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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Related quotes
Lunatic
The pleasure leisurely basking
In the divan of iridescence
A fandango of ocher and vermilion
And the assuaging warmth
Spoke of many gambling riddles
Pawning the omnipresence
For ephemeral thrills
And when the cold of the night
Dissipates with the temporal dark
The garish sun would swoon over
The dabs of recuperation and
The idle volcano will erupt
With arduous lavas in the hottest
Spits of heaven's disgrace
The little deaths' final breaths
Would saunter back your road
Careening in your lids,
And slinging in your nape
And in the clear dermis of the sky
The moon would transpire
Ominously devouring the sun
Inveigling for the dark, the cold
The company of the warm
Embrace of the fire
That only shines
In the
Stark of dark.
poem by Norman Santos
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To Those Dames with Crimson Eyes
I can reckon with the lucidity
Of the tranquil motions of the floor
Those farfetched nights sent to
The scrapings of the harried memory
Your skins, glistening from the blur,
Staggering through a solid corner
Like the stars settled in the firmament
Concealing its desire to fall
Betrothed to the potions of alcohol;
Your eyes, all six of them,
Crossed mine from the jovial turbulence
And I thought, from behind my telescope,
That a soul met another soul;
I permitted my lips to droop with my eyes
Macadamized with iron slyness
Averting the crimson redolence
That beckons a skirmish of the heart
A blitzkrieg of blind shots,
From blatant courteous unwritten words
To long small jeremiad of the silence
Buried in the sighs and diffidence,
To hot grazes boiling the blood vessels
Then the soul intertwined once more
In the crimson gases of the turfs
When you caressed my hair
And have my soul surrender
Exploiting its secrets and laments
Spoken in inebriated language
Of undulating bodies and ruffling sheets,
Jabbing open wounds and scraping skins
That faded in a silent scream.
And now, I aimlessly wonder
What those crimson eyes envisaged
Ignited by toxic lemonades
And serrations of aberrations
To provoke a lackluster man
To pour out the enzymes
Of the insentient soul
Sulking in the jagged corner
With feigned exuberance
And smiles castrated by
Cigarette kisses, hissing with
And enigmatic silence.
I wonder about your names
But I might have sent them
Far in the fathoms of Alaskan graves
Or maybe I forgot to ask them
For the soul was a gypsy
Meandering aimlessly with legs
Slathered by sedative bliss
Pawned for all famished nights
Of wailing bleak howls
But I failed to keep them
For the chemicals in your bloods
Was effortlessly devoured
By hedonistic blarneys
Yet, in these times of abandon
I wonder about you
Longing for answers,
Wanting requisitions;
What does this ugly vessel posses
To be invited in your boudoir
And swallow the phantom swords
With a wry of a smile
Crossing the darkness
As the scant strokes of my silhouette
Leave the fine svelte fringe
With no intention of returning?
My apologies for this comedy,
But it was a good drag
Not in the flesh,
The thighs,
Or the crotch,
But in the wisps
Of the unwanted soul;
The very quintessence
Of being accepted.
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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I Could Be Your Hero
I could be your hero,
I could protect you from the dark,
Save you from the hurricane,
Keep your heart safe,
And mend your scars,
I won't let anyone break your heart,
Won't let anyone torture your soul,
Would you run if i told you too?
Would you never look back?
I could take away your pain,
I could save your soul tonight,
I could protect your heart forever,
Put my shield of love around your heart,
Stop people from being able to get in and break it,
Stop people from scarring it,
I could be your hero tonight,
Stop all of your heartbreak and pain,
Stop the black hole that's sucking up your heart,
That's causing all this pain inside of you,
I could be your hero,
Stop the darkness,
Give you some light in your life,
Stop the darkness inside,
Help it to escape,
Escape from your soul,
So that you can can become full of light,
I could be your hero,
But hero's only happen in fairytales,
And life isn't a fairytale,
Life is a rollercoaster,
Life is pain, hurt and hatred,
life is crying over someone,
Pleading for your Dad to stay,
Pleading your Mum,
Telling her that life is worth it,
Not to end her life.
poem by Charlie Bones
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Pleas of a Claymore II
Have you ever seen a saber?
