Still As A Clock
When will the lacquer veneer erode with
Serrated shards of your jubilant complacence?
The Walls of Troy shouting an echolalia
Of somnabulistic susurrations usurping
The harried ego vying in barricaded seams,
Still finagles its claws on the svelte frame
Of my despondent shoulders and the burden
Is etched deeply into the collar bones, strangulated
By the vines of your leisurely blooming garden
Where time sinks into the hollow void,
And strings of icicles soused in fire,
Forbidden memories sprawls like the dermis
Of the passing season's contingency,
And words fluttered like innocuous paper planes
Winnowed by heaving breaths of serendipity
And pummeled by the soft drizzles of verity
Tarnishing the frangible papyrus into the salient
Turbulence of malignant clouts of veracity
When will you arrive like the sun rise
Before you leave like the setting sun?
Dispose the vicissitude's blithe
With the inert plummets of life.
When will you leave like the shadows
Looming in the patios of the nights
And shudder in the vivid throws
Of fire balls and gospel songs?
When will your height reveal the distance
And the depths of the cognizance
Slapping the macadamized ignorance?
When will the engulfing calls
Die with the siren's songs?
When will the sirens drown
Along with the harried frowns?
I'm here, still as a clock
Futilely meandering.
poem by Norman Santos
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Incarceration
I have lost my dexterous hands,
My impenetrable iron eyes,
And the harried sly of my smile,
For all superfluous shards of heaven
Encapsulated in an esoteric creed
Of vying regardless; a hunger
For vindication in its uttermost
Despicable context, more apt
A regardless vying;
When I woke up garroted
By the juxtaposed malaise in my bed
That I am a tatterdemalion maudlin
Incarcerated by the mendacity
Of false-hopes and sedative truths
And seized by the sleeper cell
Of the all-pervading pervert:
Harsh veracity, I knew I am
Forever and alone;
A precarious curse of solitariness
And there is no reservation
For recuperation, for convalesce
I lost everything I had
When I had realized,
I never had at all.
poem by Norman Santos
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Paper Plane For The Jealous Lover
If I can ride the cardboard box again
Like a spurious old red Volkswagen
Reckoning when I was child escaping the interstate
Of the buoyed city in my bed that undulates
I would bloat my bag with your photographs
And jarred lucid intervals in case of an arbitrary lapse
And I will probe to find a hill beneath a cliff
Sequestered from the alluring and flagging whiff
Of a blossoming summer, from there I'll built a hovel
Tilling my vault, truncating my veins, come and drag a shovel!
I'll build the porticos with your lacquer portraits
And in the night it will be a lighthouse to coruscate
Vivid flashbacks from the marred malaise
And toil to build an incendiary garden of fireflies
Because they remind me of the lackluster star lights
That had concatenated and knotted our eyes
And our souls; my own, still asphyxiating in your ties
And when the lustrous pangs of compulsion strikes
Like a thief in the silent night, oh, salient jealousy hikes
My barricades, then I shall build myself a paper plane
And leave for the gridlock land and let the fire to wane
From the graze of the grass; plush and white
And the mantling skies filled with unfettered kites
Serendipity, collapse on me
Serendipity, incarcerate me.
poem by Norman Santos
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Sometimes, I
Sometimes I lean on sunsets
like a mildew perched
upon a serrated grass
deadlocked in an eternal frame
catching fire balls
to my conflagrations
Sometimes I go astray
into your color-contrasting skies
like a familiar kite
unfettered from the sculls
of the winds generosity
but I never sojourn
to corrupt its beauty
Sometimes I set fire
unto your hapless downpour,
and sometimes I burn
with your gilded sweat
and succinct wisdom
ardently begotten,
flummoxed quintessence
Sometimes the mausoleum
holds the bones
and sometimes the bones
holds a mausoleum
and the home
dreams of remorse
Sometimes it feels
like the same old hole:
a bottomless pit
but on the rifts
is a sliver of hope -
a bullet electrifying
the rattles on our bones
Sometimes it is a lie,
our adamant departures
but if it is the verity
upon this idiosyncrasy:
If you have truly gone
before I left the room
then I am bedazzled by hope.
poem by Norman Santos
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21st
Let me recount a memoir
In shards of besmirched recollections
And serrated blades of deviations
Over bottles and quicksands
Of a lifeline's merriment
From enduring further two decades
Of a constant teeter-totter.
