The Days of the Sun
A spill of crimson engulfs the lusty fringing line
Whilst cobalt and mauve bicker to intertwine
And saturate in a gelid-steely hue to define
The girth and skin of the poignant horizon
As the gloaming dawn close to topple the occasion
How many colors does the dusk possess?
And why these few tarry on my firmament?
The plethora of sunsets I obstinately watched
Cannot descry what destitution beguiles
So I count and gaze, on an on, without a mind
A phalanx can beckon the exodus in His corolla,
Obstruct the panorama and anticipate the doom
As it esplanade through a month of setting suns
Futilely for the sunrise yonder its tawny cape
That never comes around, never fixes me bound
Of His elegiac maladroit songs by crickets and cicadas
Somnolent brewed to regurgitate the pensive calculations
For many a sunset only undulates to extend and never ascend
Is solitarily reckoned with a masquerade of rues and whines
As the light of hope and significance fell with the shade casted
In the immense parliament of the looming shadows
I trample vociferously disowned by my own days
And the feigned elation held the sunsets at bay
And, in a fencing veneer, stockpiled are the days to follow
For the adamant raiment of sedative bliss remained
Without my vicious skies, who then am I?
A ray of melancholia sifts through interpolating clouds
Struggling to expose its soigné flesh of albino
Into the torpor of my bleared yet thriving iron eyes
He breathed again, soldering, for a myriad of tomorrows
Emancipated from the mendacious lulls of a lunatic enchant
My heaving toes sauntered back His sorrowful malingering
In a day of dance of building shades, superfluous dips into the sea,
A thousand sheets of stripped sincerity and of risqué vulnerability,
Scull again, days of the sun! Here comes again the siphoned man!
And the moribund croon of the clock spun again
Contriving a forbidden tryst like a foreboding roulette
Pirouetting fate; pointing daggers and rolling heads
A montage in vapors of cold and sighs of incisive death
Mantled in familiar hues; Here comes his comrade gloom!
Back underneath my sky, his old barren dominion
Where sunsets give birth to another painstakingly
And soon it hopes to rise, perhaps in the fester of time
Shall it stand triumphant like a monument of beckoning
The eyes that remembered that once lingered here
For now as I woke from a lucid dream and fly from a debauchery
With sore and hope and rejuvenation of quintessence, I shall
Glacially muse upon the perpetual days of the sun
As it shred its glassine skin and run from everyone
Into oblivion, where all the quasar's grazes wan
poem by Norman Santos
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Related quotes
Twenty-nine Thousand Four Hundred Seven Sunsets
Twenty-nine thousand four hundred seven sunsets
With one same sun on the one same sea.
In the early days by my mother’s side,
Though she’d often tell me of the sun and of the sea,
I seldom watched, and never for long,
The slow dissolve,
The melt and plunge,
Now you see it, now you don’t-
So many sunsets lost.
Twenty-nine thousand four hundred seven sunsets
With one same sun on the one same sea.
The years of my youth were marked by friends and sport,
Often whole days on the beach-
Raging winds and mammoth waves
Or a still, glass sea, not a cloud in the sky,
And every shade in between.
I rarely fathomed the myriad shapes and colors,
An ever-changing landscape-
So very many sunsets lost.
Twenty-nine thousand four hundred seven sunsets
With one same sun on the one same sea.
The middle-aged years pinned me to my work;
Yet through a window from time to time,
Or on holiday, if I risked the break,
I’d notice how lovely a sunset could be-
So very many sunsets lost forever.
Twenty-nine thousand four hundred seven sunsets
With one same sun on the one same sea.
At last, in these final days, each sunset is anticipated, craved.
Regardless the mood of the sea, it will receive the sun.
No matter the face of the sky, it will let go the same.
The sun itself, always churning, always burning,
Swells with new brilliance, new radiance and splendor
Each time it approaches the sea,
Then morphs into a molten pool on the sea’s surface
Before plunging from view-
Never more a sunset lost.
