Metamorphosing Into Poignancy
There upon the soughing coughs of
the interminable vacuum of gravity,
the poems sprawled intermingling with
a desire to be read along with tatterdemalion
tragedies awaiting for the fall of Troy's defenses
to succumb into the unsolicited succors
cloyed upon your generous hands
Bibliophilic remedies only revives the flowers
felled in your gray-faced mausoleum
along with the bard's crooning to the
marigolds prancing for rain and sunshine;
The reflection in the blood-spattered tiles pries
for a sangfroid perchance that barters treasures
for these despondent malingerers' desire
Defenestrated with a roll of tobacco-lust,
the effluence of smoke carrying your faint
ambers crawled into the sky before it fecundated -
skin to soul inward-fulmination, and gave birth
to a phantasmagoria festooned with the veritable
pangs of misery protecting the frailty of
a white rose's calculated corolla of petals
There is no backdoors waiting in this labyrinth
so I roamed with dove-feet sunwards
donned in a raiment of shattered glass, I kneel
before the moon's phosphorous jeopardy
and prayed a succinct and embarrassed plea
to be taken in the cradles of your lost lullaby
But the cacophonous propinquity of the
dungeons where I abolished my only wish and
the suppuration of your tender pensiveness
toppled in a gravid dyslexia of niceties
and the entropy of empathy succumbs
to the larceny where the mindless
dandelions gave up their roots and family
What is more austere than the grief in wanting
something as perilous as a freefall in a gully
of fatally abundant-coloured finches is to
tether one's desire to the sullen bliss of
an empty tableau that ousts every blood
etched upon its obstinate ashen skin
The windless sand caught the fire seething
with the raining lances and the insinuation
of naivety personified, and in that cold war,
haplessly naked to the merciless conflagrations
I permitted my shriveled hands to percolate
through the infinite quartz, probing for the lost
end of a shapeless thread that shall fit the
ajar eye of my needle and perhaps resume
the weaving of my already sun-washed tapestry
Metamorphosing endlessly, shifting is a fix
below the grandiosity of chandeliers and
inside the cravings of a lurid vanity
mirroring the grotesque aftermath,
on and on, I debilitated my perfunctory mouth
to spill the simple soul into the garish light
without any rational purpose at all.
poem by Norman Santos
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Weak Beacons
The sunset of November leaned against
The propinquity of a hostile defense
And a yearning for all the suspended tears
Channeling from a cloyed and battered heart
Its alloyed blood rushed with a vexation
That molted daggers of vengeance
Unyielding to the farce world of stones
But in the illustrious night, the bones quivered
And rattled like the austere pebbles
Carrying our impeding lamentations
Somewhere, the red sun's beam engulfed
A drab bud uncurling its ancient wishes
Left unheard as the pollens shook away
Like dusts waning from the sun's graze
Whilst a flower withered to decadence
As its corolla expanded into a circle
Touching each other and coming closer
To the juxtaposition of life and death
A demise swayed like a pendulum
Refraining from the vulnerability
That was only stropped by the sibilance
Of this groveling paroxysm
The sun vying against its inertia
Gilded by a robust flame spat unto
The very leprous infection of the soul
And in these abundant transitions -
An asylum of metamorphosing cycle
I caught my own reflection in yours
Crying underneath the provoked wails
Scraping the veneer of a faithful heart
And wallowing a forward tongue
The hurtling of spear-like words
Gilded by the coruscations of what was
Stabbed like daggers on the back
Yet we feel the same, even hone the same wrath
Against all this oppressive games
And we are the same in different suits
Sleeping on different nights
Festooned by different vulturine cries
And penumbras of a lunar dime
I caught my bleared reflection -
Incarcerated inside a person I never knew
Gorging in the stale banquets of rues
Wearing shoes like a felled star
Running towards a lost future
Eyes riveted in a cold cellar
Of the dark pathos of the past
The gloaming spread its arms
And embraced the dying whims
As far as November can be
We sighed what we thought our final sighs
Like brothers in a call to incongruent arms -
Like weak beacons once aloft now toppled
And said good night to our dissimilar demise
I said good night to our different indifference
And embraced my sundered dusk
Coiling for an honest good night.
