Howl Amidst the Noise
The tempo dithered inconsistently
And in the yawning lapses
The schmaltz billowed flustered
With silence coiled in the arms
Of the blaring mutiny,
Amidst the frothing potions
And bemusing hazes
Of surfeit death kisses
In the slithering arms
Behind the undulating frescoes
Of the jaunty sizzles
Of bloating bars.
A door creaked open,
And the cranium crackled from
The dissipation of inebriation
Leaving the furrows scathed
And dousing the drought
Riveted in the bosom
Of the beguiled enigma
Of a buried parched county.
Exhume a disposition
Before they bolt
The finagling hearts.
Unfazed, a cry shrieked
Piercing the clump of clouds
But the endeavor didn't halt
The touching of the hands
Of the moribund clock
And last leaf burned
With the castigations
Of January's beckons,
A deluge of footsteps
Subdued the hapless howl.
Everyone left, cradling smiles
Of sated compulsions
Alcohol teeming the brims
Of their so called emptiness,
And nicotine sank
Nibbling on their seams,
And the dawn shattered
In the silver threads
Of the galloping breasts
Of the poignant earth's quivering,
But no one knew how to smile
With a broken jaw and bleeding teeth.
poem by Norman Santos
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Vicissitude's Incertitude
Riveted in the motion
Of the silent waltz
Within the arms of the clocks
Yet, vaguely apprehended
By the sporadic undertows
Of land sliding changes
And the blood vessels
Recounted the heat
Bloating in the deluge
Of being fed
Under the arms
And being battered
By the churning
Of strings attached
In the viscera
Profoundly suturing
The pilfered enigma
The Pandora's Box unlatched
Emancipating the words
That ought to be kept
In the deepest bosom
Of the earth's core
And fondly caressed
By temporal camaraderie
In the times when the sun
Would kiss the darkness to stir
The despondence
And injecting
A dose of magnesia
To sedate
The veritable apprehension
And the impetus to fire
Like a bullet
Darting blindly
To flocks of mockingbirds
And not hitting
At all.
poem by Norman Santos
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When The Clock Sojourns
When the Clock Sojourns
The grandfather's clock
Defunct, senile, and silenced
Loomed like a vertical demise
Rising in the muted corner
Or rather the clandestine core
Of the disembogued hearth
And I can tell in its scathed varnish
Of weary and eroding mauve
That it had once vied to emancipate
From the providence's dictates
And that was probably when
Its hands stopped from moving
The pendulum was now a lissome
Unwavering string to the grave
Of the clockwork's very soul
And although it never swings
Its phantom was undulating
Into the sloped paths of impasse
Swelling and bloating inexorably
Without beckoning the rousing
Of the prismatic night lights
Perhaps it was consumed
By the darkness of the hour
And in this unholy instances
Of the suppressing nights
I can still here the diurnal ticking
Of its moribund arms
And the infinitesimal gears
And their asunder whirring
Billowing in a haunted echo
Sojourned, like how it was once
Smoldering in zeal and alacrity
And the memories sank
Into the capricious sea
But not of the forgotten
Rather, of the evocative forgotten
A bandwagon of phantoms.
Halted but never liberated
The clocks never stops
It never even started
And you will realize this, flat and hollow,
When you understand that the clock
Only stirred when you had handed
Time, in your unbolted callused palms
And no one ever took it
As the nights will never permit
Nothing ever ends
Even when the clock sojourns.
poem by Norman Santos
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Holiday For The Forgotten
Here, have some of my holiday,
Reveling in the blares of soliloquy
And watching the stars shift their bones
Waiting for the first signs of dawn
And laying awake in your bedroom
Until the sunspots would fritter away
Again, back into the Mobius Strip
Of impassable holidays.
Come take a seat in my banquet
A hollow table for eight people
With sutured lips and eyes,
A superfluity of feast and revelry
In a plethora of emptiness,
That would keep us bloated
All through the gaudy merriment
Of the dilettante eve.
Succor in the warmth of an empty hearth
And be accustomed to the comport
Of the bleak echoes of silence
And let us open the presents
That we wrapped for ourselves
And the unanticipated letters
Of coveting unfettered friends,
Inebriate with the pangs of jealousy.
