the herons solder their fluvial wings, gazelles lost
their dove-feet's pathways, for in your strident poise
even the sunsets leaned with their tired odysseys,
the moon blinkers from waxing from its naive conundrums
In your fastidious stares I am caught upon
an ornate net amused for the perfect mousetrap
and in you querulous gregariousness I hunger
to transpire a knot from the many threads
you unravel with your dexterous hands
Shotgun after shotgun clout, I remain unscathed
standing erect in your garrison, waiting to be exhumed
from the myriad soporific incertitude buried underneath
the pounding susurrations in your bosom - like a sleeping
flame at the floors of a stagnant river, faintly quelled
by all these abandoned nights of tarnished soliloquy
and recurring deaths of the sincerest vulnerability -
a silhouetteless banshee weeping for the curt tones
of her quaint bawls ricocheting through
the almond scent of her treeless forest.
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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Omaha Beach
The ship lay offshore
gently rocking
port to starboard
shards of mica
in the black sand glitter
in the gloom
gnarled and twisted trees
cling to a rockstrewn hillside
sharp odor of cordite
a barking dog
a single raven overhead
poem by Michael Pruchnicki
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Mister Ebberman
In the bloodcurdling stretch of blind alleys
Akin to thawing sewers reeking with malice
A moniker, a sobriquet, his ambiguity hocked
Mister Ebberman, he sat like a frozen rock
A forlorn rummy with a violent brandy on his left
And on his right, a rod apt for a conceptual theft
Mister Ebberman, sober and pale as the liquor
Held his heart on the seams with flagrant squalor
Mister Ebberman mused past the stagnant river
Darker than the black bile of his abused liver
As he cajole to steadfast his ambidextrous hands
Trembling like the rocks of the floor, cold and bland
From under the river where winter rest its arms
And the albino sun forgot to provide with warmth
Mister Ebberman prayed in his vehement silence
He cowered and sighed for his river's decadence
Pensively, he waited amidst the toppling milieu
To reel in a fish and hope back in the view
Though his wan lethargic bait had failed to lure
And left sobriety as something too obscure
Yet he held on his rod like and almighty king
With a scepter augmented to a lissome string
Taking pleasure in his pseudo-revelry, clandestinely
Mister Ebberman's eyes grew a little bit too tawny
Canoes with mutual oars will always past and glide
Mister Ebberman's stance in a coveting rueful stride
And with a gas lamp illuminating scarcely with the misery
That would blind his eyes form the drifting mirthful party
That tinkers inside interlaced fingers of lovers in fancy
And he would waft brooding to avert the guffawing idiocy
With atrocious mobility, he would vie for a languid night
Where he can never fold his eyes so he can write
With his rod as his plumage and the river as his page
And haul out one worthy dime before he desiccate with age
And the colossal rats gnash on his downtrodden moccasins
Mister Ebberman, can you really picture a handsome scene?
Frantic mister, how long have you been wishing?
And how often do you pull out from your fishing?
Desperate fisher, it will never reimburse your endeavor
To seek in a river long subdued in a deathful pallor.
Mister Ebberman, your hands are charred and calloused
From cleaving faithfully into a scythe fashion too spruced
With your downtrodden fedora screening your iron eyes
You would never reel in all the time that ticks and flies
In your gossamer refuge, could you forever hide?
In a guise of an ebberman pensively stumbling for the tides
To dispense your succulent faith of bogus fate and find
That there's an ocean of amiable strings you have left behind.
poem by Norman Santos
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Unforgiving Riddance
On the nights of stellar sharpness
Like the pixels of a lacquer photograph
I reckoned how you came to reality
Crossing the plethora of footsteps
And the myriad of engulfing seas
Your cold embrace of good riddance
Embraced by a lion's crown
Folded unto my chest and back
Like a broken ribcage splintered
From the steadfast monolith that you were
Your words surmounted the staves
Of the ladder you let down,
My guilt dangled like the last words
Catapulted at each other's citadel,
The redolence of yesterday flits
With all the far-fetched promises
I ask for all your poison again
So the faith you once injected
Will erode with everything
In its metronomic slumber
But we know that it's untrue
Like all the messages mislead,
Like all the times misconstrued,
Like all the trespasses abjured,
Like all the tethers unknotted,
Like all his unsolicited defenses -
On my end of the dagger
Hilt across your protection
I only hope for your strength,
I only hope for your convoluted visions
Scampering from the haunting shadows
That descended in a reluctant sunset
And the recuperation that was ahead
But we both know that it's untrue
For I only hope for yesterday
Bending backwards from the future
Even of the myriad of my today
The sun will soon set for you
With all the honesty that I wanted
And this riddance will be forgiven
In the cobwebbed chamber
I hold close to where you were.