poem by Norman Santos
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Usurped Eternal Frame
Your vines crawling upon my constitutions -
a glove to the empty hands of my
insufficient quintessence decapitates
the imposition with a severe abandon
In a not so subtle larceny of flames,
I foisted an intrepid whuthering
equipoise my defeated brawls
slowly stone-freezing in naivety
Because this loquacious tableau
still jousts with your nonplus propositions
adhering to the mellifluous conflagrations
by the hands of your phantom's exodus
And still, the furnace of your skies
shears the shadows of your manifold nets
like a storm-troubled sunny day
passing with an undecipherable augury
And like a murder of crows
I malingered on your adamant frame
pensively waiting for an aeon to fluctuate
and succumb to your succinct eternity
The searchlights pried behind curtains
and the sieves of the persiennes
its vindictive glare snide on my face
when it caught my sullen stares
The intrepid percolation inveigles
the beleaguered privacy to submission
but why are the supercilious rifles aimed
with stifling danger on my chest?
And the jabbing of your trifle attention
scathes my assuaging beacons, and
I donned more metal, more ignorance
descried out of safety and out of bliss
So I rocked slowly in this limbo and
the cadence of saudade serenades,
obstinately waiting for the an iota of change
to dance in a binary rhythmic pulse
Because in this eternal frame -
a bad case of impassable musing
reality grew visions and they are
usurping my delusions ever more.
poem by Norman Santos
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Reflection
Reflection
By: Adam M. Snow
The reflection in this cracked mirror shows only two;
my essence, my soul; it's also true.
My soul is tainted, my essence is numb;
my dreams grew dark, this is what I've become.
My reflection is cracked; I'm out of place;
my heart grows cold, I need your grace.
I'm falling apart; I've lost my way;
what else do you want me to say?
The rippling water's a mist how can that be?
Do I exist to be with thee?
I am cracked and so is my reflection;
these wounds, they show my affection.
Though I am but one in a reflection of two;
trying to find my place anew.
So let my reflection show who I am;
someone who was to be damned.
Let me be but one;
so that I may be done.
My reflections strain drops of blood;
just leave me here in the mud.
My eyes are stained, my touch is cold;
all I need is someone to hold.
My mouth is silent, my love breaks;
my body's bound, my soul aches.
I am but one in the mirror's looking glass;
looking upon my modern pass.
When will my reflection show;
the truth I do not dare to know?
My reflection is cracked; I'm out of place;
my heart grows cold, I need your grace.
I'm falling apart; I've lost my way;
I'm waiting here for the day.
My skin grew pale, did I died?
I'm here in this corner trying to hide.
My sight has gone; it's the break of dawn;
I'm going back to where it spawned.
The mirror's shattered, not my reflection;
from what I've done this is my infection.
I've been risen yet I fall;
I can't give up on all.
My reflection's viewing pains;
showing me bound by these chains.
I'm forced to face myself in this state;
the mirror shows, this is my fate.
My reflection is broken yet it's whole;
I'm out in the world searching for my life's role.
I'm reaching out through the dark;
searching for the owner of this black mark.
Nevermore does my reflection show;
I'm lost with no where to go.
The mirror's lust has felled;
this is where I dwelled.
My tears fall upon reflection;
this is my resurrection.
The cracked mirror now shows one;
could it be that it's now done?
My reflection's anew;
it's also true.
I'm not the same:
I ignite my flame.
The mirror's now whole with no crack in sight;
I'm no longer in the dark, but the light.
I only love; I do not hate;
I know now that this is my fate.
I faced myself in the mirror;
now that I can see, it's all so clearer.
My ways I've change from what I've became;
I'm the only one to blame.
My reflection is cracked no more;
my pain is gone just like before.
My future is nearer;
all ‘cause I looked in the mirror.
poem by Adam M. Snow
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For Whom The Bell Tolls
I heard a bell bellow
but I didn't find its tower
The echolalia coiled eternally
in distraught from insularity
and the mist listened
For whom the bell tolls
when the sun had set for tomorrow
before it can rise today?
