Sylvan Guest in the Forlorn Forest
As I lay in the resentment of serrated ryes
And beneath the tempest of impaling lances
That I stashed inside the scathing frame
Of my blatant harlequin repose;
Such a sapid filth, such a torment,
A stranger intruded my forlorn forest
Marauding with a flock of gypsies and pixies
Cloven beneath the echoes of her gyratory
Ebullience, submerged in her spruce plumes,
She laid another set of superfluous cards
In a house of marble and sycophantic pillars—
In the form of her vessel; gilded jewelries
Sealed in sprightly paintings and poetries
All for a shambling gambler's ineptitude
And unsheathe a sword of nimble odds
Succoring, caressing, a despondent hand
In an earnest finagling, you've sublimated
An ornate forest into a lustrous Silver Lake
Adorned by a buoyant polished Swan
Pardon my florid tongue, please do not dispense
This guise I feigned inside a poetry into
A brazen, unabashed, and deprived blarney
And I plea, do not err, do not be beguiled
For truth be unfurled, I like you
In the most unromantic fashion
So as to keep it unstained from treachery
And so, one night I opted to fold a letter
And slip it inside the notches of your door
And as I waft in writing you an epistle
About the gaiety, your gaiety, that tinkers
Beneath your wings, do you know that you have wings?
I saw you used it to inscribe and paint
And probe and divulge the unwritten splendor
Basking in every insignificant possessions
I dallied and mused upon your enigmatic grace
Are you the Zephyr: an ubiquitous crooning?
Or a damsel lost between your own lines?
Or a dreamer at the veers of every stroke?
A sanguine nomad in supernovas, or her fancy, thereof?
Perhaps, you are the psychedelic sunrise
Grazing the films of my weary eaves
And I would not permit Atropos or The Sisters
To rust our modest yet pliant chains
And the combing of your seething rays
Beaux of the unnamed king,
That thrones in a museum,
This is what I meant
When I called you a rubber duck,
You are, pleasantly, a guest
Purging an ornate forlorn forest.
poem by Norman Santos
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Cradle the Lion's Grave
The meandering Lion, impaired by a trance
Of feral instinct and hedonistic impetus
Torn to avert or succumb his fated tragedy
But only festoons the lion's unwritten fable
Ensconced by the eaves of pure enigma
Slithering the ornate tangling forlorn forest
Whilst the Moon stroke the fiery wisps
Of his cynical golden tresses and bastion
Grazing on his poignancy to submission
And scintillating a cordial theme park
Clandestine with a selfish feisty carnival
From the Lion's lacerations that stalls
Upon the labyrinthine forest's walls.
poem by Norman Santos
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The Meandering Lion
Latch the doors,
I want to meander
With flaming feet
Of an opulent lion
Inside my prattling veins
And in the currents
Of your thunders
If you can see them
In the condoles of the scars
And in the knot of my temples.
Let the arrows strike
With vengeance and repugnance
They do not have the heart
Of gilded susurrations,
They can nick my tawny suit
But never touch the soul
Basking in the prowls
Of a protracted and brazen
Glissando.
Stay, inside my forlorn forest
If you can endure the enigma
And if you can wrangle
With the lashing of
My violent yet pliant chains,
Not of lightning,
But of infinity
In the farcical veneer
Of the moon-kissed eaves
Dispensing all amiable jewelries
Into the sea
Of drudgery.
Hear me feign a tongue-tied roar
And rip myself with electric tongues,
Corrupt these eyes of a child
As I pretend to scamper the wiles
Of the labyrinthine riddles;
I am who I am,
A perplex cacophony,
And the dissonance of the desires
To be heard while whispering
A clandestine interpolation.
Leave and shun the scintillations
Of the lackluster stars
That would remind me
Of you and your lucidity
And wedging distraught,
And of being one amongst
These far-flung constellations.
If you cannot give me
A lion soul,
Stay away and permit me
To pretend that I am
A meandering lion.
poem by Norman Santos
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The Waiting Room
As I lay, pensively, dying
Beneath the seething graze of the sun,
In a metaphorical metamorphism,
I found myself, in films, meandering
Like a white eccentric and fictional lion
Dashing through the endless pitch
Hollowness of an ornate forest
The insipid beast teemed with fear
And not of valiance, as in the label
In this pocket of a gyratory cul-de-sac
The ghosts, glacial and searing,
Runs along with my buoyant feet
Their wails struck the barricades
Of the looming myrtle trees
And an echolalia came to life
In its corporeal form, a wintry
Pang that gnawed upon my chest
And I ran faster, like a frenzied fiend
‘Till I saw an opalescent stranger
With a lamp on his rooted feet
And a knowing smile to trust
His ghastly fingers pierced
To an escape door beneath
A virulent garden of mushrooms
Without hesitations, I advanced
And he was left there unaccompanied
With a broken and ghastly smile
A wave of oppressive light surges
In the starkness of the brand new alleys
I can almost stare back at their eyes
But in this estrangement, I fumbled
Severing the savvy of recuperation
Nausea ubiquitously hanged
On a noose for two heads
A tinge of wonder rested on the other—
Why did the spectral stranger
Never went for the escape door?