Evocatively, inexorably,
A surfeit of effervescent air
Can suffocate the trampled ones
Whose names were not inscribed
In the jaunty arms of carousals
But we, we will breath our own air
With the cinders of schmaltz flair
Cordially inviting in the holiday of the forgotten.
poem by Norman Santos
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Open Arms
If love is what you want
Baby here I am
If tenderness is what you need
Ive got that to give
If you need some affection
Baby these are open arms
Open arms open arms open arms open arms
You come hem youve had a hard day
Every door you tried to open
Was closing in your face
Im right here Ill be right here
Ill embrace you
Ill be open with my heart
Ill let you in
Ill be open with my thoughts
Ill be your best friend
If you need some attention
Baby these are open arms
Open arms open arms open arms open arms
Every corner you turn
Trouble come your way
But when you get home
Ill try to be there
And Ill embrace you
These are
These are
These are
Open arms
If time is what you need
Baby Ill stop the clocks
If youre looking for something
Maybe Ive got what you want
If theres one thing to remember
Dont forget that these are open arms
Open arms open arms open arms open arms
These are
These are
These are
Open arms
song performed by by Tracy Chapman
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Revive The Vicissitude
This perfect night
I clenched my jaws
From the cinch defeat
Until eternity extended
To the opalescent curtains
Of my room echoing
The blaring sound of silence
And the muffled weeps
Of desolation
That crept up with the dawn
Late, at my four AM gazing;
Siphoned out of verve
Drawn from cigarette sticks,
Disembogue the rancid kick
As I accept the coup-de-grace
Of death in living death
But a tepid air deluged
My dribbling punctured chest
Humming a lullaby
To bring back the rhythm
Of all my hapless pleading
Please, please, please
Let me, let me, let me
Get what I want
This time,
Finagling the winning tyrant
To open the bleeding bolted fist
And the abeyance of life
Deflated with sleep
Thank you, munificent lady
Of the nomadic caravansary,
For reeling the rotting viscera
Of the evocatively forgotten vicissitude.
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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A Beautiful Jar
a beautiful jar
always gapes its mouth
open to the emptiness
of the world taking in
the silence of the air
and not bloating
it is as though its arms
were taken and its feet
and its eyes and nose
simply because they are
no longer important
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Progression Of Happiness And Pain
something like a star you sparkle,
so far away
buried in the blackness of my dreams
broken hands reach through the emptiness,
for your death
piercing sunlight fades into screams
lost and drowning in this miasma
a delusion
feeling the loss of your loss and your lies
tendrils fall and wrap around all
all that is real...
the dark caress of eyeliner
make sure you look beautiful, Death-
-hates the obscene
keep the knives close, knowing what you've become
what are you doing now my ghost?
maybe tracing scars...
looking at your reflection and wondering if it's done?
some kind of memory to me, you are,
discardeed and bleeding
skyless thoughts of you, with nowhere to go.
you tore violet from the violet sunset
like it was your own.
something that touched me, you shouldn't know
the spirit of pain reached out to us both
we knew of an end
our hands clasped together, only to be torn away
and i saw a vision, behind those liquid green eyes,
something so real to me,
something that left us with bleeding wounds,
pouring profusely, opening every day.
poem by Nathaniel Colbert
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Terminal New Moon
From this bloating hoary disk
I shall bicker to envisage
A new moon guffawing
In its emollient ashen fringe
To exhume myself from oppression
Of self-induced agonizing subterfuge
Fondly nibbling with the luminaries
On the girdle of veracity
Inch by inch, I'm drawing closer
To the lunatic spell of the old moon
Marred by its penumbra
I sliced myself to grate the wounds
To open and deluge with pain
For pain is for the living
Condensing these oxymoronic ideals
I shall efface the man inside
And bargain for a travesty in a chortle;
A superficial veneer: a new moon.
And when the wolves howl tonight,
In their carnal carousals
And the owls hoot along,
From their voyeuristic revelries
I will sing along like a vulture
For them to find and muse me
As I paint the opiate panorama
With a perilous terminal death
Inside a dire scuffling
Against my archenemy;
The undertow of wisdom,
The tirade of freedom:
Bigoted veracity,
Dangling on a new moon.
poem by Norman Santos
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To A Far Away Place
If ever I wanted to fly away to an unknown place
with arms stretched out to thee
on a cliff above the sea
on a plain in an open field
or even above the clouds as the rain descends
with chills of joy sprinkling through me as I emerge
from the sea flying high above the clouds.
If ever I wanted to just get away to a place
of solace in search of truth with open arms
extending to thee
for strength, serenity, and security
emerged in grace
in an open space near the sea.
Tried limbs and broken heart
bleeding lips and twisted fingers
to weak to hold head up and drained
of the stain infringed upon by broken words
bring sour feelings of loneliness, isolation,
and a need to go way to a far away place in the open sea.