Took so much beating
In a plethora of derision
As the hands pounded his convictions
Against the feral adversary
Of his stale conqueror,
Lackadaisical and crestfallen
But still fawning in a lash back
To find the elusive direst
Of his tethering fate,
And his silver blood spilled
And scintillated in stellar
Like the mistral tears of a maiden.
And some people esteemed it
Musing in avarice for the clout
That this claymore possessed
Despite of the scarred visage
Or perhaps, because of the incisions
And they would lather the lacquer
Of his chipped and dying blades
To thaw the poignancy
And bend him down to his knees
Rasping upon the stance
Of defensive resistance.
The surrender of a saber
Would stab his own soul
And the hero inside
And his parched tragedies
Would whittle and fritter away
Into the very zenith of cusps
To become a despondent weapon
In the final incarnation of a claymore
But the hands forget
Or sometimes do not care
What the saber was
And seize him in their cradles
Fervently seeking bloodshed
In favor of their legendary conquest.
Have you ever seen a saber?
Malleable with a sole graze
As the hands guided itself
Down his glacial crassness
Reckoning the beatings
In the crevasses of his edges
Ravening upon the triumphs
That the saber gave them
And in spite of the disease
The saber would plead
To be held once again
And take the brunt and blames.
And when the hero bequeaths
The glory of his subsistence
Coming clean and pristine
While the downtrodden friend
Smother in the draping
Of the chrysalis in his scabbard
The claymore would plead
In profound reiteration
To be held once again;
Have you ever heard the hilt of a saber
Call for euthanasia?
poem by Norman Santos
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Sticks And Stones
Sticks and stones, might break my bones
And words, shall never harm me,
I was told that story, when I was a Boy
Along with the birds and bees, I believe
So I lived my life, through that advice
That was given to me in my youth,
That sticks and stones would break my bones
And words could do no harm was true.
So I stayed away from sticks and stones
And tried never calling anyone names
But the sticks still arrived, in my life
And also the words of hate and pain.
But then I had healed from broken bones
And bruises and all the nasty cuts,
It made me stronger, then I thought longer
About the words of hate and such.
Because the words of hate, I couldn't escape
As I noticed them around everyday
Destroying ones soul, until life they'd let go
Or asking GOD for vengeance as they'd pray.
Sticks and stones had broke my bones
And words of hate had really harmed me,
As I look around, I can still hear the sound
Of hate, and belittlement, and bigotry.
There are still broken bones and nasty cuts,
As I see as I enter every day with a walk,
But doctors heal then, as they are new again
But the words of hatred never balks.
In my life I have made many choices,
And I hope with one I don't stand alone
Never to ever use any word of hate
As I don't mind getting hit with sticks or stones.
Randy L. McClave
poem by Randy McClave
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Like a leaf in the wind
Her soul flutters like a leaf in the wind
Clinging on to tree of life
With nothing more than hope
Devoid of pretense
Shorn of desires
Tossed about, at the whim of a gathering storm
Dark cold has slowed the sap
But deep inside, life fights to surge through
Longing for the next sunny day
When the sap will ease through fluid pathways
Until then, her soul flutters like a leaf in the wind
On a high branch she clings alone
While the other leaves huddle
Warm in their numbers
Sheltered in low branches
Wondering how she has lasted so long
While her soul flutters like a leaf in the wind
When the storm blows harder,
She sometimes feels close to giving up
And sinking quietly to the ground below
Returning to dust, from where she arose
But something in her refuses to let go
While her soul flutters like a leaf in the wind
So come wind, come storm,
Blow as you might
She will cling on to the tree of life
This lone leaf will fight.
poem by Anita Atina
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Because You Never Talk to Me...
all that is left of me will be
bones suffering takes the flesh and breaks
the nerves the sad times long
enough shall mellow these
bones into powder decently turning
later into a hundred or more
dusts then you shall
identify with me for dust
too is your final destiny
everything you are shall be dust too
you too shall mellow
now is the best time to talk
in the common ground of our final existence
but it will be too late
the strong wind by then
has blown us all away
scattered specks
lacking the specifics....