Because your lissome hands
grew brass, writhed cold
Your sapphire stares
rived amongst stones
Your search lights marauded
and probed my wasteland
looking for holes behind
the threadbare tapestry
Your sapient picaresque
finally found its tragedy
and your sunshine-soused hands
is soldered to the brittle bones
Look at you, haplessly caught
in your own tangled web
whilst I lambently watch you
like a wistful stone-fleshed gargoyle
as you weave familiar ripples
born by the deluging struggles
that I managed to survive
Look at how your quasars
excoriate wounds and scars
and how the effluence of their screams
fecundates your chandeliers
ready to burst and become
the cul-de-sac of your galaxy
Look at how you morph
into the molts of my old shadows
and my empathy is with
your obdurate struggling
Can you still remember where
the suppuration of the empty bells sleep
and dream of abundant morrows?
My sun crawled up lazily
I heard a tinkered bell
interpolating with abrasive tongues
willowing the old serpentine road
I saw a scathed hand,
its veins are blue and yellow,
pulling the bell's rope
like foisting punches into the air
I saw a wuthering moth
lambently stride to the flame
and heard a bell bellow
for its subtle elegy.
poem by Norman Santos
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The Guardian and BloodRose
BloodRose,
Rose of my love,
My love for Dark moon,
Dark as my heart,
Black as my soul,
And gave me my rose.
The rose of blood,
With petals soft and black,
Never as a rose so beautiful,
Grown not in light,
But under a dark moon lit sky.
Guardian,
Yes a guardian of BloodRose,
With teeth long and sharp,
Claws hard as diamonds,
Scales as dark as night.
My dear sweet guardian,
Guardian black as my heart,
Fire in your eyes,
Shadows in your soul,
A dragon of the dark moon.
A single rose,
With petals so fare,
As dark as my heart,
I now hold in my hand,
The rose of blood.
You are my darkness,
Fear of this love,
This love for you,
Love for darkness,
The cold shadows in my heart
That makes me yearn for you.
Now as you lay dying,
I hold a single rose,
The rose you gave me,
And as I hold it tight,
The thorns slice my hand,
Covered with blood,
My blood.
I have one fear,
The fear of death,
Symbol of my lost love,
Rose as dark as me,
Laying in a pool of blood,
Blood from me.
As I lay dying,
I remember my name,
BloodRose,
I am the rose of blood,
And I died of my own creation.
A creation of perfect beauty,
Petals dark black,
Thorns like small daggers,
Grown from my love,
My love for a dragon,
A dragon as dark as my heart.
Even in my death,
I think of you,
And the rose you gave me,
The rose that killed me,
The Rose of Blood.
poem by Nicolette Gonzalez
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Soul To Soul
Someone along the way derailed your train
And Im having a real hard time
Getting any love thru your defenses
You listen to your heat but I know how well
You listen to your heart
If this is the real thing
Then I want more from you than flesh and blood
So, soul to soul
I know how it feels
Between lover to lover (were gonna be)
So, soul to soul
Like a magnet to steel
Just like lover to lover (were gonna be)
We dont make love so much
Have a bedroom crucifixion
Any love that you receive only seems to go skin deep
You lost the key, dont throw away the house
Tho I love your flesh and blood
This is the real thing
And I want more from you than skin to skin
So, soul to soul
I know how it feels
Between lover to lover (were gonna be)
So, soul to soul
Like a magnet to steel
Just like lover to lover (were gonna be)
Somewhere theres an altar she lays herself across it
And she hands me the blade but I dont, I dont stick it in
So, soul to soul and the faithful all kneel
Every sister and brother (were gonna be)
So, soul to soul and I wish it was real
Just like lover to lover (were gonna be)
And if this aint what you want
You better tell me now baby
Cause I want more from you than skin to skin
So, soul to soul
I know how it feels
Between lover to lover (were gonna be)
So, soul to soul
Like a magnet to steel
Just like lover to lover (were gonna be)
Somewhere theres an alter she lays herself across it
And she hands me the blade but I cant, I wont stick it in
So, soul to soul and the faithful will kneel
Every sister and brother (were gonna be)
So, soul to soul and I wish it was real
Just like lover to lover (were gonna be)
Soul to soul
song performed by by Rick Springfield
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Desire Me Not
desire me not
undesirable am i
pull me like a string
an end
i have none
desire me not
pain of the needle
piercing am i
blood drips from my
mind and
stains are all over the
the clothes of my body
naked
and tattooed and
threatening to the senses
of what is true
i am spun from lies
and lies you said
you abhor
savor me not for i am
an herb bitter
lick me not for i am a plant
