Crystal Castle
In a moribund day reigned by an empathetic sun
Serendipity lingered amongst ghosts withholding scant
Fluid hands pale as the toppling films of the sun's corona
Flimsy hands shackled in a culvert; a deceitful supernova
Fate sew its golden threads in an erratic lambaste fashion
Treason shrieks in an arachnid's ensnare, an alluring bastion
All the same, like double-edged sabers, a compromised sedation
A subtle rapine of the gray valley and the caterwauling connotations
Such peremptory heart evoking extinct and perfidious sensations
Gnawing on velvet bones, gnashing a forlorn redemption
Sheathed a myth riveted at the breast with stern fluency
An allegory scorching like a thick beard of scathing ivy
Reeking profoundly with virulent sedition
A soul's infinite death at the estoque of perdition
A barricade of refuge loomed corrupting the innocence
The myth forebode oblivion; vicissitude's riddance
Glacial crystals, emerging in gracious acquiescence
Pristine imposing castle, fragile majesty in luminescence
Diaphanous blood, a citadel fabricated to unveil
How much your eyes crumble with unspoken pains.
poem by Norman Santos
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Related quotes
Your Closest Friends Are Dead
Look, fate is a finicky clamor.
Fate is a remote island,
Where nobody can reach
For the road to fate,
Is as jagged as the treachery
Of a thief as thick as blood.
-
Look, serendipity is dead.
It does not muse over your oceans,
It does not fly within your air spaces,
It does not burst in the eve of new year,
Serendipity calcified, serendipity is perverse,
It does not light up aglow in each verse,
Serendipity is your God, my God,
His God, Her God, that does not show itself.
(Sorry for the blasphemy.)
-
Look, the silence exists
Between the persnickety fate
And dead serendipity,
Silence, my only friend,
The cold hands of danger,
The pretense of forever,
As if bound by one fate alone,
That we never find one, only ourselves,
But then, the strongest men
Are the most alone,
Starved from the skin, hollowed bones
Silence, a scream as thin as ice,
Deafening, none would suffice.
poem by Windsor Guadalupe Jr
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An Arachnid
Every night, in the ubiquity of baleful shadows
I would muse on the latencies of the latticing windows
Where the svelte prisms from silver lines fashion a show
Scintillated by the frangible cradle of sorrows
Sewn by an artisan's sinewy legs of barrow
Catching with open fists is a dangling silver castle
Of my friend's glacial threads ornately tousled
Architected to assemble a suffice cradle
For the surfeit weight of the pensive hurtles
Of the prostate toil to fabricate a citadel
The superfluity and alacrity of his lissome hands
Consoles the vales of the bigoted reprimands
That I maze upon the eloquently soigné garlands
As he surly struck every searing strand
Sepulchral quiescence grazes to stand
Behind the blinds, as the preposterous night conspires
I'll lie alongside, ailed by the night's slicing wanton smiles
To watch my arachnid friend constantly vie
Spinning and spinning the sangfroid web to die
And molt to live again, rived in six of his eyes
I envy a lot the grand rendezvous of my spider friend
At night without fail, he asserts existence with the lynch cords he fend
By daylight, sequestered from fate, he conceals from the sun's descend
While I'm riveted on my bedroom window, perhaps, his other end,
Scavenging in the affable silhouettes his webs commend
poem by Norman Santos
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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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Glass Boy, Spare Some
Pliant flame, spare one simper for a boy
Who wore a vessel of naked sincerity too lucid
That reduced his opulence into thin films
Of frailty, steadfast with detrimental affection
Of vulnerability, committed to debonair convictions
He submits into a disposition of undeserving woes and pains
In a terrain with no tender arms, a valley of jagged hopes
That glistened like the epitomizing skin of shattered glass
Phosphorescent crust encumbering a fragile soul
Spared of scarce sympathy, corrupted of his golden crown
Abrade of flaws and lamentations, tethered in a town
Of make believe people and cheap bliss that tinker
Inside a hollow glass receptacle too agonizing to touch
The papyrus-thin veneer of diaphanous crust
In a vow to transparency to the skeletons and demons
That cordially lingered in the wardrobe of terror
Giving away all that there is; hope and its disease
Porcelain grandiosity drained in a lack-lusting ride
Of rueful nights, sullying to impotency a glass-like pride
Held by the hand, but who would hold such fragile hands?