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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History Stones People.
History stones people.
They stoned Moses, David and Linclon,
history did that for all to see
Marbel and cement,
that's all it leaves behind
of a long changing life.
Great heroes of time,
fall under the mercy
of the sculptor's knife.
History stones faces,
in a way that would make
ecclestias cringe.
History stones feet,
in a way that would make
piligrims cry.
History stones life
to always stay fresh,
yet, what is life without
the sins of the flesh.
All the radical kids
get stoned
and never change
or even move a muscle.
All the sword raising warriors
history stoned
without blood in their veins.
You can see all the victims
that history stoned
when you walk in the park,
they got kings
and queens
hell, they even got Gods.
They are there captive
in history's stones,
never to be again what they were;
wilting flesh and
breakable bones.
People look up at them
they are victims too.
History's stones fall far,
even on to you.
Those stoned to live
are like the ones stoned to die.
enslaved to the search
of the frozen smile.
Life is a burning bush
that doesn't get consumed.
not a dead rock
or a statue of history.
It's a fusing wind
of happinnes and misery.
An exploding volcano
of courage and fear.
It is the stem of the flower
struggling through the seasons
to stand and bloom
above the drying soil.
Life is the fighting wave
you see at sea
forgotten and denied
by the stones of history.
poem by Samuel Katz
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Shadow Dance
The shadows danced with the hazy smoke
Draped in the malodorous tobacco scent
Rippling the pallid beckon of the summer noon
The shadows danced and lightly rouse
Insurmountable motions of the colossus sea
And lingered with the auspicious truancy
The shadows danced with the svelte strokes
In the maladroit light-flushed and fueled-gush
Whining seep of a violent breath of life
The shadows danced with phantom swords
Scintillating sparks to flicker within the darkness
Slumbering in the corners of somnolent eyes
The shadows danced in the reveling noise
Where the sun never quells the thirsty rose
And never pours for the barren host
The shadows danced and tilted inertia
To greedily gather the myriad of porcelain jars
Brimming with dusts and scripts and stars
The shadows danced and I was enthused
To sway the steely legs gnarled in the silence
Of calculating the shadows rhythmic palpitations
poem by Norman Santos
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The Mountain Cemetery
With their harsh leaves old rhododendrons fill
The crevices in grave plots' broken stones.
The bees renew the blossoms they destroy,
While in the burning air the pines rise still,
Commemorating long forgotten biers.
Their roots replace the semblance of these bones.
The weight of cool, of imperceptible dust
That came from nothing and to nothing came
Is light within the earth and on the air.
The change that so renews itself is just.
The enormous, sundry platitude of death
Is for these bones, bees, trees, and leaves the same.
And splayed upon the ground and through the trees
The mountains' shadow fills and cools the air,
Smoothing the shape of headstones to the earth.
The rhododendrons suffer with the bees
Whose struggles loose ripe petals to the earth,
The heaviest burden it shall ever bear.
Our hard earned knowledge fits us for such sleep.
Although the spring must come, it passes too
To form the burden suffered for what comes.
Whatever we would give our souls to keep
Is merely part of what we call the soul;
What we of time would threaten to undo
All time in its slow scrutiny has done.