Twenty-nine thousand four hundred seven sunsets
With one same sun on the one same sea.
Then one glorious day,
The day of my twenty-nine thousand four hundred and sixth sunset,
And I at my usual place along the shore,
Saw the sun rise out of the sea from where it had just set!
The sun rose back up into the sky, and
In the very next moment on the very same day, it set again.
I experienced my twenty-nine thousand four hundred and seventh sunset,
The second in one day!
Oh glorious day!
A sunset gained.
Twenty-nine thousand four hundred seven sunsets
With one same sun on the one same sea.
(In 2 Kings 20: 9-11 the Lord made the shadow go back 10 steps. Certainly, at that exact moment, somewhere in the world, someone saw the sun dissolve on the horizon and then rise again.)
Garden Of Drudgery
My vicious skies disengaging the exiguous quasars
To thaw the soldering frost-mourn aloft inside
And the maudlin with a frozen brook in a jar
Drowned with shriveled legs from the labyrinthine stride
Now, above head is a mirror of the vast sea
Of people feigning their sedative bliss for agonies
And abortive sorrows propelled in the chalcedony
Sinking everything in a valley of roses and drudgery
Come, lay with me and muse as the albino sun
Scull its superfluous fingers to sine the parliament
Of hostile macabre breaths debauching the wan
And pointless toiling to own or keep the firmament
In the brambly floor of this frowned vale
We shall lacerate to bleed out the vying soul
Until our skin can feel no more, our bones so frail
Shall not break no more, and we will be the lips of the hole
In this garden of drudgery, fluttering with the plucked petals
Everything is painted with the darkest golderfloes
The nadirs are preempted fluent in stains of the vestal
And walls are mightier than the bridges' tows
For the plethora of flowers brew a puissant redolence
That vexes the quintessence of a mystified vagabond
The strings of aromatic auspicious few is now in valence
With treacherous taste of cyanide flaming to abscond
poem by Norman Santos
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Sunsets And You
Sunsets are not a rare commodity
they come and go every night
so i compare you not to a sunset
for you come once in a life
your beauty surpases the colors of the sky
painted anew each night by angels on high
for god himself has sculpted you
he made it so your only seen by few
and you do not hide from the moon
as all the sunsets do
rather you shine bright under its silver light
and you dance all night
you do far more than any sunset would
more breathtaking than any sunset could
sunsets have moved and inspired all man kind since forever
but you move me each moment, to a love that sunsets could never
poem by Daniel Cook
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Saudade Banquet
A plethora of unconscious states dwindle
And sifts through the intricately entangled
Living, whilst recounting the direst in every breath
Fumbling downhill the insurmountable breadth
Of superfluous strides towards a slumbering aubade
Without a paramour, a beau without the valor
To brawl and bicker with the profane matrimony
To the innuendos of the picador's grand party—
The clout of spears girdled to every slip of malady
Augmented for every bat of the lash, regardless of
Vying, struggling, living on the surface or not,
We all are rather desiccating beneath our colors
Dead as cold fountains trying to spew glacial films
Of flimsy incorporeal yearnings, searing aloft
Reaching the singeing grazes of the Quasar King
Building a vertex to oust the quintessence,
To kiss the ring and slob the strangling,
Dispensing the stashed castles into the quicksand
And fulminating the feral feint cloyed inside
The orbs and corpuscles pumping not too subtly
As the myriad of action crawls in every word
To personify the form of a double-edged sword
That this nostalgic flagellating wisps beckon.
