Damsel Of Snow
A not so subtle enigma walks leisurely
Into the silky phosphor of her skin
Engulfed by the garish gestures of gaiety
And her fragrant vision-stealing scenes
What profound riddle lay buried
In the tinkering of her innocence?
What color gush in the grids
And architecture of her slumbering veins?
The answer resonated in the pulsations
Caught in somnabulism in her neck
Craning over for my desiccation
To fondle mellifluously this wreck
Beneath the blaring pounds of your croon
Is a pristine language of genuine hope
That had traversed with the monsoon
Grazing scars to eloquently festoon
I fancy and trust your gilded heart
For it beats the exotic tempo
Of the heaven's salient art
Purging the cacophony in a glissando
poem by Norman Santos
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The Meandering Lion
Latch the doors,
I want to meander
With flaming feet
Of an opulent lion
Inside my prattling veins
And in the currents
Of your thunders
If you can see them
In the condoles of the scars
And in the knot of my temples.
Let the arrows strike
With vengeance and repugnance
They do not have the heart
Of gilded susurrations,
They can nick my tawny suit
But never touch the soul
Basking in the prowls
Of a protracted and brazen
Glissando.
Stay, inside my forlorn forest
If you can endure the enigma
And if you can wrangle
With the lashing of
My violent yet pliant chains,
Not of lightning,
But of infinity
In the farcical veneer
Of the moon-kissed eaves
Dispensing all amiable jewelries
Into the sea
Of drudgery.
Hear me feign a tongue-tied roar
And rip myself with electric tongues,
Corrupt these eyes of a child
As I pretend to scamper the wiles
Of the labyrinthine riddles;
I am who I am,
A perplex cacophony,
And the dissonance of the desires
To be heard while whispering
A clandestine interpolation.
Leave and shun the scintillations
Of the lackluster stars
That would remind me
Of you and your lucidity
And wedging distraught,
And of being one amongst
These far-flung constellations.
If you cannot give me
A lion soul,
Stay away and permit me
To pretend that I am
A meandering lion.
poem by Norman Santos
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L'e Esprit De L'esclair
Basking into the shadows
That loomed like pillars
Raising the canopies high
Making room for innuendos
While the feet sank into the sand
With their gilded smiles glistening
You are an impenetrable mirror house
Where the clocks cannot croon
Neither halt nor pant, in askance
Rummaging to topple and unfurl
The naked terrain of conflagration
Spewing thin films of smokescreen
As walls to build an empiric wall
And cradle the ingredients of reveries
Such auspicious mendaciloquence, yet
Abatement buried its fangs deep
To inject the insidious venom to seethe
And devour the endeavor completely
Into the void belly of the vast galaxy
And as they leave without opening
Your adamantine gates nor closing
You sulk, plummeting into the fathoms
A subtle castle drowning hastily
Into the quicksand that you brew
Whilst tacit words pirouetted
Winnowing the emollient clouds
Like the danseuse sun and charring
The eloquently woven ties
No one pries, entangled in salient
Vies of lies and you die a trifle
Suffice enough to crash a city
Made of gambling cards
The adversity is in the shabby cot
Stinging like bed mites, swooning
The undaunted times of disquiet
In your slumber— a demon without
Prongs or trident forks, a hue
In the visage of preempted rues
Clacking its fastidious heels with
The spilled vision of a sentinel
That you failed to build, hence
Failed to smother and keep, whilst
The artillery shrill gallantly
Of the home that wanders leisurely
A caravan you cannot keep up with
For your quavering malaises needs
A mooring point, a peg, gravity
That stays when all else linger
Far from the swelling lips
Of the omnipresent pit.
poem by Norman Santos
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Tea With Me
three beats a tempo
three steps a tempo
I sing Love Is Just Around The Corner
how cozy it is on the street
three words a tempo
three notes a tempo
you answer to it with a smile
that is how you nod off key sound
unexpectedly good timing at this corner
I run into you
it seems this is my day or ours
either way it doesn't matter
what it is
we are together today
Ad Astra Per Aspera
Hiss with the silence if it wouldn't stir,
Brave the lion with congealed fear,
And you'll figure how the bullets sing
Embracing the force without ducking the sting
In a rippling dream of kerosene
Ignite the flame of the obscene
Vista of nakedness dispensed into lewd
Vulnerability, though the sentries stood
With all the surrealistic smatters
Of the reeling picture behind the shutters
And the albino leaves of the old sycamore
Will pour down its vapid phosphor,
While the rustles will swoon over the soul
As it engulfed the body in whole
Dripping into her supple breasts
As the night don its very best
Subliminal guise to entice
The weary batting of wandering eyes
To severe the golden ties,
To sever the tethering lies
In a shotgun clout more pliant than
A dilettante danseuse of the sun
Fondling my submission in the painful trance
Induced by the garish tempo of the dance
Of the lapses in the liminalities
When all the lovely bones sing with me
The sirens swansong of temporal keys;
Slinging mud into the skies
To give life to gravid star-cries,
And altering the times of the night
When we were one in a harried flight.