For on the grass that starts about the feet
The body's shadow turns, to shape in time,
Soon grown preponderant with creeping shade,
The final shadow that is turn of earth;
And what seems won paid for as in defeat.
poem by Edgar Bowers
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We Still Have Love...
we start with the tradition of life
we begin as bodies
tasting the fire of the flesh
savoring each moment
of skin and bones
and hair
time has a crucible
it tests us
about what we are
what are our intentions
what is in our hearts
our bodies are taken
the flesh weakens
the fire subsides
the skin loosens from the hold of the bones
the bones crack
the hairs have fallen
into surrender
we have become mere minds
intangible intentions
our hearts lose the sounds of the drums of life
we have no more hands to hold with each other
we have become the wind
we breathe into each other
the love that shall then be forgotten
we have become the sighs of the earth
into the darkness of its nights
what then my love? must we transcend the havoc that life
has caused upon us?
tomorrow, the eyes of death shall stare at us
we must decide
let not any stone of earth
be disappointed
we still have love
beyond and above.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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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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And God Created Woman
In a deep sleep I fell
And the music starts 2 swell
One of my ribs he took and it shall be
Bone of my bones (bone of my bones)
And God created woman
And we were naked and did not care
Theres a time 2 take and a time 2 share
2 in love, all around and all aware
Flesh of my flesh (flesh of my flesh)
And God created woman
Temptation sweet and so much (sweet and so much)
Surely die if neither one of us shall ye touch (shall ye touch)
Then again we could die from the rush (rush)
Heart of my heart (heart of my heart)
And God created woman (woman)
Woman
My-my-my-my-my-my woman
In my darkest hour I find
Many serpents who have lied (lied)
Given half the chance still Id run 2 your side (run 2 your side)
Love of my love (love of my love)
And God created woman (woman)
And if I never see u again
Its alright 4 I am guilty of no sin
They can have u, Ill have your love in the end
Soul of my soul (soul of my soul)
And God created woman
(God created woman)
(God created woman) (woman)
Flesh of my flesh
(God created woman) (soul)
(God created, God created woman)
(God created, God created woman)
(God created woman)
song performed by by Prince
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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In Memoriam
In memoriam
Tribute to Alfred Lord Tennyson
Old Yew, which graspeth at the stones
that name the underlying dead.
Thy fibres net the dreamless head
thy roots are wrapt around the bones.
Old Yew, which graspeth at the stones.
Hale and heart still long after
the aged men and withered crones.
Have ceased their life of love and laughter.
That name the underlying dead.
Fine samples of the mason’s art
in letters finely chisell’ed.
The stones remain though souls depart
Thy fibres net the dreamless head,
the flesh consumed to feed the tree.
Which lives long after they are dead.
Still clothed each year in greenery.
Thy roots are wrapt around the bones
An embrace closer than they knew
when they were wracked by passions moans
and no doubt longer lasting too.
4-Sep-08
http: // blog.myspace.com/poeticpiers
poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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Game with the Queen
Exigent hands quaver with every piece and every move
Trepidation burns by the wrists and incinerates to approve
Taking leisure with the melody of the clacking marble board
Draining the chance in every silence, a scheme averting discord
A piece sent to the fore; one blind consoling assault
And a thousand fold behind; the corollaries' retort
The head of my pawns unabashedly roll on thy feet
Giving the sanctuary away but seizing through from defeat
A king not philanthropic, but defamed by a flimsy wreak
Of a lifelong war against the juxtaposed throne of golden bleak
Swords unsheathed, hearts on the sleeve; a heedless surrender
Vicissitude lapsed flailing with the knight of hope caped with forever
The erstwhile havoc brought life, and death, to a greater turmoil
An anticipated ally, an astonishing enemy, swords melted in recoil
To the opposing queen who fought for a convicted crown's abduction
If the king would meet thy grandeur in the front line, would there be vindication?
False hope akin to all hope, behead me for I will resurrect
How many times have I surmised and defeated whimsy death?
poem by Norman Santos
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Echo Of Paradise Lost
Sorrow’s sadness tinges,
feathered fluttering soul
with mournful memories
of gleaned purity past.
As soul cries
through possessing use
of humility’s
harnessed heart.
I cloak hope
in a poet’s pitted shield
as I weave each line
to random rhyme.