all made of thorns
and sap
that blinds the eye
of those who pretend
seeing me
like sun am i
burning burning itself
to give
you light and
be not confident
i also know how
to scorch for torch
am i
burning what says
to be dry
desire me not
for at the end
i know the answer to
the riddle of the
Sphinx
the world crumples
before my feet
and then desire me
not
for without a word
shall i be gone
love me not
for i am lost in the woods
of love
and lust.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Exhuming The Bones Of Naivety
I was another orphan
from the gravid collections
cloyed by jealousy,
drifting past the irony
I watched it dance -
the usurped splendor
once basked in the innocent eyes -
with the waning dust motes
with a vehemence of a sleeper
Felled from the platoon,
unrifled and guised with a
perfunctory smile,
hiding amidst the enviable insularity
of the rain's iron curtains
complacence is my confidant
my citadel against
my own destructive measures
And when the crooked hands
of the clock unsheathed
its vengeful fusillade
not a shadow flailed,
not a soul squandered,
everything was as still
as an obsidian memory
as if the wanton silence speaks
a mirror of harangue
against the enemy inside
the eyes of naivety.
poem by Norman Santos
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Campaspe
Turn from the ways of this Woman! Campaspe we call her by name -
She is fairer than flowers of the fire -
she is brighter than brightness of flame.
As a song that strikes swift to the heart
with the beat of the blood of the South,
And a light and a leap and a smart, is the play of her perilous mouth.
Her eyes are as splendours that break in the rain at the set of the sun,
But turn from the steps of Campaspe - a Woman to look at and shun!
Dost thou know of the cunning of Beauty? Take heed to thyself and beware
Of the trap in the droop in the raiment - the snare in the folds of the hair!
She is fulgent in flashes of pearl, the breeze with her breathing is sweet,
But fly from the face of the girl - there is death in the fall of her feet!
Is she maiden or marvel of marble? Oh, rather a tigress at wait
To pounce on thy soul for her pastime - a leopard for love or for hate.
Woman of shadow and furnace! She biteth her lips to restrain
Speech that springs out when she sleepeth,
by the stirs and the starts of her pain.
As music half-shapen of sorrow, with its wants and its infinite wail,
Is the voice of Campaspe, the beauty at bay with her passion dead-pale.
Go out from the courts of her loving, nor tempt the fierce dance of desire
Where thy life would be shrivelled like stubble
in the stress and the fervour of fire!
I know of one, gentle as moonlight - she is sad as the shine of the moon,
But touching the ways of her eyes are: she comes to my soul like a tune -
Like a tune that is filled with faint voices
of the loved and the lost and the lone,
Doth this stranger abide with my silence: like a tune with a tremulous tone.
The leopard, we call her, Campaspe! I pluck at a rose and I stir
To think of this sweet-hearted maiden - what name is too tender for her?
poem by Henry Kendall
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Lionized
The night dawned beneath
the searing diadems
sprawled on the floors
without a king or a queen
like a roarless lion
prancing on a tawny field
without any manifestation -
a gilded mass of a shadow
capitulated from its vigor
The light spangling faintly
upon the sweating glass
the pendulum crashed
with the moon on her boudoir
clad by gargoyle clouds
we possess the darkness
cloyed by our eyes
We took ferocity for granted
whuthering from the ascent
the soldering amber sent -
A babel of roars marauding
the forlorn passages to the
gaping chamber of frailty
like a folded letter sweating
in gasoline we await
to be torched before them:
a terse plea to be saved
in the resonance of the pangs
of a miserable wound's cry
cussing with a threat
In this clandestine stupor
I found the enigma of the trees;
their interpolations caught
in the equinox of time
while the whimsy downpour
beats our jellyfish backs
like storm-troubled wings
heralding ludicrous tidings
and before the jeopardy
cicatrize in the garrisons
we called for seraphic pardons
and their vanguard hailed
like blood lusting lances
turbidly awakening the lions
asleep under their cages
Insinuated from the mayhem
a searing sputter broke
like a child's innocuous laugh
tearing the madhouses
and the farcical torment
The crest of the smoke
assuaged the distraught
clogging the facial veins
unbeknownst to the shattering
before numbness and
naivety was the same
under the parsimony
of truth and humility
Pawned for the rectification
this panacea held
like stars in the firmament
I wished for the chandelier
to break and fall
and in the stupor
I broke for everything
broken and sleeping
under the sepulchral
in a forlorn furlough
perhaps, for never more.