In spite of all the shifting of bridges
And all the sifting of the hinges
I still weave my web to be amongst
The sequestered blood of our long
Putrefying trail of gilded yarns
Please, take me again into your arms
And if this be painful, if this be sad
I'll sunder the glory I desire to clad
Just to be with you in your island
Licked before the isthmus can fortify the sand
Into a swarthy road towards the crown
Of your place's albino sun
And I pledge never to run athwart
In the veiled chambers the heart
Until there'll be none
No famished hope to become
The beauty in loins
Or the peril in the noise
Just one amongst the sludge
Giving birth to the remote trudge
Towards the star screams
Whispering in salient films
Hands pointing to the sky
Shearing your heaven's eyes
Like fences, divulging
Vulnerability, toppling.
poem by Norman Santos
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House of the Setting Sun
In the tawny moiré of your eaves
I found a city lying asleep
Buried in their tangled locks
Of synthetic gold and
In the tinkers of inebriation
I found the streets
That will ferry me home
And the sun would never bow
To cut the salient swath
Of time and vertigo
Because these walls hold
The pliant corolla of
Of surfeit gaiety
And this floor is the threshold
Of infinite chances
In the pale gilded walls
I impale myself like a wallpaper
Slathering every soul
Into the graves in my skin
I am one with the yellow house
And we are the maladroit spin
Of the clock's wafting arms,
The silent breathing
In the attic's chambers,
And in your bright collection
Of quasars and chandeliers
I will never be a shadow.
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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Monsoon at peak! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! !
Monsoon at peak
I hear a monologue-
Rain speaks…
Monsoon at peak,
Thatched roofs
Leak…
Monsoon at peak,
Corn on cob
Wins over coffee…
Monsoon at peak,
Can I go out, mother?
A child pleads…
Monsoon at peak,
A boy steals a look
At a girl soaked to skin…
Monsoon at peak,
Roads flooded,
Where is MCD?
Monsoon at peak,
Umbrellas
New fashion accessory…
Monsoon at peak,
Sun gets much needed
Rest…
Monsoon at peak,
Bathes
Foliage and trees.
Monsoon at peak
Schools closed
Children squeal,
Wish, it rains
Everyday of the week…
Monsoon at peak,
Leave your shoes at the door-
Mother screams…
Monsoon at peak,
Driver stops
To wipe the wind shield…
Monsoon at peak,
Open pavements
Home to many,
Wear deserted look …
Monsoon at peak,
Wet laundry-
Sun rise, please.
poem by Mamta Agarwal
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Beneath The Skin
Beneath the Skin a caustic red river
Beneath the Skin corrosive abuser
Beneath the Skin genetic in rupture
Beneath the Skin all cold and hungered
Beneath the Skin a still born forgiveness
Beneath the Skin cell transfer in whispers
Beneath the Skin a lover cries murder
Beneath the Skin all cold and hungered
Beneath the Skin i wasted this moment
Beneath the Skin old undiscovered
Beneath the Skin another lies ruptured
Beneath the Skin all cold and hungered
song performed by by Queen Adreena
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Braille
Pray tell, my sleepless child
Without your name, who are you?
Does the color of your skin,
The sly motions of your lips,
Or the canopies underneath
Your sweeping eyelashes
Tell you about your secrets?
The tabularazas in our open palms
Shear the exhumed constitutions
With the blandness of nothingness
Because we are nothing
But blotted pages
And our blood is the ink,
Our contending is the pressing
Of the angrily hissing pen.
Let me take your hand
Into the frowning crevasses
And the pockmarks that
Slanders your skin
Like salient stones
For the dead man,
Slither into these roads
And understand
That we are made
Of bruises and scars
Now let me guide you
Underneath my shirt
Closer to the pounding
Of the harried chest
Inside this cage
Of feral yearning—
A yearning that is
Dangerous
The blue rivers that
Opposed the bloody ripples
Sprang from a chamber:
A pantheon of screams
That was unfettered from
Their vivid dreams
Pray tell, my ignorant child,
Now that you have
Traversed the untaken roads
Will you tell me why
It is so painstaking
To look inside ourselves?