Perhaps he already knew
The drudgery in leisurely vying
To sprawl your qualms and quandaries
Inside a waiting room, half-alive.
poem by Norman Santos
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Nature's Night
A scented forest in the dark
Beneath the glowing moon
Dampened now by crystal drops
Because the morning's coming soon
The susurrous of sleeping leaves
Like gentle snoring in the night
Where dreams of sweet fertility
Dance beneath the soft moonlight
I wander free upon the breeze
Entranced by everything I see
By sights and sounds and musty scents
And feel the forest deep in me
Caught inside the sultry dreams
I howl with wolves in joyful song
For here beneath the slumbering stars
Lies the place where I belong
poem by John W Flournoy
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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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Under This Tacit Parasol, Your Soiree Perpetuates
A soiree in the woods perpetually beckons
with florid tinkerbells, soothing lulls,
and zephyr unspoken of the leaves -
like a gyratory chill of springtime
Inveigled, I bellowed and bristled, dyed
the colourless soil with my meandering
and there upon the serrated grass
I found a dry stick lying bemused
as futile as the sporadic tremors
of the clockwork hands of day
The night rustled in its bark -
threadbare from the weather's brawl
the moon beaming upon your shawl
with fluorescence that never lied
Yet, I didn't pick you up for your frailty
ruminates with a perilous enigma
under the dark cloaking parasols
of the eaves these trees provide
I can only lay with you, interpolating
with lifted whispers of autumn
and the forest's seizing involution
was a sapid delusion fecundated
by our taciturnly flagrant liaison
I defenestrated all abhorrence and fear
held against the black sheen of things
verging on a flawless splendor
that topples perfection, precision
And in this parcel of the earth
you were a king in a naked guise
and many a moniker but
a mongrel not, for you are
pure and stained like humanity
except you are subliminal than us
And with a bad case of forgetfulness
I tried to etch you deeply
in my own ornately engineered
vault of branching and rooted things
that even now that the perspiration
had dissipated with our communication,
the carousal sojourned unbreakably
to the station of veritable allusions;
I still remember you - as stark
as how you've deleted my memory
from your pockmarks as it
gleamed your true colour
when you jumped into the hearth
and incinerated to provide
a temporal warmth in the
ubiquity of vicissitude's morphing
Your talon-like nose breathing
under curses and words woven
like silk to the moon's fringes
and in this disembogued forest
I reckon you as you were
vying against the gait lashes
that will never be my own
like the reveries repressed
of a misbegotten photograph
Eternal childhood dry as a stick
coiled silently on the dirty ground
differing mathematical equations -
I am just like who you were
and in this forest's privacy
you are eternal, like who you were.
poem by Norman Santos
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The Lion of the Dusk
The flourished crimson heaven
That had been mantling the meagerness
Of the famished world
Slowly escaped in seething hisses.
Every layer of faint illumination
That dissipates is refilled
By a jet black cloak.
The cicadas and the crickets
Seemed to enjoy the sublimation
And started on a
Strident carousal,
The soaring birds sang
Their swansong as
They heaved the thinning air
To ferry their plumage home,
The dog-tired grass
Halted from beating the blows
Of the southern winds,
The wind dragged deeper
From the clandestine place
Where it was accumulating
And the afternoon zephyr
Started to whistle
To call for the pouncing gales,
The trees stooped
And their eaves scooped lower.
The premature night extended
Its pliant hand holding
A lighted match and sets fire
To the slumbering
Sundered quasars.
And then it hanged a slice
Of a bloated disk
Burnished with pallid opalescence.
There was something subtle
In the dance of the dawning eve
Along the halls of ambiguity
That is not too subtle,
For you can feel it in insentience.
It was subliminal and with ornate
Delicacy that could only unfurl
Its armadillo potency
To a soul with a lion's heart.
In the pensive metamorphosis
Of the firmament,
An olive pond resting
On the core of the frowning
Life ebbs with the cloying
Darkness.
Its resilient diminutive surges
Swelled and rouse into
A silver river.
