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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Related quotes
Sunset Pedagogies I
A perilous chime swooned over me
As the ghastly smoke part your lips
Along with adamant words that shook
The golden manacles coiled under our feet
And the rivers that you poured deluged
To part this parceled ground but you
Are now swimming towards a shore
Whilst I remained here waiting futilely
Without any hopes or dreams at all
And while our souls wander far
We remain moored into this cloud
Where we sat to watch the dusk
Bounce endlessly in the empty horizon
Until the poetic pillars sank in the sand
And the mirrors were mantled by a pall
To save the gilded smile from shattering
The life in you incinerated high and
The sky above us were pacific and immense
But the oil drowning my eyes
Incarcerated our burning sunset
And the perilous serenading of the sirens
Took you away and you transcended far
Past the memories of collapsing stars
And I promised myself to never again
Walk naked inside a mirror house.
poem by Norman Santos
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I Empire State of Mind
In the surging rustles of the void vesper
Gallantly burning a svelte bridge to dawn away
From the briskly chortles of the blight
Coruscation of these stellar's blithe
Slumbering cellars toppled to unfurl
The virulent fangs caressing the tongue
And gnawing at the grin sliced upon;
Ballasting on an eternal trepidation— a hapless vie
In the protracted skyline gallops
A treachery more surreptitious than
The grip of the city walls in your eyes
And the lofty sears of rooftops reveals
Its buried pillars saliently looming
And swaying with the silent quakes
Of the flickering wisps of lights
Above the shrouded sky and reticent sighs
That casts a casket and extemporizes a requiem
For the lattices of the shadows where the chortles
Are sifted and filtered from the devoid exuberance
And in the abstracted transition of the montage
A golden eye steadfast unabashed
Feigning an I empire state of mind
The city melting down his throat,
Seeping out his lungs and plummeting
With the cinders and ash ousted
By the dark arch on his aching lips
And in his lack of sleep is the truant
Empire escalating and inflating as
The heaving breaths does.
poem by Norman Santos
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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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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
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From The Distance (Of Life and Death)
The ghastly mantling fog
That had spun out my eyes
Adamantine and brazenly cold
Is your very breath slicing
A wanton shrill in the supple skin
Like how those words flung
Into the impassable distance
Toppling the dearth expanse
Of time strutting down her golden stair
Those words are the spine
Of the hundred tacitly inscribed
Poetries in blood and smothered breaths
Along with the thousand winding days
Plummeting into the abysmal trench
In constant winnows of your redolent
Balmy zithers of the morning sun
As I speak of these words, I entangle
Myself in the wisps of your tresses
And gape in the crevasses
Of your hostile sweetness
From the distance eloquently stretched
In life and death in ethereal phases;
In the verdure of treacherous subtleties,
In absence and in the deficient existence,
You bore me life from subsisting
The gorging plenitude of puissant deaths
I swallowed you and your piercing shafts
Had scraped my insides and you have
Melted into my very blood, life and death;
You were my life and death
The gods had left me to bled
For your wanderlusting immolation
So you went far-off, father than
The subways of oblivion
Down into the pits of lies
And you have reaped your wings
Whet your prongs and sealed
The gridlock enthralls beneath
The earth that cradles your remnants
I will crush my ears to the mud
For the petrichor slathers
The entity of your particulars,
To seize your lies and inject
A deluge of life and death
Constantly, in dithers
Longer than your memories
And preempted blarneys
Blind as the serrated stars
I shall efface your calls
To cross the line and free fall
Again into your eternal ditch
And keep myself between
The inertia of life and death
Regardless, you were
The two opposing columns
No longer
poem by Norman Santos
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A Poem Seeking Permission...
May I seek
Your permission
To build my castle
Of fantasies
That houses you?
The castle may
Crumble down
Let it be...
From the debris
Will I quickly build another
Binding every wall
With my precious tears
Copiously shed
In the silence of
Several vacant nights
I'll roam from room to room
From corridor to corridor
Its every length and breadth
Day and night
The walls resonating
With your name
My heart repeats
The castle recharges me
It's my life-line, you see...
