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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Related quotes
Burning Waltz
The echoing stupor
trailing the shotgun clout -
a shrilling lament
tearing the filaments apart
in this madhouse dance
among the flames
succumbing to the hysteria
jazzy hands played
the scherzo is a fountain
pouring upwards
from my shickered eyes
A silent gargoyle
watching a caryatid
peal an enigmatic laugh -
an enthralling silence
with a vertiginous pull
girdling the aeons
that flummoxed before
the wan in her eyes
still and quiet
golden as gold
I have become your poise
Have I been dazed
by watching mirrors
become the architect
of sullen bliss?
Legless, I floundered through
the downtrodden path
in an erratic sway
and inebriated rhythm
where streetlamps quell
their faintly tongues
so the subtle hue
of darkness can invite
the weary dreams
to lull and evocate
a burning waltz
to a sedating slumber
an oblivion against
the superfluity of your letters
and terse vengeance -
still, I danced
like my legs knew nothing
but your melody.
poem by Norman Santos
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Shotgun Wedding
(roy hammond)
People were standing, all around
At a shot gun wedding, here in this town
And Im a victim oh yea
Of a shotgun wedding
Cause your fathers got a gun
And there aint no place to run
Shotgun wedding and oh listen to me
Well I got to find a job
You, me, baby makes three
Shotgun, shotgun, shotgun, wedding oh yea
Cause your fathers got a gun
And there aint no place to run
Shotgun wedding
And all I could hear that day was
Do you take this woman
To be your lawful wedded wife
My my my my shotgun, shotgun, shotgun, shotgun wedding
I looked around
I looked around
And all I could see was a shotgun wedding....listen
But I tried to run from town
But her mother tracked me down
She said before I meet my maker,
Some mans gonna make an honest woman of my daughter
So it might as well be you
Oh daddy may be poor
But he owns a forty forty
Shotgun wedding
And oh Im walking up the aisle right now
Here comes the bride singing
Shotgun, shotgun, shotgun, shotgun, shotgun.....yea yeaaaa
I could of run away oh no I could be living high
Nobody could stop me now oh shotgun, shotgun
Just give me one more chance
Let me hear that bass boys that bass boys
Breaking my heart
Breaking my heart
Breaking my heart........
song performed by by Rod Stewart
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Free Restless Spirit
there are people ahead of us
and who enjoy their own fame who like to teach us
how to make frames
that there are desired shapes of words
with their own colors and tones
and like light we ought to mix them
to their own
precise delight
when i was new i had always been clumsy
because i always want to think like them
each hour i command my hands to take their
own shapes of fingers
there are always desired sizes and colors and tones
and for years
i have lived in so much restraint that i finally discern
that i am not free
because i must live the way i ought to be like by them
too suffocating
like i am covering my head with
a helmet
so as not to harm myself
from their preconceived accidents
my voice thinned out and my hands
became moles
then too tired to take their commands
i escaped
into the mountains
and i learned the language of the birds and the trees
the songs of the wind and wilderness
my arms become rivers and my feet mountains
my hair the forest and my eyes the sun and moon
my breath is the wind
this is what freedom does
this is the fruit restlessness
this is the poem that you are reading now.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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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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Metaphors
Your hills poised with intimate enigma -
A looming sphinx counting riddles
that remains unwritten, unspoken
and it can only ardently neglect
the ululations of the mountain bison
or the petulant howling wind-cuts
proposed by vagrant eagles
festering your sun's golden horns
because yonder the taut distance
your cerulean sea slumbers soundly
placid with her sober serenades -
A desolation more saccharine as
a lost nymph's silent enthralls
and the florid falsettos from your
sharp beliefs and frail constitutions
and the yearning sighs of your lips
can only touch her soft breaths
riding her foamy waves, while you
measure her immensity and
undo the multitude of niceties
revolving with the dusts of time
Thus, matters not your prolix eyes
upon the fastidious reckons
and futile will be the endeavor
when the saline wind picks up
and spread the ether flames
on the cradles of your forlorn forest,
You are but a sanguine tale
riveted in amicably fictive lines
zithering a red string in my mind
to make believe your obsequious unreality
that I have always pried behind
your bulwark barricades of pride
hoping to seize the lost melody
the sea once sang to me -
the marigold's tinkering when she
bows before the wind's whispers -
and even your avalanche of
mellifluous promises and white lies
My mouth full of rain and fire,
my eyes replaced by a quagmire
fastening every metaphors
together in ethereal times
because this is where we are
or where we were, at least.