This is the way
of the lions.
poem by Norman Santos
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Glass Boy, Spare Some
Pliant flame, spare one simper for a boy
Who wore a vessel of naked sincerity too lucid
That reduced his opulence into thin films
Of frailty, steadfast with detrimental affection
Of vulnerability, committed to debonair convictions
He submits into a disposition of undeserving woes and pains
In a terrain with no tender arms, a valley of jagged hopes
That glistened like the epitomizing skin of shattered glass
Phosphorescent crust encumbering a fragile soul
Spared of scarce sympathy, corrupted of his golden crown
Abrade of flaws and lamentations, tethered in a town
Of make believe people and cheap bliss that tinker
Inside a hollow glass receptacle too agonizing to touch
The papyrus-thin veneer of diaphanous crust
In a vow to transparency to the skeletons and demons
That cordially lingered in the wardrobe of terror
Giving away all that there is; hope and its disease
Porcelain grandiosity drained in a lack-lusting ride
Of rueful nights, sullying to impotency a glass-like pride
Held by the hand, but who would hold such fragile hands?
Shattered mirrors and razor edges, fulminate thy prancing light
And devour the darkness of the mantling abandonment
Spare a piece of heaven, glass boy of flimsy grip
Spare an ounce of faith, glass boy of authentic grief
For I have enough spared for a goblet full of emptiness
Iron eyes for a glass frame, a boy too earnest.
poem by Norman Santos
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Women
The night was gravid with many secrets
And as the fecundated moon probed
Through the lattices of the branches
The giddy wind shook her lovely boughs
And the sinful fruits fell into the ground
Rapidly blossoming to become the garden
Of a woman's clandestine volitions
And women, I spoke of you:
Like a fell star, a woman can make you wish
Or make you hope and believe in promises
Without constitutions, with empty bliss
A woman will glamor and capture you
With her eloquent and elusive wisps
Like a defenseless bird, she would beat her wings
To scull her own wind and you will plead
To be her zephyr and in her slavery
You shall be ferried to a new firmament
Lamented by her flightless incarceration
Like the enigma of flowers, she exhibits her petals
Like bloomed parasols and her wandering pollens
Will smear your face with the taste of nectar
And saccharine pleasures eluding the sight
Of her perfidiously brambly thorns
The willowy night gave birth to women
In her wintery boudoir and multitude of palettes
And nurtured her antipathy and succinct savor
By giving men a sense of responsibility
To warden a woman's querulous misery
And in the vesper's open palms
We perched like contingent butterflies
So women, I speak to you:
Like a fell star, unfurl your scintillated feet
That made you traverse the misconstrued circles
Where I espied your graceful oscillation
Masquerading your inebriated staggering
Falling like a cold tear in an empty sky
Like a flightless peacock, boast with your plumes
And sing your fluently woven songs
But in the night, smear the rouge in abolition
And let me cater to your attrition,
Weave your nest and be your protection
Like the flowers of vicissitude, inveigle the astray
With your redolent entity and corolla of petals
Like a tiara or a filigree, and wither not
When the rain tarnished for the sunny skies
Reveal your thorns so I can succumb to your enigma.
poem by Norman Santos
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Troy Town
HEAVENBORN Helen, Sparta's queen,
(O Troy Town!)
Had two breasts of heavenly sheen,
The sun and moon of the heart's desire:
All Love's lordship lay between.
(O Troy's down,
Tall Troy's on fire!)
Helen knelt at Venus' shrine,
(O Troy Town!)