Do permit me...
11Sep2011
07.20hrs
poem by Indira Babbellapati
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One Too Many Blinkers
Somnolence, brewed with apathy,
In its feral and purged form
Perched upon the svelte frame
That thrusts the low canopies
In an endeavor to stand loftier
And muse past the knotted haunts,
Struggling to steadfast the crosshair into
The piercing eye of the adversary
In a conscious slumber in
The verisimilitude of the mirror
Leaves flipped with the gloaming,
Disintegrating the marionette's face—
The façade that stood
Like sooty pillars catching shadows
Departing without a wave
And innocuously lingering
Like the forest's milieu—
An auspicious camouflage of colors
Burying one too many blinkers
Tired, desperate, and thirsty
From watching the season constantly
Shed its skin,
The sky lighting and quelling
Its colossal chandelier,
Faces juggling bows and hills
On their mendaciloquent lips,
Forgetting the memory kept
And vying to participate
Averting the clouts to precipitate
And rivet the frail frame into the ground
So committed that the mirror's sheen
Would shatter and consume
Its own aberrational delusions
And fore another blinker
Catch the dragonfly's erratic pace
Winnowing the ribbons of this tryst
And hold these people close
In a ring that binds
Infinity.
poem by Norman Santos
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Jeane
Jeane
The low-life has lost its appeal
And i'm tired of walking these streets
To a room with its cupboards bare
Jeane
I'm not sure what happiness means
But i look in your eyes
And i know
Oh ...
That it isn't there
Oh, we tried, and we failed
Oh, we tried, and we failed
We tried and we failed
We tried and we failed
We tried
Oh, jeane
There's ice on the sink where we bathe
So how can you call this a home
When you know it's a grave ?
Yet you still have that greedy grace
As you tidy the place
But it will never be clean
Jeane
We tried and we failed
We tried, and we failed
We tried and we failed
We tried and we failed
And we tried
Oh ...
Cash on the nail
It's just a fairytale
Oh ...
And i don't believe in magic anymore
Jeane
But i think you know
I really think you know
Oh ...
Oh yes, i think you know the truth
Jeane
Oh ...
No heavenly choirs
Not for me and not for you
Because i think you know
I really think you know
Oh ...
I think you know the truth
Oh, jeane
We tried, and we failed
We tried, and we failed
We tried and we failed
We tried and we failed
We tried
song performed by by Smiths
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Firebreak
Moseying in the skin of your complacence
I build an ornate heraldry of sycamores
With carnal lattices to fringe the eaves
But no vulture dares to crane and sing,
No quasar halt to pry and beam,
No burl stopped from lewdly skewing
Deeper and deeper, you are penetrating.
You amble sprightly, sagaciously, innocuously
Caroming into the maze gracefully
I was weighed to kneeling with a plea
And a silent cry for a trespassing treachery
But gravity opposed the resistance
And the sycamores flounced wistfully
My forest sprouted the ripped wings
And the castrated prongs in the foliage
Of dying moss and buried memories
Uttering the melody of a gamine
That mounts walls for a dream
To stir past the concatenations
And gnarls between you and me,
Utter a fastidious wisp of infinity
And dispense the momentum
To a ballasting defeat
In the lips of a famished fleet
Utter the ignorant sensation
Of emollient crevasses yawning
Swiftly eviscerating somnolence,
Utter
Brand new visions,
Utter
Desiccating illusions.
Scathe the fuel-bathed forest
And start a fire of black scorches
And charred parcels of melodies,
Instigate a fire to meet me
Burning in a pyre reticently
Draping my scarce body in crimson
Until a firebreak splice
This delusional aberration.
poem by Norman Santos
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House of Cards
Spade:
A city of metallic urgency
Come, rape the society
Your blaring highways
Your drifting lightshows
I chocked on a shabby musing
Beneath the miasma of your gaiety
Swooning over codes and keys
Your filthy people don't care
Dispensing prisms into drivels
And you seek bereavement just to unravel
What the politics stymied
Oh, dour gloating can stifle
And turn your people to scornful nihilists.