poem by Norman Santos
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Yours Forever
Here we are in the grays of winter,
Here we are just me and you,
Hold my hand,
Lets face tomorrow,
Tomorrow still holds out its hands to you
This precious time we've only borrowed,
The autumn winds have blown on through,
A quiet thought will tell our story,
Tomorrow still holds out its hands to you
Yes tomorrow still holds out its hands to you
Here some wings,
There yours forever,
And heres some dreams,
That will come true,
Take these tears, to wash away your sorrows,
Tomorrow still holds out its hands to you,
Yes tomorrow still holds out its to you,
Yes tomorrow still holds out its hands to you
song performed by by John Mellencamp
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Wattle & Daub
She lived right next to the forest
In a cottage of wattle and daub,
A roof of bark and a floor of dirt
With a whisk of milk, absorbed,
Her man had died of a heart attack
For over a year, he'd gone,
Had left her to fend for herself out there
In the shade of a ghostly gum.
He lay right under a stringy bark,
She'd dug the grave herself,
Had made a cross with her loving hands
Deep planted at his head,
On lonely nights she would sit out there
And whisper him under the stars,
'Oh Jim, where now are your strong, brown hands,
Where now are your loving arms? '
She didn't cry, for she couldn't cry
For her heart had turned to stone,
Her love was buried and six feet down
With crumbling flesh and bone,
Her eyes were hard as the hardest flint,
Her lips a fine white line,
And when the stars came out at night
She would look for the slightest sign.
She looked for a heaven beyond the stars,
She looked for the eyes of God,
She knew that he watched her as she slept,
He watched where her steps had trod,
She prayed for her days to end in peace
And soon, for she was alone,
She carved a notch in the mantelpiece
Each day, since her love had flown.
She bucketed water from the creek
That trickled on past her door,
It once was a raging river bed
But that had been back, before...
Before a neighboring farmer dammed,
And quelled the flowing stream,
Had turned her husband's protests down
With a sneer, and words obscene.
Her Jim had worked then twice as hard
To irrigate his feed,
The cattle had died in the summer months
On the parched ground of their need,
He worked from the time the sun came up
To the time that the stars came out,
And in the end, collapsed and died
From the toil of a man-made drought.
The farmer up by the dam had said
That he'd take her land for free,
She'd never be able to stay out there
Alone, she would turn and flee,
Then he would double his pasture
And would open the dam to flood,
And let his cattle to roam abroad
By the cottage of wattle and daub.
Now during the long drawn evenings
And deep in the forest's shade,
She could hear strange noises, threatening,
As they howled across the glade,
She loaded the shotgun Jim had left,
And kept it inside the door,
She'd not be driven from off the land
Where her husband lay, forlorn.
One night a shadowy figure came
Strode out of the darkening wood,
Crossed the creek in the evening mist
In a cape with a long black hood,
It howled and jittered like one possessed
She opened the cottage door,
Then blanched as she saw it light a torch
And the flames begin to roar.
She went to reach for the shotgun then
But a hand caught fast her wrist,
Lifted the gun and pointed it,
She stood with her hand on her breast,
Her heart was pounding, her legs were weak
As she watched the phantom stand,
He shrieked in fear as he saw the gun
In a strong, brown pair of hands.
The blast took one of his legs clean off,
The phantom fell with a scream,
The shotgun dropped to the earthen porch
She thought it a crazy dream,
She turned to look for the strong brown hands
That she knew as well as her own,
But the porch was clear, and she felt no fear
For her husband had come home.
The dam was breached in a minute or so,
The torrent then flooded down,
Washed the remains of the farmer to
The lowlands, where he drowned,
She went out back and buried the gun
With a smile in her eyes, like stars
Looked up to the skies, and saw God's eyes
And round her, two loving arms!