It roused shrilling,
Hastily filling
The drought in the hungry mouth
Of a vale.
It circumnavigated
And shrouded
The whole forest
And the lion could not escape
The lure of the briskly mirrors.
The clarity of its veneer
Resembles the piercing
Enamel of death's scythe
And the lion mused upon
The face of reality
In its hostile fangs.
Wrought defeats,
Scarred abandons,
Marred advances
Were groveling in the dark lids
Of two tired and deluded eyes.
The lion stood like a frozen rock,
His feet were a frozen brook.
Before the frozen pillars thaw,
The lion ran with scorching alacrity
Escaping the alluring slices
Of the starlights in the vivid reflection;
Running back to slumber on his den.
His den; a cavern of profound
And grotesque assemble
Of copper yarns, metal strings,
And serrated attachments
That pulls each other
In a taut embrace
Then toppled
As a cloying phantasm.
And there were hurtling daggers
Nicking in his tawny skin.
One got him in the chest,
And he lowered his head.
His golden mane tangled up
In the stubbles of his face.
An owl hooted
From the distance
And the echoes of it
Hammered the punctured chest.
The forest stooped lower that night
In a desire to haul and cradle
The tatterdemalion lion,
But the forest's arms
Could never reach a wandering soul.
The lion ceaselessly vied
In profanity.
He hunts surreptitiously
For chances
Of vindicating his golden diadem.
In such instances,
He would divulge the colossus heart
Made of diamonds.
In those instances,
The scars and disease
Would overwhelm and engulf
The diamond heart to shatter
In jagged pieces.
The forest has ears,
But the roars and prowls of the lion
Exploded in an atomic static
That no ears
Can ever realize.
The forest has eyes,
And he can see
The lion sprinting into
The expanding breadth
Of the pitch black
Holding a fire fueled
By a lithe ardor between
His latticing fangs,
In the semblance of
The waking dusk itself.
The forest had no tongue
But it had called the lion
Several times,
And the leaves pranced
For the wind to carry its message,
Brushing the laments of the lion.
The forest called him "The Lion of the Dusk".
And the forest could only brood
In the brittleness
Of each sunrise,
That he could never speak of
What the lion was
And no one would ever find
The lion in his lanky,
Unattractive and farcical veneer.
poem by Norman Santos
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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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Casted In a Mirror Bijou
Reel around the reflection
Deflecting an incarnation
That you denied or opted
I would never comprehend
For I'm incapable and enfeebled,
Estranged and castrated,
Of your enigmatic game
Yet I would half-heartedly remain
Askance your cold shoulders
And in the permeability
Of your sallow pupils
The mirror house will reveal
What you denied to perceive
And I shall bury you
Like a forlorn secret
In your own deluging image
And the shattered glasses
Will be your nameless stones
Shuddering the serrated blades
Upon my three-inch wrists
As I bleed everything out
And drain my marionette skeleton
And there by the ghosts
Of your ubiquitous silhouette
I will mourn and in the meantime,
In between time, and aftertime,
I will find the debris of myself
Inside a mirror grave.
poem by Norman Santos
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I’m Lost
I AM LOST
Deep inside the forest, its too dark,
Its no light here, there is no way to enlightenment..
I found myself lost.
Neither I can go forward,
nor I will come back from here.
What i am doing is just waiting for sunrise,
to know whether it is east or west,
coz... i m lost.
I m lost in the way,
Once I thought would lead to my life,
but now its nowhere that I can go.
Its the darkness of the forest,
that is forcing me to thrive,
I am thrashed to be lost,
being lost to loser,
I AM LOST...
poem by Vaibhav Rawat
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Butterfly Pestilence
Under a rubber tree and her spangling hair
Beneath her canopy and the aberrant flair
A cavalcade of lambent orbs in an aerial parade
The Mardi Gras drifted shambling in a masquerade
The lantern in my hands combed by the whisper
Of the night's lips, a goodnight kiss from a mother
Scrawny fingers, let loose of the groping crevasse
Of the lantern and it will slither in the maladroit haze
The hoarfrost of departure beguiles the arrival
Of the winged executrix of the influx of a carnival
With passion beneath her wings of different potions
Beneath a rubber tree, generating proportions and distortions
Perch daintily on my open fists of iron and cinder
And quell the arresting scent of perpetual amber
With the splendors of your demagogic delinquency
And the pixie powders bearing the solvency
The hungry mouth in the burl of the rubber tree
Will consume me from beneath her canopy
Until my hands fold like a butterfly
When it release the lantern and clinch the behemoth's cry.
poem by Norman Santos
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Silver Satin Wings
I dont mean to be bad, said the bubble headed blonde,
And it was probably true.