Even as youth
we stand in our Eventide,
memories flooding
back instead of fading
away - as we walk
forward in dream’s eye.
For how can
the snail know
crawling about
in subdued slime.
With its burden
on its back,
that creation earth.
Stands a vast
height above him?
Man is trapped
like a slug
on a lettuce leaf
in the garden
of deceiving illusion.
I do not know
I have always known
I shall know again
as I knew before.
Many times have I seen...
multitude face of death.
Each time discerning death...
passed me serenely by.
It is not given
for you to die.
Not yet enfolded in
origin earth to lie.
A refreshing wind
must blow
across the face
of cursed land
carrying embryo
of reseeded thought.
For now is prophesy
ordained time of planting.
So catalyst toils
in field to bring,
irrigating waters,
murmuring flow
to parched soil.
Before warm
breath whispered
on siren wind.
Hours are long
in this world
of shadows.
Scars run deep
of many wounds
I bare
on body
of my soul.
Yet even great pain
crumbles broken perishes
like sun bleached dry bones
till pain receding slowly fades.
Weathered with relentless time
or succumbs at sin sentenced grave.
poem by Terence George Craddock
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The old tree weeps
The old tree weeps, its branches low
bend over a path, winding slow
through tilting, toppling, broken stones
fading remains of treasured bones
hidden where moss and ivy grow.
Here lies John Peachey of Harrow
On which Byron sought long ago
phrases of love, amongst deaths thrones,
the old tree weeps.
Where young Allegra's remains know
that words are not enough to show
the lives that die beneath headstones
she was denied one of her own
her father's sins repaid her, so
the old tree weeps.
poem by Diana Rosser
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Hero With A 1,000 Eyes
We were told how the story should go
Strangers in time fighting ancient foes
And that only the way we perceive it
Has changed, it still remains
Somehow its always right against wrong
Always the chance of temptation
But its never as simple as black or white
Day or night
Ever searching for secrets of life
Missing the moments of being alive
But most important things cant be told
Theyre in your soul
Put away all your worry and pain
Destiny doesnt change things
When you find out what you really need
How will you know
How will I know
Well we all need a hero
Of mythical size
To explain what we cant understand
And we all need a hero
To sacrifice his soul
Wheres the hero
With a thousand eyes
With another foolproof plan
You only can see through
The strange disguise
Any maybe find yourself
Deep inside this living hell
That knows you oh so well, knows you so well
Now we wont need a hero
With a thousand eyes
To explain what we cant understand
We wont need a hero
To sacrifice his soul
Whos the hero
With a thousand eyes
With another useless plan
Now we see through
The strange disguise
So you can find yourself
Deep inside this living hell
That knows you oh so well
Knows you so well.
song performed by by Toto
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Payback
She came with a wound and kindled flame
Her silver eyes brimming sore from restriction,
Her sorry lips cautiously treaded in a ballet
As she spewed the sharpest blades of sabers
Slowly, they lunged at me like the drizzles
Carefully aborted for the final fertilization
Of this barren town of peccadilloes and ghosts
She spoke with the sound of a rainy eve—
Of the most powerful vengeance;
Of the most puissant and malleable force:
A forgiveness that shall humble
The most arrogant and lofty towers
I yearned for the shrilling rapier
Like sequestered starlights
Crawling to the ashen cheeks
Of a lonely waxing moon
And as I bled before her statuesque pose
Her doe eyes rummaged for a patch
That needed to be purged and dabbed
Whilst her eyes wandered yonder
To the sunward slopes of faith
And the cascading sun behind the squall
Before her, I am thickened callus
Putrefied by a thousand caligniosity
The downpour beats its wings harder
And when I begged not to grovel
She set the walls in frenzied flames
Her arson audacity loomed
Amongst the prancing flames
And this was a perfect retribution,
A subtle yet flagrant death
Of a seeded misanthropy
With anvil-weight and a life
A little dandelion-pace late.
poem by Norman Santos
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