Clover:
A country overweening of poverty
Preyed by ravenous double-standards
I gorge in neon-signs and hazards
Incorporeal desires and volition
Diverged a quavering hunger
A hunger sated by blind faith
A knot in your stomach; a monopoly of divinity
Pilgrimages sulk into nonchalance
Devotions coiled into an echolalia
In your banquet, dripped blood and tears
Tethered in a girth
Lapsing mortality by birth
Pray tell, what do I have to swallow?
Heart:
A planet of sardonic frowns
Your society left no vacancy
For ideals, dreams, and innuendos
Chauvinism had their sallow eyes too
Hulking upon my vision
I fought to envision, I cried irate
I will ferment you in a jar
Bloating the cold and hungry cellars
With your weak representations and trampling constitutions
Far East is West but parceled with philosophical dialect
Ah, scathing comics; a slapstick
Flimsy faith and obsequious belief
Fall for me, they call me idiocy.
Diamond:
In a looming house of cards;
A spade is for burying
A clover with four leaves
A heart, non-existent, pawned for
A diamond, for diamonds are forever.
On your anteroom, by your elbow
I will exhume a poor gambler
And wage for your liberty, or not
I will find mine in this fringeless sea
Whilst you drown in a waterspout
Maimed by the treason misconstrued
Damn reason! Curse amity!
Civilization shall fumble beautifully like a house of cards.
poem by Norman Santos
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The Hollow Nature Of Being
WALL I:
inside an empty room lies an empty box
and in that box is a four walled inside room within-
on each of the four walls is a mirror reflecting
the deep desertion of the next
and distant within each wall is another
echoing & spiraling back into infinite repetition
with nothing or no one except the physical entities
bearing back upon each other.
WALL II:
an empty room in an empty house
the house itself has no physical attributes because it
was built in a barren field-
there are no animals, no trees,
no beings of any kind
roaming around the house whose image cannot be
imagined,
at best, know that this house in fact
“housed” the room in question,
as any house might any room.
WALL III:
such a barren field stretches to all four corners
carrying itself out beyond the periphery
curling back in on the other side,
and walking in any direction will bring one back to the
beginning-
the barren field that reveals the empty house that
encapsulates the empty room is the most integral point of
reference within the endless flat plain of grass.
WALL IV:
endless flat plains of grass flowing out in all directions covering
the circumference of the area around the empty house residing in
the middle of the plain wherein
the inside of the empty house holds the
empty room & in the
room,
the four mirrored walls reveal only the replication of the
others,
spiraling into infinite repetition-
there is no feeling
no sound
no communication of any kind
woven with the thread of human fiber.
poem by Andrew Delapruch
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The Ancient Windmill
Behind the blear of the setting sun
It stood aloft, shearing a line
Splicing the crimson and ocher tan
And in its façade it intertwined
Blending in the shadow as it spun
The fortuitous wind it forever consign
Oh! How it loomed athwart the shore
With a salient stance too sturdy
Subsisting the weather with covert valor
For many a tale that fell in history
Travels with the winds it scull and roar
With many a soul it had ferry
Like a sentry it muse upon
The small world down its feet
Whilst propelling the gears to run
To endeavor even when on the edge it sits
For it knows with virtue and wisdom
The secrets to vie and reflect in split
And there it stands to gaze on us and aid
Whilst we watch you too, never fading in savant shades
poem by Norman Santos
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The Collective: The Ancient Windmill
Behind the blear of the setting sun
It stood aloft, shearing a line
Splicing the crimson and ocher tan
And in its façade it intertwined
Blending in the shadow as it spun
The fortuitous wind it forever consign
Oh! How it loomed athwart the shore
With a salient stance too sturdy
Subsisting the weather with covert valor
For many a tale that fell in history
Travels with the winds it scull and roar
With many a soul it had ferry
Like a sentry it muse upon
The small world down its feet
Whilst propelling the gears to run
To endeavor even when on the edge it sits
For it knows with virtue and wisdom
The secrets to vie and reflect in split
And there it stands to gaze on us and aid
Whilst we watch you too, never fading in savant shades
poem by Norman Santos
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The Cities Of White Men
Those men build many houses:
They dig the earth, and they build;
They cut down the trees, and they build;
They work always - building.