4 June 2009
poem by David Lewis Paget
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Alankar(Decor) -50
Some Naani Poems
Natural
1 He was waiting
For his moon joyful
Didn't turn up that moon
He waited till new moon's day
2 Glossy red lips
Fluttering sans wings
Not to flee away on legs
But to bite, sever apart
3 Clouds thronged
Beat till her heart poured
Her gheraoed star
Could not see her sinking
4 Far away school
Welcomes for'u.k.g'
Little babe is thinning
Grand-ma is grumbling
5 Customary prayers
Split mind in splits
Legs and hands, eyes and mouth
In their own perfect recitation
poem by Indira Renganathan
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My heart is my hands
My hands
Is
Only my hands...
Not for
your hands....
So...
I want too work
My hands...
I want too serve
My hands...
I want to do about
Somthing of my
Hands...
My hands is
Free for only
Sleeping time only...
my hands is
working all the times
My hands not only
Hands...
It is human workers...
Allways for my friends...
My hands...is my heart...
My heart is my hands.....
Ok...How is your hands...?
poem by Otteri Selvakumar
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The Wolf and The Moon
The Wolf and The Moon
By Tolly Rebeka Christian BlackWolf Hawk
The day is past and the Moon now rises from beneath the mountain to greet the stars.
The Moon smiles on the sleeping towns, their drone wound down. However, in the
forest, Life is still flowing full speed. The Owl fly’s his “day” begun, “Who, Halloo
Moon! ” “Hello to you Owl.” The Moon spins on his way. He makes many more
greetings to the animals of the forest. He starts to grow weary, and makes ready to bed
down for the day when the Wolf came to visit and talk as the animals and Moon talk,
“My good friend Wolf! How are you? ” Wolf jumps playfully to and fro, “I am glad
Wolf that it has been good for you! It is almost time for the Sun to come up now, I
have to go home.” The Wolf whimpered and followed the Moon. When the Moon was
almost home he turned to the Wolf and asked, “Why do you follow me? ” the Wolf
jumped and landed in the Moons hands and curled up with a tremendous sigh. “No
Wolf you cannot come with me, not yet, but now that I know you love me we will be
together in spirit, and someday you will be able to come with me to my home to live.”
For years, the Wolf ran with the Moon at night, and then they would part ways at
dawn. One day while the sun was shining brightly the Wolf, now old to earthly eyes,
faded to a wisp of mist from mortal sight, on the night of the New Moon. You could
see, that night, a cloud in his shape running before the Moon, and as the Moon grew
fuller you could see on the face of the Moon a shape like that old Wolf, you could see a
promise kept. The Moon and Wolf were friends, one entity forever.
poem by Tolly Rebeka Christian BlackWolf Hawk
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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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Pleas of a Claymore II
Have you ever seen a saber?
Took so much beating
In a plethora of derision
As the hands pounded his convictions
Against the feral adversary
Of his stale conqueror,
Lackadaisical and crestfallen
But still fawning in a lash back
To find the elusive direst
Of his tethering fate,
And his silver blood spilled
And scintillated in stellar
Like the mistral tears of a maiden.
And some people esteemed it
Musing in avarice for the clout
That this claymore possessed
Despite of the scarred visage
Or perhaps, because of the incisions
And they would lather the lacquer
Of his chipped and dying blades
To thaw the poignancy
And bend him down to his knees
Rasping upon the stance
Of defensive resistance.
The surrender of a saber
Would stab his own soul
And the hero inside
And his parched tragedies
Would whittle and fritter away
Into the very zenith of cusps
To become a despondent weapon
In the final incarnation of a claymore
But the hands forget
Or sometimes do not care
What the saber was
And seize him in their cradles
Fervently seeking bloodshed
In favor of their legendary conquest.
Have you ever seen a saber?
Malleable with a sole graze
As the hands guided itself
Down his glacial crassness
Reckoning the beatings
In the crevasses of his edges
Ravening upon the triumphs
That the saber gave them
And in spite of the disease
The saber would plead
To be held once again
And take the brunt and blames.