Saying, “A little gift is mine,
A little gift for a heart's desire.
Hear me speak and make me a sign!
(O Troy's down,
Tall Troy's on fire!)
“Look, I bring thee a carven cup;
(O Troy Town!)
See it here as I hold it up,—
Shaped it is to the heart's desire,
Fit to fill when the gods would sup.
(O Troy's down,
Tall Troy's on fire!)
“It was moulded like my breast;
(O Troy Town!)
He that sees it may not rest,
Rest at all for his heart's desire.
O give ear to my heart's behest!
(O Troy's down,
Tall Troy's on fire!)
“See my breast, how like it is;
(O Troy Town!)
See it bare for the air to kiss!
Is the cup to thy heart's desire?
O for the breast, O make it his!
(O Troy's down,
Tall Troy's on fire!)
“Yea, for my bosom here I sue;
(O Troy Town!)
Thou must give it where 'tis due,
Give it there to the heart's desire.
Whom do I give my bosom to?
(O Troy's down,
Tall Troy's on fire!)
“Each twin breast is an apple sweet.
(O Troy Town!)
Once an apple stirred the beat
Of thy heart with the heart's desire:—
Say, who brought it then to thy feet?
(O Troy's down,
Tall Troy's on fire!)
“They that claimed it then were three:
(O Troy Town!)
For thy sake two hearts did he
Make forlorn of the heart's desire.
Do for him as he did for thee!
(O Troy's down,
Tall Troy's on fire!)
“Mine are apples grown to the south,
(O Troy Town!)
Grown to taste in the days of drouth,
Taste and waste to the heart's desire:
Mine are apples meet for his mouth.”
(O Troy's down,
Tall Troy's on fire!)
Venus looked on Helen's gift,
(O Troy Town!)
Looked and smiled with subtle drift,
Saw the work of her heart's desire:—
“There thou kneel'st for Love to lift!”
(O Troy's down,
Tall Troy's on fire!)
Venus looked in Helen's face,
(O Troy Town!)
Knew far off an hour and place,
And fire lit from the heart's desire;
Laughed and said, “Thy gift hath grace!”
(O Troy's down,
Tall Troy's on fire!)
Cupid looked on Helen's breast,
(O Troy Town!)
Saw the heart within its nest,
Saw the flame of the heart's desire,—
Marked his arrow's burning crest.
(O Troy's down,
Tall Troy's on fire!)
Cupid took another dart,
(O Troy Town!)
Fledged it for another heart,
Winged the shaft with the heart's desire,
Drew the string and said, “Depart!”
(O Troy's down,
Tall Troy's on fire!)
Paris turned upon his bed,
(O Troy Town!)
Turned upon his bed and said,
Dead at heart with the heart's desire—
“Oh to clasp her golden head!”
(O Troy's down,
Tall Troy's on fire!)
poem by Dante Gabriel Rossetti
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Sequestered From The Emancipated Roses, Deadlocked Thorn
The soigné ultimatum of a flyleaf
stole the peripatetic petals -
in a void facet purged
from floridly trampling texts
How they fandangoed with the flames
and glided transverse frozen brooks
is now a monastic monument
under the sun's stropping gilt
casting a plethora of shadows
that recounts the saccharine antebellum
in a soundless narrative
Amidst this sierra of statuesque memories
I orphaned all my abandonments
humbled and embarrassed, eyes downcast
and unheeding for the celestial supremacy
that waned from my succors,
Flowerless hands scathed by thorns
shearing the obsidian armor
How I loved these roses and its thorns
and avalanched with adulations
as they gyrated with the prairie wind
that pilfered the scent of a garden
manifold of the scarlet corolla of petals
soused in honeysuckled, fire breathing noses
Their bows and nods now desperately
shaking off the pollens afflicted
with the most virulent emotion
The sanguine chandeliers prying
behind the daze of their colours
gave bluster to the parasol-wings and in
the upheaval, they are flowers no longer -
The roots untied to mangle with vicissitude
as my mouth regurgitates ink
from groveling before their banquets
as sly as a firefly around a candle
measuring the undoing of impasse -
always a trifle behind the trail,
running out of wiles, out of time
a scentless hound without a bark
hunting for the smoke of flaming roses
But the dilettante architecture
that gave frame to this lucid dream
is now sullen with lifeless age
brooding for the empty shelves
and the cobweb's noiseless violins
because there is nothing more,
nothing harder to forgive
than the sunrise that shone
with premature mildews
after the flower's withering.
poem by Norman Santos
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Where I Live in This Honorable House of the Laurel Tree
I live in my wooden legs and O
my green green hands.