From the elevation of the mountainside
I behold the clouds:
The clouds build many beautiful houses in the sky:
They build, and they tear down;
They build, and they dissolve. . . .
The cities of white men,
They are not beautiful like the cloud cities;
They are not vast, like the cloud cities. . . .
A wind-swept teepee
Is all the house I own. . .
poem by Anonymous Americas
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Inject The Venom
No mercy for the bad if they want it
No mercy for the bad if they plead
No mercy for the bad if they need it
No mercy from me
Tell no truth and tell no lies
Cross your heart and hope to die
Never give what you cant take back
Scratch like a cat
Inject your venom
Itll be your last attack
No mercy for the bad if they want it
No mercy for the bad if they plead
No mercy for the bad if they need it
V-e-n-o-m
Got no heart, no - feel no pain
Take your soul and - leave a stain
Come choose your victim
Take him by surprise
Go in hard and get him
Right between the eyes and -
Chorus:
Inject the venom
Inject the venom
Inject the venom
Inject it all
(stick it in, stick it)
Chorus
song performed by by AC-DC
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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It’s called the inner city
On death row I ask what happen to me
This is not the way it was suppose be
So I drag my mind trying to recall
The life I had beyond these prison walls
I see
Thin walls no privacy
Big yard, living in close proximity
It’s called the inner city
It’s called the inner city
A city no one build for me
It’s called the inner city
Yes it has shaped my destiny
On death row I ask what happen to me
This is not the way it was suppose be
So I drag my mind trying to recall
The life I had beyond these prison walls
I see
Adults sit around
Getting shot and maim
Children run around
Oblivious
Playing their games
In the filth that flows untamed
It’s called the inner city
It’s called the inner city
A city no one build for me
It’s called the inner city
Yes, it has shaped my destiny
On death row I ask what happen to me
This is not the way it was suppose be
So I drag my mind trying to recall
The life I had beyond these prison walls
I see
How hard I try not to run with the pack
But against me the cards were stack
They need protection they need someone
But you can’t protect them with empty hand
In the inner city
It’s called the inner city
Poverty, amidst luxury
A city no one build for me
It’s called the inner city
Yes, it has shaped my destiny
Political connections, fearless and strong
Dispensing justice with an even hand
Truth be told, I am a ladies’ man
So naturally they call me the “Don”
In the inner city
It’s called the inner city
It’s called the inner city
A city, no one build for me
It’s called the inner city
Yes, it has shaped my destiny
Now on death row
Soon, I’ll go
I am guilty?
No one will know
The script is written and sing like a song
They used, refused and then they kill the “Don”
In the inner city
Hah, ha, ha, a, a, a
Hah, ha, ha, a, a, a
poem by Ikhalfani Solan
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From the biography of an unknown woman: X
in the sandy castles
is her dwelling
in the house of cards
her dreams reside
sometimes a footstep or two
get placed in her chambers
just for a leisure activity
or out of fascination
she gathers all the sand
she puts the cards together
to build another castle
another house of dreams
somehow, she has to survive!