It was enthused by my best man
With the candor of his own men,
Mellifluously caressing the pallid
Tongues of blazing resistance
To divulge the lion's soul
Beneath the asunder escritoire
And harlequin guzzles.
By God, swell it was!
All four of us cloyed by the seawalls
Of alcohol, nicotine, and the saccharine
Innocuous chances of guffawing
Until I scampered too far
Squandering a forbidden road
And astray in the fastidious voyage
To kiss a released double-decker bus
And there goes the endless topple
And the rapine of the verisimilitude
Of a birthday celebration.
I can reckon a shivering star
Though she was inert and tepid
‘Twas my vision that undulates
As she slewed away my interstate,
She was mantled in macadamized clouds
Soothing in brambly consoles
And that was all that there was.
poem by Norman Santos
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Jaundice
I found you there, clad fully
In a tawny velvet in the visage
Of the sun seekers espionage
Cringing in the svelte beams
Seething through the yawning
Of the assuaging curtains and
The vestiges of your quintessence
Meander with the vacuous
And suspended breathing,
Fringing the cholera slathering
The solitary holidays
In this robust abode, a turret,
The sooty pockmarks
In the pallid tangerine bricks
Condensed the slumbering veneer
Like a hefty ripple in a cesspool
Garish rays swooned marauding
With prismatic buoying mirth
Rather rudimentary and hollow
Impenetrably shallow
Cleaving vexation eagerly
And the vivid coruscations
Casted shadows aloft that bore
Unfathomable ulcer in the flaws
As the gilded chiming bawls
Rouse and float innocuously
My baleful iron eyes toppled
From the adverse gaiety
Perhaps, I belong amongst the gloom
And the shadow is my mooring home:
A bijou for a wavering wander
Through my frangible walls
Vicissitude galloped in berserk
Digressing and regressing
Without the huff and puff
Of a culpable wolf
On the jaundice creeping
The bewildering mirror
poem by Norman Santos
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Struggling For The Dead
From the dampen earth, where the tall grass blades
Never glistened with the svelte grazes of the moon
Slathered with petrichor and moonstruck iridescence
I crumpled the fragments of your soul, the humidity
Festooned with varmints' sinewy crawling tingles
And delinquent stifles from translucent genocide—
A caroming weeps of treason of the salted bones
And putrefied flesh, disintegrating the strangled soul.
Beguiled as a lachrymose hero in a phantom warfare
Hands flailing with the flutters of defeat and barricaded
Chance of redemption; a long dead barren ground unshaken
By any toiling cry and unsheathed swords, I shrill my bones
Just to lament a line in the harried specks of time;
The blame is in the warm crimson draping the hilt
In the pain reckoning life, erected like a statue
Apt for this eloquently written statuesque direst
Where you swam leisurely under the charlatan sun
Devouring the portrait envisaged in the lunatic ball
Gravid with the enthralls of perpetuity, it is a lie;
Now die, sink into the water and let the bubbles
Transpire in ephemeral truancy and remind me
Of the myriad of thousand deaths that gave me
Life, in the scars of your loins and in stones
Casted for a preempted necromancy.
poem by Norman Santos
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Listening To Agujetas
Sing, old man, those true songs of fire,
Songs that were too old for this air
Before you yourself were ever born.
Hammer those words against the night
As, once, you struck at the forge,
Feeling the sting of sparks
Cry out in triumph from its fierce iron.