Mercy, salvation, amazing grace are my friends
whom I desperately need now
as we fly above the clouds weathering the storm
together rescuing me from the wilderment that man has put me in
with no place to go abandon and lonely
out in the sea of disappointment, misguided trust,
left along counting on my friends to hold my arms
in the open sea.
March 16,2011
9: 58 a.m.
poem by Janet M. Cason
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Stellar Musing
From behind the moon's harlequinade;
Your skin ornately prancing in the blear
Colder than the thin and flimsy mist,
Your face cradling an orchestra of smiles
Muffled in the fading mimicry of echoes,
Your abstraction realer than the dream
That you are when you were here.
From the protracted expanse and
The truant galloping instance, I probed
And groped for an orb of light to hold
Like a ballasting banister only to solder
My eager and supple hands, now aglow
Slowly crumbling from holding what it cannot.
And the Gods had judged the episodes
And written them on the stars, one for each,
Mine I cannot find, or perhaps, accept
Sensitive to fate and denial, I wiped
The wisps of silver light grazing the small
Contours of my face—happy and sad
From the corner of the room where the sun slept
Two thousand days, I muse amongst the stellar
Riveted, and with every violent breath of verve
A little death expires from the seething lungs
A little give and take, a juggling to compensate
The lackluster of kaleidoscope visions to crown
The poignant asunder of your galaxy and the stars
poem by Norman Santos
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Baby Blue You've Got You
All the guests are gone
Silence on the glass brims
Their laughter will fade out
Their footsteps will be swallowed
By clear night sky
You can close the door
There they are no more
You can say ‘That’s it.’
They won’t care a bit.
All whispers are taken
Silence on the glass brims
Growing into dark
When the lights turn off
Window panes stand broken
You can close them down
They will give no sound
You’ll say ‘It’s ok.’
Try sleep for the day.
poem by Miroslava Odalovic
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The Man Who Was Standing Behind
I was in a conference centre full of people,
and a man called out my name.
His voice was louder than the chattering,
and he shouted it out again.
His voice wasn’t at all familiar,
and no one knew I was here.
This was a lonely hearts club meeting
for singles who also enjoyed a beer.
For a third time he called out my name,
and my I.D. tag gave me away.
The woman with whom I was talking
waved her arms and shouted “Hey.”
I left her presence quite quickly
and became lost in the crowd.
I didn’t look to see who was calling,
but he was persistent and shouting loud.
People all around me were fainting,
for no reason they dropped like flies,
but then I heard leather to wood footsteps
above the peoples’ sighs and cries.
I slowly looked all around me
and somehow I knew it was my time,
I was leaving one way or another,
with the man who was standing behind.
poem by Orlando Belo
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Echoes Of The Silence
The black squirming beads
Confine the groveling quietus
Beneath the strands of my canopy
And it cradles a somnolence
Farce, vis-à-vis the despondence
Of the elusive spangling ivories
Amidst the sound of desolation
I can hear the echoes fringe
The quiescent of a hiatus
Of the shriveling breaths
Of my lost secluded island
Where the sun never mount
Thus, never shrink out
From the dearth of my toppling horizon
Effervescent carols linger and slither
Suffocating the mistral atmosphere
Reckoning the blaring tapestry
Albeit, the frescoes dispensed
The myriad of gaiety's absence
Mantled by the echoes of silence
Of the rattling black beads
As pyrotechnics splattered on the ceiling
And the light show kept stirring
The ricochet of the quietude
In a detrimental ripple
Paving all frothing waves
To obliterate the emerging
Isthmus of sequestered tentacles
And the black beads wondered
Wandering far off sobriety
Entangled with a lethal envy
Upon the jocund gypsies
Excluding such complacence,
What is it searing in their revelries
That is louder than my carousing silence?
The fire of a poet manqué
Was quelled by the merriment where
Quietude was inscribed on the RSVP
Meanwhile, the living shadows
Fumbled on prismatic meadows
Where my words use to tinker
Now ensconced in the echoes of silence.
If I would ballast pensively
In a muted and pantomimic spiel
With or without you or me
There will be a surfeit of abeyance
Where are you, temporal eternity?
My mouth is dry, the beads had died
I can still hear the echoes and its silence.
In a strident whimper
Of a vociferous tatterdemalion
The silence hallooed and coiled
In an echolalia of reiteration
And in the rebound, there I reside
I am the unheard vociferation
In the echoes of the silence.
poem by Norman Santos
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Quicksand
I went out one night looking for the sun. I found
An open area, silver patch on the ground.