And when the hero bequeaths
The glory of his subsistence
Coming clean and pristine
While the downtrodden friend
Smother in the draping
Of the chrysalis in his scabbard
The claymore would plead
In profound reiteration
To be held once again;
Have you ever heard the hilt of a saber
Call for euthanasia?
poem by Norman Santos
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Inevitable
When the stars held hands
And slow danced in the blear
Of the lazy purple clouds and
The mistral mantle of fog
Ominous without her moon
Comes creeping with a beckon
The disquietude expands
Into the room of the future
And the clock's hands swooned
Into each other like dead bodies
Toppling like walls of dominoes
Malingering for the final clout
And the consummate abeyance
And inside, I cringe with the void
And hollow bones, for I know not
Of the Promethean key they spoke of
I cannot resume my saunter
In the semantic of romaticism
Surmising a hopeful trepidation
Is but another dry stick thrown
Into the pyre soused in kerosene
Waiting for my back to lay
Tired from the gallows, tired to pray
Yet, enduring or not, I do dream
Of days pacified by chaste bliss
I dream of love as I dream of marigolds
That never have I touched nor seen
Or wonder if they have claws and thorns
To safeguard its frangible corona
I dream as I wake up asleep
From sleeping awake,
Of love, loving and in return
And whilst the lunatics peer
Into the gelid window pane
Traversing the lattices
To find the supple flood
Of their ashen moon's hair
poem by Norman Santos
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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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Our Hands
My hands once warm,
And clothed in yours,
my hands once full,
and held in yours.
Empty hands,
Cold hands,
my hands have lost their,
Partner as you once were for me,
Your hands at once rough,
and soft,
Always gentle when in mine,
our hands would meet to fill the cold,
My hands now empty cover tears,
my hands once warm now with
a freezing touch,
your hands are gone,
the warmth they held has left,
these hands of mine.
poem by Rebecca Adams
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A Jar's Story
from the start
the hands that shaped you
designed you to be empty
you were named
Jar,
someone so
beautiful and rich
takes you
away from your
maker
those hands
cannot hold you for long
because they are
empty and hungry
hands
and then she fills
you with perfume
and all those who attend
the parties of the
world
dip their fingers
in your scent
they crowd around you
and you are loved
not for what you are
but what you
can give
scents, scents,
all scents
you begin to miss
your original form
the beauty that you
possess
when you were
once empty
you miss the whisper
of space inside
your belly
the hush of the wind
that rests in
your heart
you forget the name
that was given to you
Jar is your name
but are not one of them
anymore
you are the scent
of their necks
hanging on their
jaws and navels
your contents
fill now their fantasies
your hollowness
they now discard
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Oceanic
As your pliant hands resurge
every night of oblivion
no matter how terse,
no matter salient,
your flagrant subtlety
jeopardizes my frailty
and these obdurate sea walls
can never be your frontier
You are the sapphire ocean -
the unrivaled beauty of its infinity,
the moon on its stark reflection,
the enigma of its moonless nights,
the soigné tremors on its skin,
the lulls of its horizontal vertigo,
and the peril of its silence
You are the azure pall
of my lonely drowning planet
Sometimes I forget you,
but your saline susurrations will
pick up to remind my scorched skin
Sometimes I forget you,
but I always thirst to reckon
your unfathomable depth
and shallow trifle of attention
Whilst you buoy the hefty
in you, I sank weightlessly
deeper and deeper, impenetrably -
slowly and haplessly
I flummoxed into your quicksand
without a footprint left
But I still endure, obstinately
because your shores
is full of beautiful sunsets
all looking the same
yet progressively inveigling
in its pristine melancholy
You are my moor in liberty,
my oceanic odyssey
poem by Norman Santos
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Wall Engulfed By Shy Flowers
There is a rendezvous with flamboyance -
a stillness gilded by the peace of detachment
as tacit as the uncurling of moonflowers
when the night sprawls on her divan
and raises her goblet to the distant stars -
and he alone, in his howling dungeons, can
usurp the esoteric grandiosity in malcontent
Everything is intimate and close
in the sterile skin of your vulnerability -
the drifting autumn wind, the lifted eyelids,
the dancing lips, the glaring waltzing feet
But in your soliloquy - unraveling threads