04may2010
12.59hrs
poem by Indira Babbellapati
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Lonely Bone
The hollow bone stands alone
Amidst the clapping condor wings
Commiserating with the fallen plumes
Cascading sunwards to deny
The winds from their liberty
Whilst you traversed the leaking sun
And leave the deafening ruins
The bone bows to implore protection
Sullying in the graying sky
Where your remorseful faces
Was painted by the Eastern wind
Like a danseuse of passing time
You glanced, waved not your good bye
And left the vermillion bleeding
Trapped in the vineyard of memories
Until one day the vines would sprout
To touch the havens in your sky
Intoxicated from the brewery
Of your empty rues and bliss
But for now the bone remained alone
Whilst you depart with the sun
And the sky was ever higher
Whilst time was away and somewhere else.
poem by Norman Santos
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Building A Big House
you build a big house
with one thought, a wish
that something may last forever
like love, like the finest wood
like a relationship,
or say
(let me say it this way)
a marriage, like strong stairs
inviting attention to society
that no one is leaving
like a door closing behind
a sigh,
but a house with time falls
pillars collide, and floors go
termite eaten to the ground
doors fall out from the hinges
that hold them it their frames,
nothing lasts forever
i know,
i build a house because i know
what love is
i want to give it shelter and warmth
like those rooms
a glow like those living rooms
a nice dinner
like the kitchen and the dining tables.
i do not think beyond my body
that turns to dust
i know
i do not utter beyond my words, i know,
no words can withstand the
lures of the niceties of a lie.
i know
i build the house because we are here
and there is nothing
worth doing
there is no snow and ski is irrelevant.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Iron Eyes
Divulge yourself in my language
Speak of forked tongues that can masticate
Imagery with psychedelic blades
And swallow these swords so you can tell me
That I have eyes of iron
That I am blind but I can pretend to believe
That I can perceive in full colors
From sapphire, to eau-du-nil, to claret
And if you are malleable enough
To sink in my impermeability
And nibble on my waxing vision
Then I will permit you, in my elbow to my anteroom
Suffice enough to fracture my vision
And enrapture my eyes of iron
My eyes that can decipher decoys
My vision that can perforate veils and halos
I would gladly fall in a slumber
And in acquiescence I shall fumble
To bolt my callous eyes
And dwell within the perimeter
Of your coherent liminalities
Seasoned of pseudo-animosity
The facile art blotted of acrimony
May be adequate to coerce valiancy
Whenever, we could go now
To anywhere but the down town
Where everyone knows who we are
How we are damned and surmised to expire
Lead me down the Mediterranean Gulf
A sanctuary in the grazing sea
And I can ponder inside your bountiful fingers
Of callas that would cloy my cellars
And though we cannot swim
We would be buoyed by our belief
That we have feet of street lamps
That blaze aglow so no one would trample
If we pretend like lovers lost in time
Could we hold the sun perched in burning leaves
Of ivories and ebonies, of a tatterdemalion gypsy?
In daylight, I would feign that I can see
The words coming out the mouth
Of angry clocks and compasses
And I would curse like a sphinx
To live with you forever at the fringe
We'll pretend like black suited agents
Sheathing a pistol and a plan
To find fate and kill serendipity
And create something out of dark alleys
I would run whilst you walk
For you walk too fast
Perhaps, to leave all behind
Perhaps, there's something you're trying to find
But in gasping breaths
I would keep with your selfish pace
And I would keep you in askance
With the dark corner of my crumpled eyes
Juxtaposed each other like mutual towers
Are these orbits of hefty balconies
Unswerving eyes of flimsy convictions
I would vie for another vision
Of our galvanized liaison
That had transpired in my phantasms
And absconded through veracity
And left me with pallid assumptions
Of a fatal life line
That I wanted to preserve
As we traverse the phosphorescent shore
And trample in the city streets
In an ethereal living
Where we would never have to go home
For home is in our seams
Wandering with our dreams
But I have iron eyes;
Eyes solely to embellish
And all the things that it can perceive
Are those in a parcel ground
A land of voracious reveries
And all it failed to hold
Are things vagrantly unfolded
Right before these iron shackles
I have gone astray
Too far, too long, I have been away
But no one knows
And no one cares, anyway
Iron eyes, sleep pensively
With your dreams in a hearse
A cavalcade of whimsy notes
Remember what you are: iron eyes.
poem by Norman Santos
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