Pray tell, blind soul,
Amongst the pointing fingers
Who can read
This mendacious braille.
poem by Norman Santos
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Under My Skin
(john farrar)
Every night when youre as mean
As a ladder with a broken wrung
When I know youre sorry wont make it
From your heart to your tongue
There are nights when you keep pushing me
And I wont go on
cause when I get mad enough darlin
I will be standing my ground
But on a night like this I know I cant win
I know my soul will burn and blister
When you slide your silky whisper under my skin, oh, under my skin
When you slide your silky whisper under my skin
There are nights when every kiss
Is an order than I can obey
And I can taste the life comin
From a mile away
There are nights when you keep holdin me
But your arms are too tight
And I dont need what I want
cause what I want just dont feel right
But on a night like this I know I cant win
I know my soul will burn and blister
When you slide your silky whisper under my skin, oh, under my skin
When you slide your silky whisper under my skin
Everywhere that I go I hear your name
Spoken in whispers, spoken in shame
In shame
But on a night like this I know I cant win
I know my soul will burn and blister
When you slide your silky whisper under my skin, yeah, under my skin
Come and slide your whisper under my skin
Come and slide your whisper under my skin
Under my skin, ooh under my skin
Come and slide your whisper (under my skin)
song performed by by Olivia Newton-John
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Collective: The Snow Angel
Immaculate skin of snow
Interposing a delicate silhouette,
Broad wings and halo
Whittled from a wintry bassinet,
Garish ease, ornate and callow
Suppurates the winter's sonnet
Innocuous as a fairytale
Baffling as a dilettante cacophony:
In a grave you lay frail
Unencumbered by the girdle of gravity
Is this your flight's scale?
A somber and inert soliloquy?
Who and what made you, snow angel?
An impression in the penultimate
Death of warmth that dangles
In the purple lips to commiserate
The enigma of your treacle:
A tragedy of dreary fate
Thaw not into this expostulating slate
A great effigy, nevertheless, great
poem by Norman Santos
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Sylvan Guest in the Forlorn Forest
As I lay in the resentment of serrated ryes
And beneath the tempest of impaling lances
That I stashed inside the scathing frame
Of my blatant harlequin repose;
Such a sapid filth, such a torment,
A stranger intruded my forlorn forest
Marauding with a flock of gypsies and pixies
Cloven beneath the echoes of her gyratory
Ebullience, submerged in her spruce plumes,
She laid another set of superfluous cards
In a house of marble and sycophantic pillars—
In the form of her vessel; gilded jewelries
Sealed in sprightly paintings and poetries
All for a shambling gambler's ineptitude
And unsheathe a sword of nimble odds
Succoring, caressing, a despondent hand
In an earnest finagling, you've sublimated
An ornate forest into a lustrous Silver Lake
Adorned by a buoyant polished Swan
Pardon my florid tongue, please do not dispense
This guise I feigned inside a poetry into
A brazen, unabashed, and deprived blarney
And I plea, do not err, do not be beguiled
For truth be unfurled, I like you
In the most unromantic fashion
So as to keep it unstained from treachery
And so, one night I opted to fold a letter
And slip it inside the notches of your door
And as I waft in writing you an epistle
About the gaiety, your gaiety, that tinkers
Beneath your wings, do you know that you have wings?
I saw you used it to inscribe and paint
And probe and divulge the unwritten splendor
Basking in every insignificant possessions
I dallied and mused upon your enigmatic grace
Are you the Zephyr: an ubiquitous crooning?
Or a damsel lost between your own lines?
Or a dreamer at the veers of every stroke?
A sanguine nomad in supernovas, or her fancy, thereof?
Perhaps, you are the psychedelic sunrise
Grazing the films of my weary eaves
And I would not permit Atropos or The Sisters
To rust our modest yet pliant chains
And the combing of your seething rays
Beaux of the unnamed king,
That thrones in a museum,
This is what I meant
When I called you a rubber duck,
You are, pleasantly, a guest
Purging an ornate forlorn forest.
poem by Norman Santos
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This heart beats
This heart beats,
only cause of you
This heart beats,
just to know its true
This heart beats,
like a love i cant control
This heart beats,
to let everybody know
This heart beats,
when i see your smile
This heart beats,
just before i dial
This heart beats,
i hope you feel the same
This heart beats,
cause my heart is where i write your name
poem by Anonymous One
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Martin Luther King
Martin Luther KIng...
you were a torch
that lit a darkened world,
a beacon,
for all those oppressed,
a song,
for the downtrodden and weary...
you looked beneath the skin,
and saw the soul!
life cut short,
far too soon by
the forces of hatred and fear...