poem by Norman Santos
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The Moonless Timelessness Of Yalda
The rustles of the rainy dawn frightens the bowing trees
And the stammering lances shear the curtains of somnolence
The sun was ousted from the smeared clouds along with all
The morning songs of the canaries and the gaunt earth regressed
Underneath the mellifluous whispers of the smoky blanket
The devious swaying of the pendulum staggered for symmetry
With its wavering subdued and unnoticed, it found its poise
In a vertical divide it lay asleep, and time was suddenly mine
A riddle hoisted in a queen's repose at the notch of my head
Pulling strings and knotting gnarled quiescence, of suddenly
The time I owned owned me in her nonexistence, and the equinox
Remained elusive to the treacherous moonless and pouring sky
Its enthralling spell beckoned a metallic silence and the absence
Of the thousand points that drifts to collect the quintessence
Of this perforated globe, and with all these reasons and unreasoning
Sank into the pits of evanescence; I came to face a different face of the day -
An endless night devoid of time, wearing a filigree of arctic sighs - a yalda
These masquerading days and empty nights fled through the sly gutters
Of girdling eclipses; a timeline of dark lattices and abysmal musing
I stared into the contumely moue of the gray sky as it obliviously poured
Its frosty mourn in a blighted land of intertwining dusks and dawns
And from this tête-à-tête to the abeyance of light I learned a subtle pain,
A forlorn despondence that will not be mended by a valiant or broken heart
Because this groveling pride of moonlessnes is a fix - a sense of sensibility
Because I have learned the pedagogy of a bony moon's waning,
A starlights oscillating sparks and a two-faced sky's haughty shifting;
But I have never learned to molt with time and this agelessness
Had crippled my veins in a squalid wisdom for beauty and I'm growing tired:
Too tired to wish for the moon to rise from the frothing waves,
Too tired to repair the spigot of heavens that never err to sojourn;
Too tired to rival the inner darkness of this timelessness.
In this godly palm of darkness I lay alone but festooned
By the myriad gregarious transitions of interpolating voices -
Voices hauled from the vile blackness of the oceanic past
Telling me that you are still warm and alive in a transatlantic path
That crosses this land every once in a while in a guise
That shall beckon how you came and left - an arid cold pang
That crawled the dermis of life like an invitation to death;
Saddled in every whim of the reedy air, falling with every weeping drizzle,
A company to the misery lurking in the ubiquitous blindness
That this season of howling wolves and hooting owls,
Of brawling terrors basking in the foliage of cobwebs
Spewed in the intoxicating smoke of this yalda.
poem by Norman Santos
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Collective Shards
The flints and splinters
inside your fragrant meat
are jigsaw pieces
that fits together
with my fragmented silhouette
I bought a needle
but not to gauge,
I stole a thread
from a regal drape
to suture the crevasses
My hands for abandon
knitted the laces
they snap, they break
but they never err
to weave back together
and this link I made
hoisted me back to carousals
and in the carousel
it held my grip, girdled my feet
unfolded by the creases
and in times of darkness
they were lanterns
on my abiding feet
guiding me home
from earthly inebriations
The hummingbird-contingency
sculled its paper wings
and roused the yellow bell
from its fetal sleep
and there were pollens in the air
In the silence of topaz trees
the leafless smoke can speak,
in the fastidious galaxy
you are a heraldry,
aggregating the pieces together
poem by Norman Santos
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On Forgiving
A decade of moonless nights flutters
As this soul continues to squander
And these manacles tightens painfully
Gripping my veins with a suppressing weight
A hoarse frost of unforgiving billowed
A wolf howled in the distant milieu
Saddled back to the sharp blade
This is the taste of struggling with fate
And as these shackles rattle
With every undulation
Riveting me in this brambly floor
I suffer from passing unconscious states
Because every time I fall to the deep
Fathoms of tumultuous slumber
I ply to forgive your giant shadows
As they picked me drowning from the mud
But these shackles pull me down
To my lifeless sinking ground
And every time I stir to wake
From a myriad of night terrors
I impede myself with a colossal weight
Because I cannot get up to live
Another life lesser and incomplete
And always I wonder how
Iniquitous I have become
As I seek for the assuage
Of the shadows' qualms
I wanted to shatter these beast,
I wanted to cross the frozen lake,
To reach your indifferent face
But the humming bird chance
Is devoured by the tempest
Because I want these shackles
To hold me down;
This is my exacerbating fix
And I grovel on my knees
Upon these endless nights
That the panthers may find me
Haplessly tethered and
Delectably suffering.