that strangulates your recuperating breaths,
your swallowed words raving in the dark
fanning the embers of your glassy heart
the spurious tides of the oceans crash
into a lull amidst your redundant tremors
and everything sink into the unfathomable
There is an agog pleasure basking in
the immensity of monastic pendulums, whilst
the world gyrated in blurs and drifting lights
where the perfume of bliss passes above
the stagnant wind sculling our little breaths
the montage reels in the infinitesimal gilts
elsewhere held from the malingerers
There is an effulgent hymn immersed deep
in the cacophony of the world's manifold rhythms
like cathedral bells trembling from the hollows
that echoed through the gold insularity,
like a siren scintillating in the furnace of the sea
a charade, a riddle, born by loquacious maladies
When the pastels are pillaged to a halt,
when the only judge is the frost and fog,
when solace is the thief of the endless night,
he indulges into a dance and a song -
A fire burns underneath his sole and
a lilt titillates from his lifted susurrations
and reticence was eroding with the embers
whilst loneliness burns like red roses
and the web of bridges suspended above
The clockwork salutes fell unbeknownst
into a bottomless ocean of rigmaroles unto
the fusillade of your silence - a salient armada,
a sentry amidst the collapsing of confusion,
a terse bridge that burns with inner caliginosity,
a bulwark adamant wall that makes no echoes,
a flower awakening in the oppression of sleep;
Because your bland insinuation is more colossal
than the petulant beauty of many garden larcenies
The reticence you wore like paper petals are frail
vanguards that hones your puissant indifference -
Play along the farce, come soundless like a thief,
lean on your citadels, dance with the shadows
riveted on your walls and cringe only to intensify
the grandiosity of your gray shabby heavens;
Wallflower, sing. Wallflower, dance,
Wallflower, cringe. Wallflower writhe.
poem by Norman Santos
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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He And She (And I)
The rigmarole of the world
passed over the stagnant wind
and here I found my shelf
waiting deep in desolation
inveigling sleep and protection;
I succumbed and play gargoyle
In the stillness of time and
the mayhem of transitions
I watched your lips danced
and sing the wordless lullaby
The melody that you spoke of
that echoes through the bones,
touches the silhouetteless souls
She was a fire coruscating
behind the forest's eaves
and the splendid mirage
that her voice casts is a wine
that enamels the sad veneer
and banishes the hissing diamonds
because in her, life is abundant
that I oversee death flagrantly
walking the edge of a scythe
In the same stupor of
paradoxical charades
I watched your hands fumble
from the tremors of your
fears, crimes, succors,
and how it held the fiery sword
to shear the doors of the world
and succumb to forgetfulness
with your eloped quintessence
He was an abyss in the sky
star-spangled and immense
My eyes cannot immerse
the adamant obduracy of
you cowering canopies
and the profound riddles
of your exquisite vagaries
and your promises
was just another poetry
I folded unto my sleep
because I had a dream
and its verdigris are as tasteful
as the cyanides of unreality
but now I am fully immersed
in the wakefulness of my sleep
and I curled, like a burnt twig
into my bleak fate and
swayed into a lack of dream.
poem by Norman Santos
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The Throne
I stood amidst a thousand place
In a single shifting of a day
My legs ached, my knees throbbed -
In malcontent and bereavement
And my salient stance cringed confounding
To muse on too many places in one glance;
In the hollow vestibule of churches,
The putrid cushion in a bus,
The noisy creaking chair in a class,
The rocking chair swinging for decadence,
The lavish divan in a parlor,
The Victorian craft in a banquet,
The eiderdown in a perforated cloud;
All were impressed by presences
Because to matter, you occupy space
And weigh it down with your grace
Whilst I stood amongst seated legs
Crossed and folded in security
Married to a vacant throne
Assembled by my agog hands,
Lacquered by the hands of time
And weighed by the colossal
Absence of a queen
Because to live you have to give life
So I stand here, waiting hopefully
For someone to take this open hand
Of this vacant throne betrothed to
The myriad reasons to doubt
To have and have not hope
So I stood amidst the blaring crowd
Faster and fastidious than a rose
Taking it slowly, unraveling the eternity
Of waiting and the artistry
Of never effacing the neutral poise.
poem by Norman Santos
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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