Too late
to wish I had not run from you, Apollo,
blood moves still in my bark bound veins.
I, who ran nymph foot to foot in flight,
have only this late desire to arm the trees
I lie within. The measure that I have lost
silks my pulse. Each century the trickeries
of need pain me everywhere.
Frost taps my skin and I stay glossed
in honor for you are gone in time. The air
rings for you, for that astonishing rite
of my breathing tent undone within your light.
I only know how untimely lust has tossed
flesh at the wind forever and moved my fears
toward the intimate Rome of myth we crossed.
I am a fist of my unease
as I spill toward the stars in the empty years.
I build the air with the crown of honor; it keys
my out of time and luckless appetite.
You gave me honor too soon, Apollo.
There is no one left who understands
how I wait
here in my wooden legs and O
my green green hands.
poem by Anne Sexton
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Drab Splendor Of A Gargoyle
The dark came generously
with storm-troubled wings
The stars are all quelled
and the wind hangs purposelessly
There is a streak of verdigris
on the cicatrizing vault
A corolla of change dangles,
a shifting moon unfolds
and my imposition remained
a lackluster glacial metal
The weather was still as gold
and voracious as greedy kings
the crooked hands of the day
basked in luxurious rendezvous
Whilst I dreamed in hues of gray
weaving poems to the blasé moon
stitching the tatterdemalion tapestry
that mantled the ailing wounds
I found myself waiting
in front of a riddling mirror
with words unspoken off
If you knock, it will echo
If you burst, it will find tempo
My penetralium convalesced
nauseated from a peremptory vertigo
and my wallflower's petals
are paper-thin no more
thorns spangled its sleep
because it will never uncurl
under the searchlight's whim
I picked the felled letters
harried by the erratic gyration
of the ponderous atmosphere
I watched it turn to ash
as lips burned from their harangue
but the lions remain asleep
with the phantoms of their dens
and everything passed by
with deaf-mute miscalculations
To slur in the banquet
of manifold palettes
is a one-way ticket
for a subtle gargoyle
watching cold fountains
rise and fall, dance and topple
and on the gray clouds
lambently walk without
leaving scars and without
knotting prostate ties
Tonight, I rivet back
into the walls of my cathedral -
A pivoting turret that hisses
for the giant's intimidations.
poem by Norman Santos
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Skin Deep
[verse 1]
Sometimes I feel lost
In a sea of insecurity
That rages inside of me
So terribly caught
And the waves of self-rejection
Make me question my ability
(pre-chorus)
But there's a fire that always burns
And there's a voice inside
And all it wants is tobe heard
[chorus]
'Cause beyond skin deep
There's so much more to see
My hopes, my dreams designed with destiny
I was fashioned with passion
A burning desire to know the One who made me more
He made me more than skin deep
'Cause I am more, I am more than skin deep
So much more
[verse 2]
It's so hard to change
When we are captive to ourselves
Always thirsty for something else
But free or enslaved
We are sons, we are daughters
Called out by the Father's name
(pre-chorus)
So take the fire and let it burn
Unleash the voice inside
'Cause everyone needs to be heard
[chorus]
Beyond skin deep
There's so much more to see
Our hopes, our dreams designed with destiny
We were fashioned with passion
A burning desire to know the One who made us more
He made us more than skin deep
'Cause we are more, we are more than skin deep
So much more
[bridge]
We are more than the future
We are more than the past
We were made to bring glory
Given souls that will last
We are more than our bodies
We are more than the grave
We were brought by His blood
And from ourselves we've been saved
[chorus]
Beyond skin deep
There's so much more to see
Our hopes, our dreams designed with destiny
We were fashioned with passion
A burning desire to know the One who made us more
He made us more than skin deep
'Cause we are more, we are more than skin deep
So much more
We are more than the future
We are more than the past
We were made to bring glory
Given souls that will last
song performed by by ZoeGirl