Shattered mirrors and razor edges, fulminate thy prancing light
And devour the darkness of the mantling abandonment
Spare a piece of heaven, glass boy of flimsy grip
Spare an ounce of faith, glass boy of authentic grief
For I have enough spared for a goblet full of emptiness
Iron eyes for a glass frame, a boy too earnest.
poem by Norman Santos
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Bludgeon Me In Your Back And Forth Waves
In this room
where the light pours
incandescent energy,
your pealed shadows
are white carousers
dancing in whim
with flimsy vigor
I swam through space
fumbling for banisters,
for loose threads and
for our slivered affinity
its perfect imperfectness
marred by the denial of our
faults and its consequences
Your nimbus smile
hoisted in oblivion,
your frail stalwartness
unheeding to mendaciloquence,
and your vaporous hands
reaching out from
the caves of perdition
cicatrizing the devouring
mouth of our peccadilloes
The metronome stood still,
its sinewy resilience
was the estoque reaping
the canopies of my
shallow dream clouds
and light poured on,
its iridescence unwavering
like a hapless rain
If you'll look back
and turn away,
your viselike debauchery
will make a double take
to bludgeon me into
your back and forth waves
and its saline skin sinking
into my open cicatrix
Because the abundant wisps
of your phantoms
would not err to be
yielded back into life
so I swam into you,
sculling until I drown.
poem by Norman Santos
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Mote
Precipitating into the dust
Wind tussling in a thrust
Riveted amidst a city
With no eyes for sympathy
Tossed in an endless brunt
All too tired for this bunt
Serendipity is uninvited
To the heart of the blighted
Caught in the streak of tangerine
An afternoon for the pristine
Where do I resign?
In the absence of all benign?
When cinders depart the fire
When dust seizes to fly
What utopia do they find?
The good riddance for the blind?
poem by Norman Santos
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Their Own Myth
They swagger through the wastelands
of their own myth
believing the fantasy
they have built around themselves
of how great they are.
The shallow walls they built around themselves
with one stone could crumble away.
You see them in their peacock glory
prancing around everywhere.
Their heads stretched above the clouds
believing their own myth.
Their feet of clay can only erode
in the full flush of tidal waters.
Their peacock strut will become a limp
when their myth is broken
and things begin to challenge them.
For once, the tidal gate
is breached by leading questions
the clay feet and peacock strut
will be washed away,
and a new myth will absorb,
of bowing head and desperate look in eyes,
as their shallow walls crumble under tidal waters
and their own myth of self-greatness
loses momentum to sustain.
poem by David Harris
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how do you know that God is a myth?
a myth
like the sphinx
and the phoenix
as the story goes
on and on
somehow
there was this death
at the end
and then immortality
in the same way
that my God
died and lived
forever
killing a myth
can be another myth
like asking how do you kill a myth
that does not exist?
when you finally give the correct answer
about our humanity
the sphinx gets killed.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Montsgur
I stand alone in this desolate space
In death they are truly alive
Massacred innocence, evil took place
The angels were burning inside
Centuries later I wonder why
What secret that they took to their grave
Still burning heretics under our skies
Religion's still burning inside
At the gates and the walls of Montsgur
Blood on the stones of the citadel
At the gates and the walls of Montsgur
Blood on the stones of the citadel
At the gates and the walls of Montsgur
Blood on the stones of the citadel
At the gates and the walls of Montsgur
Blood on the stones of the citadel
As we kill them all so god will know his own
The innocents died for the pope on his throne
Catholic greed and its paranoid zeal
Curse of the grail and the blood of the cross
Templar believers with blood on their hands
Joined in the choruse to kill on demand
Burned at the stake for their soul's liberty
To stand with the cathars to die and be free
The book of old testament crippled and black
Satan his weapon is lust
Living this evil damnation of flesh
Back to the torture of life
At the gates and the walls of Montsgur
Blood on the stones of the citadel
At the gates and the walls of Montsgur
Blood on the stones of the citadel
At the gates and the walls of Montsgur
Blood on the stones of the citadel
At the gates and the walls of Montsgur
Blood on the stones of the citadel
As we kill them all so god know his own
Laugh at the darkness and in god we trust
The eye of the triangle smiling with sin
No passover feast for the cursed within
Facing the sun as they went to their grave
Burn like a dog or you live like a slave
Death is the price for your soul's liberty
To stand with the cathars and to die and be free
At the gates and the walls of Montsgur
Blood on the stones of the citadel
At the gates and the walls of Montsgur
Blood on the stones of the citadel
song performed by by Iron Maiden
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Lambaste Unto Your Shattered Reflection
Softly, the mist came with its trifle attention
lackadaisically promenading in the silver stillness
but nothing in this quiescence is intimate enough
to quell the raving flames of your furnace
shorn openly to desecrate the lacings of faith
I picked up the debris of your blaring tirade,
I cupped the ashes of your sterile lambaste,
I reckoned the vicarious pirouettes with death -
our hands are both tarnished but my soul stifles
under the condemns of your querulous parasol
The godly hands eloquently wove webs with you
until your fulminating repose was a perfect ensnare -
a wreck gnawing on your seams, sifting your dreams
shifting the crooked hands of your maladroit petals
Not now, but little by little, you'll know what I mean
When you catch a glimpse of horror by accident
and your mirrors unveil its light to the effluence
of masquerading faces and words you never knew
The mirrors are muted before your new form
and the light is siphoned by your lamentations
Whilst the phantoms deferred their dissipation
I sing these lamented auguries out of sympathy
and no one is listening but the early dews:
Your destruction cradles a raging tyranny
If I can only convince you to trust me on this
Unmake me a memory, pensive flower
Wither not as you strangle the crumbles of me
with your brambly veins and esoteric maladies
For I have grown abiding to your lingering graze -
A fastidious palette in my lackluster wallflower
poem by Norman Santos
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Burnt Hands
Back off! my dearest
for the sparkling jewel that you see
are glittering coal
that could burn your delicate hands
I beg off you, my love
stay away
for your innocence is misleading you
WHY? ? ?