poem by Norman Santos
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One Too Many Blinkers
Somnolence, brewed with apathy,
In its feral and purged form
Perched upon the svelte frame
That thrusts the low canopies
In an endeavor to stand loftier
And muse past the knotted haunts,
Struggling to steadfast the crosshair into
The piercing eye of the adversary
In a conscious slumber in
The verisimilitude of the mirror
Leaves flipped with the gloaming,
Disintegrating the marionette's face—
The façade that stood
Like sooty pillars catching shadows
Departing without a wave
And innocuously lingering
Like the forest's milieu—
An auspicious camouflage of colors
Burying one too many blinkers
Tired, desperate, and thirsty
From watching the season constantly
Shed its skin,
The sky lighting and quelling
Its colossal chandelier,
Faces juggling bows and hills
On their mendaciloquent lips,
Forgetting the memory kept
And vying to participate
Averting the clouts to precipitate
And rivet the frail frame into the ground
So committed that the mirror's sheen
Would shatter and consume
Its own aberrational delusions
And fore another blinker
Catch the dragonfly's erratic pace
Winnowing the ribbons of this tryst
And hold these people close
In a ring that binds
Infinity.
poem by Norman Santos
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I Need A Sure Thing
You are a razor blade
You are precision-cut
You are a stare sharp as the tack in my eye?
At rest in my veins
[Your pulse in my neck?]
As sharp-edged as questions the time I have left
And so you are on my mind.
I need a burning stake
I need a piercing dart
I need something as hot as it is sharp
And I need to bleed
I need to burn
I need a sure thing
I need a sure thing
And you are a mystery to me
You are a paper bird
Folded and folded and creased
And bent and shaped from a five dollar bill
It's priceless to me
And never spent
It hangs from a ceiling fan over my bed
And so you are on my mind
song performed by by Dashboard Confessional
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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When We Meet Again Sometime This Summer
i tell you, i do not like winters, and i do not wish
to go where winter lies. I am intolerant of anything
that freezes me, that thaws, that gives me frost,
that bites like an ant, that solidifies me like
refrigerator ice.
i like summers. Flowers blooming. Green grass
spreading. Butterflies in different colors in the garden.
Bees just enough for the buzz. I love trees. I love
rivers, and springs and creeks.
Bamboo trees beside the rocks beside the pebbles
beside the river. I like the songs of the rivers. Lots of rivers.
Gentle rains. Hush winds. Cool shades. Shadows of mountains.
When we meet again, i like it to be this summer.
Lots of sun. Warmth., Sweat. Perspirations. Palpitations
of the hearts of the young on summer time.
Under the cool shades of the trees on summer nights.
I always remember summer nights.Strong summer winds.
Flown hair. Drying pants and underwears. My legs exposed
Beside the brook. I like being naked. I like being on top of
everything.
With you, on you, by you, within you, in your mouth all over your face.
Oh summer breeze. See you. Feel you. Love you.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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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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Silent Witness
The neon haze of city lights
The tribal sound of marching feet
Cuts through the gloom on cold dark nights
The tired and homeless roam the streets
The sirens wail the engines roar
A shadowed man just glances around
A victim of life's mindless toil
Lies cold and helpless on the ground
The window dummies silent stare
Bear witness on the nights
If they could move
What it would proved
To see them all take flight
The neon haze of city lights
The tribal sound of marching feet
Cuts through the gloom on cold dark nights
The tired and homeless roam the streets
The walls shout loud with angry words
The people air their views
The poor can scream but no-one hears
The concrete jungle sings the blues
song performed by by Ub40
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Big City Nights
Music :rudolf schenker
Lyrics:klaus meine
When the daylight is falling down into the night
And the sharks try to cut a big piece out of life
It feels alright to go out to catch an outrageous thrill
But its more like spinning wheels of fortune
Which never stand still
Big city, big city nights
You keep me burning
Big city, big city nights
When the sunlight is rising up in my eyes
And the long night has left me back at somebodys side
It feels alright for a long sweet minute like hours before
But its more like looking out for something
I cant find anymore
Big city, big city nights
You keep me burning
Big city, big city nights
Always yearning
There is no dream
That you cant make true, if youre looking for love
But theres no girl
Whos burning the ice away from my heart
Maybe tonight!
Big city, big city nights
You keep me burning
Big city, big city nights
Always yearning
Big city, big city nights
You keep me burning
Big city, big city nights
Always yearning
song performed by by Scorpions
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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