I sat there, waiting to see the cascading light
Drape all over me when the golden orb took flight.
I wanted to see it rise, but, instead, I sank.
It was slow at first. I didn't notice the Earth yank
Me down to bury me. I didn't notice the sand
Had swallowed my once sprawling legs, my arms, my hands.
When I realized how deep I was, I could not
Believe it. I struggled. I despaired. I was caught
No matter how hard I fought, so what could I do?
I relaxed myself until, fin'lly, I fell through.
poem by Tim Stensloff
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in GOD's hands
In GOD's hands,
In GOD's arms,
That's where you lay
Your head now.
The Day you left,
The Moment you were gone,
Our hearts broke,
Our Souls Cried,
What was our loss,
Was GOD's gain,
That Beautiful smile,
That infectious laugh,
In GOD's hands,
In GOD's arms,
Thats where you run now,
Down here,
On GOD's green earth,
We miss you
Each and every moment,
Each and Every hour
That we breathe,
GOD takes care of you now,
In GOD's arms,
In GOD's hands,
Thats where we will find you
Smiling, Laughing,
And wishing us well,
We love you
Squishy Cheek
poem by Ivan phillip m. llanzana ivan phillip m. llanzana
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Lelek To Me Forvever / Lelek Meni Zauvijek
Who took away from me, my son
To mourn above your grave, my son
To go below with you, my son
To reach the sky with a tear, my son
To spill a cloud from my breasts, my son
To open the heaven's door with a cry, my son
For you a heaven to enter, my son
To curse with a curse
To burn with a thunder, my son
I swear with a thunder in the wing of rain, my son
Made of my milk from my breasts, my son
Lelek lelek to me forever, my son
Lelek to me forever
Cut from breasts with empty hands I stand, my son
In drops I pour in clouds I'm hidden, my son
With bread in my mouth a bitter piece, my son
A cradle rocking in a grave, my son
Feed the earth with earth a grian of my pain, my son
Armfuls of sobs on fire to burn, my son
May the dawn freeze and outbreak halt, my son
Lelek lelek to me forever, my son
Lelek to me forever
I let my hair loose, my son
I tore my plaits, my son
Better to be in your grave, my son
Than to sleep with a stone on my chest, my son
Lelek lelek to me forever, my son
Lelek to me forever
Oh why did I deliver you at all, my son
Under this ruthless sky, my son
Your eyes dead to see, my son
Your hands dead to cross, my son
Your hair dead to caress, my son
Your cheek cold to kiss, my son
The sky will break from my pain, my son
The earth will open from my pain, my son
Swallow everything living in pain, my son
Into the black earth with my pain, my son
Lelek lelek to me forever, my son
Lelek to me forever
poem by Miroslava Odalovic
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Where
My heart breaks with the dawn
When i sleep i wander through dreams
But with the night I'm left to mourn
And catch your face in moonbeams.
Where are her eyes that sparkled an eternal promise
When we stood under starlit heavens?
The arms that held me so desperately
Clinging to love's dream.
Who do they hold tonight?
Where are the smiles that bathed my thoughts in sunshine?
Her laughter on the phone now rings in the wind,
Like a mission bell
Declaring our end.
Where are the promises etched on two hearts
Twin souls riding a rollercoaster
To eternity
-Blown out to sea by the imposter called love.
Left to drown amidst memories and sweet dreams
In the silence of pain.
poem by Kevin East
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Pear Tree
Silver dust
lifted from the earth,
higher than my arms reach,
you have mounted.
O silver,
higher than my arms reach
you front us with great mass;
no flower ever opened
so staunch a white leaf,
no flower ever parted silver
from such rare silver;
O white pear,
your flower-tufts,
thick on the branch,
bring summer and ripe fruits
in their purple hearts.
poem by Hilda Doolittle
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Silver Dreams, Golden Smiles
You came to me
In a silver dream
With a glowing flow
Of a mountain stream
You lift my soul
Way beyond the sky
Just to wake me up
With your golden smiles
Chorus:
Silver dreams and golden smiles
Silver dreams and golden smiles
Silver dreams and golden smiles
Silver dreams and golden smiles
I knew one day
You would come my way
You would help me see
The reality
Heaven and earth
They are one, the same
In my heart I know
When you call my name
Chorus
Dreaming when Im wide awake
See, when my eyes are closed
Flying, I dont need no wings
Being everywhere at once
Hold me, hold me in your arms
Fill me with your glowing grace
Chorus
song performed by by Santana
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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