asked innocence
and the questioned remained unanswered
she inquired again; no reply
equipped with faith, she stepped forward
to rescue the misplaced gem; among the burning coal
she advanced with glaring eyes-and hope
patted her shoulder-go on dear
Screamed innocence, as she touched
the gem was equally hot
as hot as any coal
Screamed innocence- I burnt my hands
I burnt my hands, dear faith
it really hurts, she turned to hope
at this ruthless sight
faith was speechless
and hope stood back, ashamed
is this my fate? she questioned
as she glanced at her blistered hands
is this my fate? ? ? ? ? -innocence wept like a child
silence there was
and then a whisper
it will soon heal, my dear
she looked up; with tear shedding eyes
she rushed to embrace hope
faith smiled to himself
O! dear dear innocent innocence
how I wish you to know
you burnt your hands but rescued gem
your fate?
is that you should not know……
for there are infinite gem
to be rescued; by you
yet, you will never know
you will never know
my dear burnt handed innocence
you will never know.
Sala
A quaint sepia photograph reckons
Of my deceased old grandparents
In their cordial nuptial palpably soaked
And cloaked in God's veil and covenant
It perishes amongst the ghastly cobwebs
And the dusts in the wailing lifelessness
Of the immodest and muted living room
And in my somnolent and castrated vision
It had painted another mawkish picture,
A concrete memoire of the absence
Of love, of death, and of love in death
So I refocused on the sala instead
With the scraped pastel wallpapers
Toppling on the cold floor parquet
A catastrophic finagling that reveals
The abused skin of my genuine home:
The arms of acquiesced oblivion
Sprawling on the threadbare divan
And watching the midnight sitcoms
With my levity, and purging the ecstasy
Of my the escape in late night episodes;
Cradling my aversion and diversion
To dance with the perfidious moonlight;
Or read the hideous diffidence in my poetries
To the overwhelming nonchalance of the sparrows
Oblivion is here, in this juncture of the sala,
Furnished with such ludicrous fantasies
Almost accenting my brusque reality
That I sew upon my lifelong starvation
For love, for death, for love in death
For romance, for heaven, for that which will never
And the conservative chandelier was dimmed
From the stark brightness of the glacial fire
Burning in the patios of my forlorn mire
Fluttering with the barricading shades
Of these heavy carnation pink curtains
Like a colossal shadow in the dark
A surreptitious phantom lurking
And scheming on its feet, to devour
My harried refuge in this sala
Oblivion, it could be too arresting
That the lampshades thawed in fragments
Oblivion could be bountiful in fragments
But then again, it could probably be not,
Oblivion could be harsh; it could be very harsh,
When your oblivion is a puncturing memory
That only ensued in the insipidness of the sala
Not on its dark corner nor on its garish floor
Rather, in the sala where you are alone
But fixated with the company of a scent
Similar to the morning dews that never came.
poem by Norman Santos
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Myth is neither a lie nor a confession: it is an inflexion.
Roland Barthes in "Myth Today: Reading and Deciphering Myth," Mythologies
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Hunger
The mirage fluttered like the rolls of colossus
As the lips and fingertips were engulfed
By the rapine of sensation and sedation
And it wilted the sinewy pillars to kneel
Now you are postured groveling
Inches from the pristine façade of the crowds
You picked up their crumbs, sever the cord
Tethering you to pride and prejudices
Just to dine with their swaying feet
Aren't we all famished?
This hunger dazes me.