Let the feet of the dancers play them too,
Your anguished words, your dark-throated songs:
Hammers against the fire within,
Fire against night, night against despair.
poem by Richard Lord
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To The Meandering Lion
Paws scorching the ground
leaving a rivulet of fire
a map for the meandering
Illustrious gilt of a skin
tawny as the sun's sheen
euphoniously sewn to the bones
And your proud head
bobbing with an arrogant crown
and roaring with a subtle clout
A steadfast monolith in the cracks
of the brittle bones and incendiary sand
I want to be who you are - meandering in blithe
poem by Norman Santos
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Leaping Fire
Trees jump up behind the orange flames;
flames surges high – oh high.
Crackling is heard;
Flying ashes is seen.
Girl amid the sprinkling heat.
Flames surges high – oh high.
Heat intensifies,
tears swell in eyes…
…the breeze blows the crackling fire amok.
Run cries the wind, run Girl!
Trees murmur,
sirens in the distance are heard.
Circles of circles:
leaping fire –
leaves, branches are swung
carelessly among the fire amok.
Run cries the wind, run Girl!
Leaping, leaping high into the:
echoing distance –
the fire runs in the mind.
Sirens are heard in the distance
race across town, across
the open city lights of:
heavy burdens…
…only in the mind leaping fire
controls the lonely, oh the lonely.
Fire away, fire away of:
heavy burden.
Leaping fire leaves the mind.
Run cries the wind, run Girl!
Running afar –
sirens racing to catch time,
to catch the heavy burden
cast on:
Run, run Girl…
…and leaping fire
Moves of to disturb:
Another helpless mind.
poem by Celine Berghmans
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When It Hurts The Least
I will leave you with tears crawling down my face
I will leave and it will feel like moving to hell from grace
I will leave because i cannot bear your distance
I will leave because life just wont give us a chance
I will leave knowing i have done everything i could do
I will leave owning nothing but our memories and your photo
I will leave with the last bit of pride left in me
I will leave but first i will unlock my heart and set you free
I will leave and it will tear me apart not looking back
I will leave, wave goodbye and my life will slowly turn black
I will leave knowing i was the luckiest victim of your love
I will leave missing every kiss and touch and all i can no longer have
I will leave but i hope you know i am compelled to
I will leave but i will be devistated as i worshiped you
I will leave though it hurts like mad to be forbidden from your sight
I will leave but your lost reply will kill me when i summon you every night
poem by Ayesha Sartawi
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Pseudo-Romanticism
If lips shall lock,
hands be bolted,
should eyes be closed?
Should souls be soused
in ice, in fire, in electric shivers?
The scintillating intermingling
would linger deep
etched to never cease
like how poetries seal
the bashful emotions,
the reticent desires,
and the feral suffering
Teach me how
to lull your tremors;
what scull your waves
and funnels your vertigo?
Teach me how
to paint your bliss
and erode your malaise
for I know nothing
but the honesty in
entangling strings,
and eloquent attraction
Teach me how to pry
behind your perfumes
and the buds of your
daffodils and carnations
The mellifluous quartz
would recognize my weight
if I can carry you
as I trespass shadows,
chase vicissitude and
molest limitations
But you have to teach me -
Instill knowledge in my
deterred incarceration
if knowledge is important
in romanticism
Or perhaps
all you need is
to unfurl a face,
your empty hands,
your crimson lips
that are devised beautifully
to sing of poetries -
of forthright audacity
in bearing fragile petals
Reveal the mirrors
of your somnolent eyes
and cure my myopia
by reflecting my scars
Break me gently
but do not go gentle
in fixing my wreck
as you infest me
with hope, again
over and over until
I have nothing more
But do not unleash me from
my broken tethers
because they are the vestiges
Of what I used to call love
now in a ludicrous visage
are these tassels
where you should start
to weave and resent
The more I speak
the more I descry
how ignorant I am,
how fastidious, how stiff,
about romanticism
because love
was my painted malady,
my broken fix
And with all my
broken bones
and haunted places
compassion and sympathy
would never cure
my spurious charades
I need my fix
that keeps me broken
and it's not even
a simple romanticism.