Martin, we need you now!
your vision lives in the
hope of the oppressed...
your determination our anchor,
your heart beats strong
in each of us who believe!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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The Red Drum
The red drum beats
when every other drum stops beating
every soul dance to the rhythm of life
from the pulsating ethos of the red drum
the red drum not only beats
when you listen, the red drum is talking
every stony heart has a sheath for a knife
from a gush on the tempo of the red drum
the red drum by nature is sexy
when your heart flutter and in frenzy
every stolen glance from your heartthrob
from the blushes irrigated by the red drum
the red drum is jealous and vindictive
when retrospect’s stab is aggressive
every soft spot, love and pardon flee
from dirges the red drum goes on spree
the red drum you should know is the heart
when in our short lives destiny plays its part
every promise given not to stray our drumsticks
from where we are identified as God’s handpicks
poem by Dela Bobobee
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What Color? (Hope)
what color
was the dust
from which the stars
were made?
what color is the hunger
written on the child's face?
what color is justice,
forgiveness, desire, truth?
what color is the wind....
the rain, gravity,
and knowledge?
what color is equality?
what color is freedom?
what color is eternity?
what color is redemption?
what color is God?
what color were the nails
that hung Jesus on the cross?
what color was enlightenment
falling on the Buddha as he sat
'neath that tree?
what color is prejudice, hatred,
fear, greed, apathy.....
what color your skin?
nay, what color is your blood?
and what color are the eyes
of humanity staring through the darkness?
and what color is hope?
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Casanova
If I tell you
That I will take you to a castle
Buried in the sands,
Would you surmise
The esoteric grotesqueness
Of my chagrined empire
With walls of odes,
Firmament of naked
Despondence, incandescence,
The portcullis left ajar
For the meandering souls
Astray in the garish
Coruscations of the sun
And the feline yawning
Of the tinkering crystals
In every chandelier
Tells a tale
And caress a condole
More supple than the velvet
Curtains and carpets
The chiffonier that will carry you
In the caroming susurrations
Of the bland slurs
Of grandiosity
Will you slew in the rendour
Slopes of enigma?
Will you keep the portmanteaux
Bolted from the panorama
And swath the corona
Of the feral castigations
Of bigoted clovers
With four leaves
Establishing the thwarting
Of our weary eaves?
I shall wait
It shall stay
Till you trample in the pavements
Of unruffled cobbles
And quaff the gambles
In the goblet
Of perpetual fire.
poem by Norman Santos
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She walks in beauty
She walks in beauty, eyes soft,
Innocent; silky breast that captures
men’s heart, her alarming whiteness,
making angels turn dark.
In times of sorrow, she's the light; if she
cries, her tears breakdown into drops of
divine moist. Wrapped in her skin, never
has a sin, her lips turn to fear in
the eyes of evil. Her sacred presence makes earth
heavenly; her beauty blinds the power of vision,
her virtuous is an envious, making instinct
jealousy take over. She walks in beauty.
poem by Elenushka Toledo
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Trust Thy Heart
I Trust my blossoming heart
I understand why I am blue and red around the bushes
Of the earth.
Ye, To trust my heart
I will surely be at the top of the tree
Yelling loud to the heaven
So Blue.
I keep my heart to win back myself,
I trust my heart,
His an old friend back back
When the seed get rooted in bed!
I trust my fading heart
I knew how deep and shallow the waters it be,
Ye, though it rains in cycles
Pour down, ye pour down
What a new pearl I found!
Because I win back my heart.
I trust my heart,
I trust her colors in tints and shades
Ye, I had known it
Thy Heart is a bundle of color pencils
And the names of it I trust.
To trust thyself and heart once more.
poem by Agnes Quirante
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A Father's Innocence: the Princess Child
my soul who chooses
to live in solitude
has always cried in the winter cold -
seeking for your silky skin
to warm the snowy wave of air
that forms the morning dew.
in the green fields
beneath the mountain tops, my gaze
plays with the horizon between the lonely sky
and the grassy land i patiently till,
as tears fill up my emptiness
because it seeks for your heart.
my soul who chooses
to live in solitude
has always cried in the winter cold
like the soft white feathers from the heavens
that fall in the leafy woods,
lost, wandering -
deprived of the songs by the lake.
between the pristine sky
and the mountains of forests,
or the castle of our love
my heart shall seek for you
in vain, in infinity,
within the sweetness of innocence.
hear my heart from afar,
oh sweet songs of boundaries;
hear my heart from afar,
oh white doves of destiny;
for in the comforts of her embrace,
to her i shall rest, and for her i shall rest.
poem by Jaypee Belarmino
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