But what else can you do when looks are all people notice
And looks are all that they want, too.
And now shes sitting in the bedroom and shes crying
Now she lies beneath his silver satin
Wings cause she was never raised to know any better
Because he is the best thing she has ever seen
And papa said shes too cute for words
So she never learned how to speak
And mama said she dont need to read
Just a hot mercedes and a decent man that wont (spring a leak)?
So now shes sitting in the bedroom and shes crying
Now she lies beneath his silver satin wings
Cause she was never raised to know any better
Because he is the best thing she has ever seen
In school all she learned that talk is cheap
But looks they come for free
They said hey, why try and think girl, if you can smile
And get anything you need?
So now shes sitting in the bedroom and shes crying
Now she lies beneath his silver satin wings
Cause she was never raised to know any better
Because he is the best thing she has ever seen
She said sometimes theres this fear inside
That cannot sleep at night, though he is sleeping fine
And I used to like the way he talked
Before I knew promises were just other words for goodbye.
See now shes sitting in the bedroom and shes crying
As she lies beneath his silver satin wings
Cause she was never raised to know any better
Because he is the best thing she
He is the best thing she will ever see.
song performed by by Jewel
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Beauteous Forest Vavroovahana Patra
Beauteous is the forest;
In summer provides oxygen.
Tranquilises creatures minds, provides peace, merriment.
The forest is beautiful, mother’s shrine smiles in the forest, devotees
are delightful.
Beneath the trees shade passers-by rest a while, chilly breeze kisses
The passers-by gaudily;
Passers-by enchant peacefully.
Poets rest a while, depict beauteous poems enthusiastically;
Inhale pure oxygen gladly.
The green forest is a Gift of Almighty;
In all poets mind provides peace, gaiety.
Poet depicts the Eternal Truth of life;
Provides peace in human minds, evaporates grief.
I pray my mother Sarala Daily;
Mind derives perennial peace cheerfully.
Chanting hymns I derive peace;
Singing mother’s devotional songs derive bliss.
poem by Vavroovahana Patra
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The Unbeliever
He sleeps on the top of a mast. - Bunyan
He sleeps on the top of a mast
with his eyes fast closed.
The sails fall away below him
like the sheets of his bed,
leaving out in the air of the night the sleeper's head.
Asleep he was transported there,
asleep he curled
in a gilded ball on the mast's top,
or climbed inside
a gilded bird, or blindly seated himself astride.
"I am founded on marble pillars,"
said a cloud. "I never move.
See the pillars there in the sea?"
Secure in introspection
he peers at the watery pillars of his reflection.
A gull had wings under his
and remarked that the air
was "like marble." He said: "Up here
I tower through the sky
for the marble wings on my tower-top fly."
But he sleeps on the top of his mast
with his eyes closed tight.
The gull inquired into his dream,
which was, "I must not fall.
The spangled sea below wants me to fall.
It is hard as diamonds; it wants to destroy us all."
poem by Elizabeth Bishop
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Lady in the Lighthouse
The raucous starlight could only extemporize
The chutzpa of a jocund seafaring crew—
That vigor, which ignites the forlorn sailing
Which remained unavailable inside the isolation
Of a gelid helm, where the walls and ceilings moan
Upon blotches of the effulgent full moon
Basking upon the hazy floor parquetry.
As I wrangled with the lullaby of somnolence
I self-consciously sever my scrawny aged fingers
Groping greedily by the steering wheel,
And parceling the immense myriad of tides
Of the devouring jaws of the open sea,
When I saw, from a sentry, a lady of mystique
Her rasping ropy hair wedged the luster
Of the illumination clasped by the lighthouse
Her billowing nightgown ceaselessly fluttered
With the waves that conceived and cradled
My seaward yearning, my cloistered flee.
She bought a pliant undulant hand in motion
Waving and careening, vexing confusion
And creating a phantasm in the gloom
Hues of her dawdling shadows by the sea
That inexorably feigned an optimistic anticipation
Upon the achy facet of my moon-paced wondering;
An endless sauntering in the ornate mind map,
I was enthralled by the harpoons of her expensive
Glasgow smile and her vague but arresting eyes
That had kissed the ring of the esoteric Capitan
And eerily, I had momentarily forgotten
The fractions and distractions that never elapsed
That had brought me to this nautical wandering
And jarringly, I had momentarily ambitioned
To dwell with the illustrious delusions
That I had unfurled in fortuity, by the sea,
In the lighthouse of tangential offerings.