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Desire
Late night
Party time
All around me
The room is jumping
This feeling I can't contain it
Got me reeling
My blood is pumping
Your eyes move
Like on my body
And the headlights
The heat is rising
Nothing that I can do
Can't stop me from wanting you
I'm losing my self control
If I lose my mind
Touching you tonight
I can't help myself
Gotta satisfy my desire
If I cross the line
If I run this red light
I can't help myself
Gotta satisfy my desire
My desire
Right here
Right now
Pure adrenalin
Pure bliss
As you hold me
Go still
And then we kiss
Nothing that I can do
Can't stop me from wanting you
I'm losing my self control
If I lose my mind
Touching you tonight
I can't help myself
Gotta satisfy my desire
If I cross the line
If I run this red light
I can't help myself
Gotta satisfy my desire
My desire
My desire, my desire, my desire, my desire, my desire
If I lose my mind
Touching you tonight
I can't help myself
Gotta satisfy my desire
If I cross the line
If I run this red light
I can't help myself
Gotta satisfy my desire
My desire
My desire, my desire, my desire, my desire, my desire
song performed by by Holly Valance
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Rosa Flammea
Beautiful demon, O veil those eyes of fire,
Cover your breasts that are whiter than milk, and ruddy
With dewy buds of the magical rose, your body,
Veil your lips from the shining of my desire!
As a rose growing up from hell you waver before me,
Shaking an odorous breath that is fire within;
The Lord Christ may not pardon me this sweet sin,
But the scent of the rose that is rooted in hell steals o'er me.
O Lord Christ, I am lost, I am lost, I am lost!
Her eyes are as stars in a pool and their spell is on me;
She lifts her unsearchable lids, chill fire is upon me,
It shudders through every vein, and my brain is tossed
As the leaves of a tree when the wind coils under and over;
She smiles, and I hear the heart beat in my side;
She lifts her hands, and I swirl in a clutching tide;
But shall my soul not burn in flame if I love her?
She shall veil those eyes, those lips, ah! that breast.
Demon seeking my soul, I do adjure thee,
In the name of him for whose tempted sake I endure thee,
Trouble my sight no more: lost soul, be at rest!
She smiles, and the air grows into a mist of spices,
Frankincense, cinnamon, labdanum, and myrrh
Rise in sweet smoke about the feet of her
Before whom the sweets of the world are as sacrifices.
Cinnamon, frankincense, labdanum, and myrrh
Smoke in the air, the fume of them closes round me;
Help, ere the waves of the flood of odours have drowned me,
Help, ere it be too late! There has no help come,
And I feel that the rose of the pit begins to blossom
Into the likeness of a lost soul on fire,
And the soul that was mine is emptied of all but desire
Of the rose of her lips and the rose of her bosom.
Ah! she smiles the great smile, the immortal shame:
Her mouth to my mouth, though hell be the price hereafter!...
I hear in the whirling winds her windy laughter,
And my soul for this shall whirl in the winds of flame.
poem by Arthur Symons
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Vicissitude IV: Autumn
Undraped from the silver jewelries
And donned with jaded gold
Gravity sat on his eiderdown
Girdling everything in his core
Usurping the land and filleting it
Until it is naked and splinted
From the cumbersome aftermaths
And I, too, unfurl a gilded soul
Married to a wraith of constant brawl
On and on, the creed falls
Shrouded from a multitude of brevity
I wither and fall in acquiescence
With the halcyon cacophony
Laboring honesty, eagerly and haplessly
Only to find it crisp and frangible
Crumbling to pieces only to fall
In autumn's omniscient spell
I watched the brown river flow
And the drifting current to take me
So the topple endures the invigoration
That I held for a sangfroid resistance
Gnawing teeth and kneading hands
In a tête-à-tête with malignance
I cajoled and begged for a consummate defeat
Under this wrecked vicissitude's feet
One last fall, one last shattered hope
One final string of a gilded rope
poem by Norman Santos
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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