But I am courteous enough not to
Bite the hands that fed me.
poem by Norman Santos
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Dwelling Place
Every night, I fumble to scavenge
My place among estranged acquaintances
And when deception sought for suicide
I will return to a haunted chamber
Inside my cold steely heart
Where the lofty and glacial gates
Loomed hostilely in bolted chains
And I would mount the escalating height
As inebriation descends from liver to soul
And the equipoise of time let down its velvet robe
Draping the horrendous vicissitude hovering my home
And the heralding thought that when I knock the door
It would either be a hammering holiday
On my parent's irrational loathe
Or the crispy echoes of the hollow quietude
In the stretch of a colossal living room,
Darting through a number of quarters
That the eyes can both perceive and not
I'll shake the my fists and make believe
Then I'll get through with all the heedless pounding
And muse on the stairs spiraling up the languid attic
Where the ghosts were aloofly haunting,
And then the stairs skewing down to barren rooms
I'll take the descend to the refuge
Of my room in shades of green and of slumber
And as soon as we fondle our arms together
I will paste my scarce body into the cold tiles,
Pull a chimerical soap-dish form beneath the bed
Where I stack the lambasted butts of cigarettes
And the ashes of the squandered boy
Who lit a celebratory stick for a triumphant
Escape in the walls of his home.
For his home is in the clutters on the floor,
And the stains on the mint green walls,
For they are the things that he doesn't know
But the things he understands;
For here I know the things that I do not understand
Like the rasp of the soundless,
The sentience of the benumbed
The loneliness in the crowd,
The toppling resolutions,
The quietus in writing and the sketching of the unconscious,
The writing of quietus and the unconsciousness of sketching…
Perhaps, it was home from tangible to otherwise,
And sometimes, more often than not,
I like to leave my dwelling place
And stay inside the fringeless vault
Of my idea of a home.
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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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
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The innocence of War
The innocence of war is a lie
there is no innocence in killing people
there is no innocence in destroying part of the world
murder of plants animals and many people
where is the innocence in that
More crimes and violence in this unholy cruel world
influenced on war
Death and Karma will come to all who
support this evil devilish thing, sport, crime!
The blood of many men drip on your hands
my hands
our hands
Familys departed over politics
new borns lifes already taken away by men they don't even know
its not there fault
its yours and mine because we don't
Listen! Hear! Speak!
save the life of the real innocence
poem by MeganOlivia Maxwell
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Saturnalia
He picked up his cigarette
With his nimble hands
And dropped his malaise
On his nimbus smile
He moored his trepidation
Amidst looming trees
Sated with voraciousness
Gaunt as his mortality
They tread a rivulet
Of agog prancing fire
And picked up his ashes
In his sinewy veins
And fanned his qualms
In a tacit realm
He plucked out a thorn
Riveted in his rib cage
And stomped on the fertility
Of the garden in his hands
Unsullied but squalid
Lanterns in blossom
While its tangled roots finagled
With the cajoles of the heart
The saturnine seethes of flame
Tingled the oceanic eyes
And he picked up his glass
And drank its serrations
He swathed his bleeding tongue
With a rasping sedation
He picked up the moon
Fallen from the night
He cried for its unrivaled doom
And the mirroring blight
He plied the gossamer
And the desiccation of the sea
But he never grew pale
So he picked up a star
To hung a chandelier
And flicked on the light
Of a transient thrill
Denying oblivion's shrill
In a ravine of coiled lynches
He picked up himself
And squandered it away
And there was no fear
Just a stark demise
poem by Norman Santos
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The Slave Mother
Heard you that shriek? It rose
So wildly on the air,
It seemed as if a burden'd heart
Was breaking in despair.
Saw you those hands so sadly clasped --
The bowed and feeble hand --
The shuddering of that fragile form --
That look of grief and dread?
Saw you the sad, imploring eye?
Its every glance was pain,
As if a storm of agony
Were sweeping through the brain.
She is a mother, pale with fear,
Her boy clings to her side,
And in her kirtle vainly tries
His trembling form to hide.
He is not hers, although she bore
For him a mother's pains;
He is not hers, although her blood
Is coursing through his veins!
He is not hers, for cruel hands
May rudely tear apart
The only wreath of household love
That binds her breaking heart.
His love has been a joyous light
That o'er her pathway smiled,
A fountain gushing ever new,
Amid life's desert wild.
His lightest word has been a tone
Of music round her heart,
Their lives a streamlet blent in one --
Oh, Father! must they part?
They tear him from her circling arms,
Her last and fond embrace.
Oh! never more may her sad eyes
Gaze on his mournful face.
No marvel, then, these bitter shrieks
Disturb the listening air;
She is a mother, and her heart
Is breaking in despair.
poem by Frances Ellen Watkins Harper
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