The lighthouse shivered and cringed in the haze
Of a profound astigmatism in my gray eyes
Festooned with serrated and slivered hopes
And the mirage ebbed away with violent eddies
And I, alone and forever, the Capitan
Surrendered back into my forlorn searching.
poem by Norman Santos
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Inside
Inside the doors are sealed to love
Inside my heart is sleeping
Inside the fingers of my glove
Inside the bones of my right hand
Inside it's colder than the stars
Inside the dogs are weeping
Inside the circus of the wind
Inside the clocks are filled with sand
Inside she'll never hurt me
Inside the winter's creeping
Inside the compass of the night
Inside the folding of the land
Outside the stars are turning
Outside the world's still burning
Inside my head's a box of stars I never dared to open
Inside the wounded hide their scars, inside this lonesome sparrow's fall
Inside the songs of our defeat, they sing of treaties broken
Inside this army's in retreat, we hide beneath the thunder's call
Outside the rain keeps falling
Outside the drums are calling
Outside the flood won't wait
Outside they're hammering down the gate
Love is the child of an endless war
Love is an open wound still raw
Love is a shameless banner unfurled
Love's an explosion,
Love is the fire of the world
Love is a violent star
A tide of destruction
Love is an angry scar
A violation, a mutilation, capitulation, love is annihilation.
Inside the failures of the light, the night is wrapped around me
Inside my eyes deny their sight, you'd never find me in this place
Inside we're hidden from the moonlight, we shift between the shadows
Inside the compass of the night, inside the memory of your face
Outside the walls are shaking
Inside the dogs are waking
Outside the hurricane won't wait
Inside they're howling down the gate
Love is the child of an endless war
Love is an open wound still raw
Love is a shameless banner unfurled-acapo
song performed by by Sting
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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A night mood
The moon reddish color looms through horizon’s fog
In the dancing mist the hazy meadow sleeps
By the green lush a reptilian creature calls his mate frog
There where a shadowy movement stealthily creeps
Water flowers fold their petals round
In the distance tall and in close array
Yellow willows outline their shadowy forms to the ground
And towards the dark thickets the fireflies stray
The screech owl wakes and soundlessly scouts its links
It beats the dark air with heavy wings
And heaven is filled with muffled light
Pale moon appears and spreads the splendor of the night
Rise up! Rise up!
Sloth forlorn silver moon
Send your gleams through the forest glooms
From every branch and leaf
There comes a voice beneath the bower to relief
Oh precious divine moment
The shy sleepy pond not too late behind
Joins to reflect shimmer mirrors
The silhouette of the dim willow
Where the wind calmly lament over water
Oh vast and tender universe sky
An appeasement seems to lower
From the firmament start-adorned
Let us love, let us dream
It is the hour of glamor sheen
copy rights 2010
Stranded (Lyrics)
Your waves come crashing down
Like a semi-auto trailer
I dive so deep in the sea
To avoid killer whales
A perfect moment here and gone
It has sailed
I'll use a hammerhead to drive
Rusty nail inside
I'm feeling the sea beneath me, beneath you
I'm feeling the sea beneath you, beneath me
Imagine if our world was blue and weightless
I never meant to do wrong to you
You're my starfish
You moan a tone so low beyond me
A telepathic sub-sonic frequency
I need a little air for emergency
You have to understand this urgency
I'm feeling the sea beneath me, beneath you
White sand beneath my feet
No brain between my ears
I'm feeling the sea beneath you, beneath me
I know that if I had one
I'd spare us both these years
I'm feeling the sea beneath me, beneath you
White sand beneath my feet
No brain between my ears
I'm feeling the sea beneath you, beneath me
I know that if I had one
I'd spare us both these years
A sea anemone, you're my enemy
poem by Satan's Sibling
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To Be Reborn
how many deaths must i die
to be reborn....
how many crosses carried,
how many deserts crossed?
how many tears must i cry
(tho they be at night when no one can see) ,
how many bruises, scars...
how many times must i bleed?
if I am not I,
then whose breath this stranger?
whose feet in my shoes?
whose hat on my head?
i stand in the moonlight,
and look at the rafters,
measuring rope inch by inch!
i am quite sure even the snail laughs
at this quarrel between me and me...
i look at the lines beneath my eyes,
and see a small boy,
running naked in the woods.
my tongue betrays me garbling words,
my soul leaps from rooftops,
dreaming i can fly!
am i mad? am i furious? no!
just damn determined,
to walk inside rust,
to taste the starlight in dew!
redemption, the old hand
on the breast of god...
and the song inside
the gutteral moan of time!
poem by Eric Cockrell
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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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
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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