poem by Norman Santos
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An Invitation Back to the Vineyard
Forever was the vesper's smile
Like in a nightmare's mist
An eerie breathing hiss
A servile guise striding along
The strife to escalate living
Throttling the abeyance of breath
With the red hands of gaiety
But the vineyard had no eyes
To witness this profound debauchery
So the trample cat-walked leisurely
Amidst the garden's cloak, I
Reckon with these ancient eyes
The dark that loiters in ubiquity
Under the nubile and florid light
Of the moon's chaste flourishing
Brewing the concoction of
A rose-wine dance of fire
And the whiffs of haughty ivy
Lost in the ghastly mangrove
My vision in an agog pirouette
And in this dour soliloquy stood
A sentry warding off the caterwauls
Endeavoring to disentangle from
The yards' saccharine and agonizing grope
A fiendish comrade that never abandons
Until I moseyed farther from the yard
Where the roots are buried at my feet,
The vines of eloquent wisps are spangling
Like lynches under the moonbeam
In a knot of vehement condensing,
The redolence is preposterously resilient
In a loop of melancholic bitter-sweetness;
Tongue in cheek: steadfast yet flimsy
Cobwebs drifted with an insidious sheen
Tranquilizing the lamp with shrills of fear
But this sentry fire I had held like my skin
That drove the shadows of the vineyard
Back into the cradle, the valley of dying stars
Spits scorches to the cognizance and fraternity
Of the shackles that tethered me here
In this feigned state of inebriation
And splintered me from the vineyard
Where my bones bloomed in desiccation,
Closer and closer, the vineyard closes in
Safe and sound from the horrors
Of the vineyard's myths and lore
The echoes of the cellar, the chateau;
The mooring point of the topple,
The ceiling of vertical trance, and
The pillars, the constitutions,
The home, the shadow, the genesis
And the wine that fills the goblet,
Without my misery, I subsist
In this monopolized purveyance,
In this spinning roulette tryst
But I am rather empty
And now I fear the lack of fear
The distance from the nights
That haunts the grotesque vineyard
Now, I linger with the taste of death
Sauntering in the contours of my tongue
Futilely waiting for the invitation
Back to my crimson deluged walls
And sweet and sour trickled floor
Because home is where I sprouted
My roots and stretched my vines
Tangling with angst and agony
Still, this is where I should putrefy
In the vineyard of dreams on fire
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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Revenge on a Supply Teacher
Yes the teacher’s ill,
No work, no teachers means no rules.
Code Red, Code Red teacher spotted,
Coming down the corridor heading towards us,
Battle stations.
Anthony get the planes ready,
Joe paper balls,
Spike water balloons,
Bruno pencils,
Henry ehh what ever you do best.
Target approaching door handle,
Stand by….
Open fire on 3,
3…2…1…
Fire!
Planes flew into the teachers eyes,
Paper balls whacked off his head,
Water balloons soaked the teacher from head down,
Pencils jabbed him everywhere.
Oh no,
You alright sir,
You look a bit wet,
We thought you were ill…
poem by Dean Painter
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Pain is a plenty harried thing
Pain is a plenty harried thing,
It too is in plentiful pain.
Pain too prays for reprieve from the Lord,
It too wishes for a merciful end;
Pain has pained itself with the painful realization,
That it is the root of the cause of the source of all pain;
That is why pain is a plenty harried thing,
For it too is in plentiful pain.
Pain is a plenty harried thing,
It too hopes that the morrow starts at leisure
And that maybe it could rise (one day) from within itself
And become its prodigal brother: Pleasure.
We blame pain, we hate pain but we all go seeking it,
Pain doesn’t stalk us, we stalk pain;
If it wasn’t for us, Pain would yet be an unknown hermit,
For it too is in plentiful pain.
Pain is a plenty harried thing,
It too gazes into the stars and watches the days go by without reform;
Pain grieves for the pain it feels deep inside,
Pain too struggles against exploit and harm.
Pain is the seedling of the plant of the tree,
Of Life, which is nothing without this pain;
And I do not crave Pain and it does not crave me,
For it too is in plentiful pain.
poem by Samah Khan
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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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An Orchestra Of Crying Plumes
A jay, in cobalt and sapphire
Perched aloft a leafless birch
Pouring water in a harried mire
And in her fluid songs I search
The buoy bequeathed for my mass
Yet there was not a single notch
Of reward, otherwise there was
A flawless, gaudy, vindictive mirror
Revealing the serrated patches
A lark, in the shadows of the fire
Ablaze behind the valiant sun
Sets autumn in times of dire
Thirst for a light, still, it waned
Into the very kiss of winter
Inside my prattling bones
Siphoning the ice the sun pilfered
And everything froze like a stone
A swallow, chirping mediocre tunes
Come along! Adhere and croon
To fester the slumbering runes
Where not a soul sings to swoon
Yet, in vain, the wind shall not
Cradle this monotonous wail
Dispensing the elegiac trot
Of despondence in the lilt's flail
A finch, singing the myriad of her palette
Connoisseur in painting the lifeless ages
With a subtle whimsy pirouette
Peppering the vacant pages
But how taut was the rivulet
That streamed across this land?
Washing away the prism
Of the lavish strands
That sew the gray schism.
poem by Norman Santos
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Of Liberation
Holy these shackles of utopian citadel,
Profane this constant vying in veils,
Sine of great filters to parcel
The lifeless body from the ageless soul
We resume our astray meander
As seraphs round their patios above
And fiends lurk and beat around the bushes
Yonder this finite circumference
Calculating the starved preying,
Pouring more dreams in the cloying
We kneel before carnivals with sentiments
And flounder hazily with the cinders
Of charred scripts in escritoires
Come, breathe in the daunted air
To congeal a leonine heart
And stand in the piercing pinnacle
Of a robust warfare between
Existence, angels, demons and
The hedonistic souls capitulated
Inside the labyrinth of this poetry
Sway your macadamized legs
With the pendulums of serendipity
Only to beat its maladroit pace
And efface the wrought definition
Of brooding poverty and the pallid
Concoction of virulent errs and flaws
We are the rings that bind the ladders
And the slither of the escalating serpents
That the rolling dice pawned for the gambling
For the consummated liberation—
Not in the abeyance of breathing,
Or the instigation of the thawing
Into the road-killing interpolation
That slathers our heaving veins
Pulsating infidel songs and verses
Hold on in the gnarling prayer
And as we touch the tangerine gloaming
We'll morph into the crimson slicing
The demise of our days and nights
And we will become the syllabication
Of our infinite swansong soaring
With the utter of hallelujah!
poem by Norman Santos
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An Ignorant Monger
Uncouth interpolations rummage in and out
The jagged paths of your tongue where a stone
Sines the road of ignorance and malignance
God forbid the flesh and bones void of soul
May the lightning struck the spines and spikes
Buried in the harried moans of grief and relief
God forbid ten folds and eternity
poem by Norman Santos
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Kite Hands (Transalation Of Kamay na Guryon)
Your supple, kite-like hands
bludgeoning with the weathered wind,
prancing on the frontiers of restrictions
It seems to me that you can graze
and seize the sun without burning
But the proximity of distance
shorn by the figure of your ashen hands,
in between the sun's gilded breaths
and the pitch black shadows of its dance
is but a splendid, fragmented illusion
And the svelte cord fastening the kite
is the only lace fixing this illusion
to the reality that was seeded
by the zephyr winds of hope
and the meek heaving of memories
poem by Norman Santos
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