poem by Norman Santos
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Sunset Falls
i watched the sunset fall
i was alone, i had no where to go
i had just been told
these awful dreams they come alive from stone
i watched them talk for days
over how we cannot see the peace
begging on my knees
but for nothing he just stares at me
im left alone, no where to go
as sunset falls, im dreaming
he'll always lay beside to watch her sleeping
he'll stand there in the rain to see her smiling
she cant leave knowing that she'll always love him
days end, the sunset falls
i watched the sunrise die
i was so close to letting time go by
woke up from the lies
believing that you were no longer mine
silence fills the night
where am i and whats caught on my mind
as we turn back time
but for something he's still part of me
part of my dream, as i fall asleep
as sunset falls, im dreaming
i heard his heart beating
as he lay there all so close to me
thats when i believed
our sunset fall, our sun just rise up
poem by Shak Orlando
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If You Remembered The Cherries
In these meanders, where the crippled skies
Cannot judge the crowd of errs and faults
Lost in the dicey constellations
We traversed the path of the water
And we chase the gilded corolla of the sun
Like the bards that sang of vertigo
The pathos advanced with a scintillation
In the semblance of the felled daggers
From the banquet of Olympia
You handed him the plush cherries
And he gobbled all of them
As it smeared the gossamer pallor
In his lifeless face, whilst I was
Illuminated by a untwisted bliss
And days fluttered and squandered
Into the mouth of an abyss
And there upon the shards of poetries
He gave you flight and you soared
Together to the wan gloaming
Whilst my paws grew clammy in the soil
As I muse upon your looming shadows
And picturing the taste of cherries
With a baffled asymmetry
Now left a tale yonder the fire
Never be told to keep the light unmarred
poem by Norman Santos
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Sunsets Are The Best
Sunsets are the best, that Mother Nature has to give,
Under the sky's magnificence, you'll live.
Not until you've seen the shades of red;
Sunsets look as if, the angels have bled.
Everything can be made, always better.
The best ones sent home, in a letter,
Sent home to your love, romantic, it will get her.
All the colors blended together like coffee with cream.
Reds, oranges, and the yellows, make me feel it's a dream.
Everyone should watch - they're always supreme.
The worst sunset, is better than the best night;
Held forever in your mind's eye, just might
Envelop your spirit, with colors bright.
Beware what they may do to you,
Else you'll stop, to smell the roses too.
So, every time you get a chance,
Take a breath, and seek romance.
Acrostic Poem
poem by J.B. LeBuert
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For All Of Us A Last Sunset
For all of us a last sunset like for all of us there was a first sunrise
A saying that's been around for years that came from someone wise
And every sunset that we see is one nearer to our last
Our biological clocks are ticking on and ticking ever fast
This evening the sun like a huge red ball set behind the western hill
And how many more sunsets for me since time does not stand still
I watched it disappear from view where it set the sky was red
A weather sign in the twilight sky of warmer days ahead
For all of us a last sunset so very very true
No matter what we achieve in life death it will be our due
Even for the greats of human history there was a last sunset
Though they live on in memory since them we don't forget
For all of us a last sunset the facts do never lie
Since like every other form of life we too are born to die.
poem by Francis Duggan
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Defenestration
Summer passed by the window pane
With a moribund myriad of sunsets
Leaving tricks of soldering sweat
That dissipates too easily in a gush
Like how the dampen tears of mire tousled
Into the affluent scorches of the hearth
And with everything passing by
Like eloquent taillight's goodbye
I found myself in the window pane
Musing with eager eyes and stealthily
Trying to pocket surreal painted memories
But somewhere in the vivid montage
The lucidity becomes agonizingly piercing
That it cuts to the flesh and evokes
Unwanted phantoms of ubiquity and perpetuity
Such abstraction of beauty
Reckoning what will never be
And the maudlin that I am becoming
Sates eagerly in the glacial and lifeless
Palm of the window cradling my thawing face
Winter came with slivers of white
Plummeting immaculately into the ground
And stocking hills in my windowsill
Like the coy elusive tears in my lids
Cliff hanging in incertitude, false hope's servitude
Hapless as the sporadic flight of vicissitude
And the mistral mantle swooned completely
Here goes the malady rapping on the glass
The harbinger of the churning machinism of direst
Yonder the melting of the thin ice
And its smooth moiré of aqueous white
Autumn crawls down into its staircase
With such complacent grace, in eager pace
Crackling maple leaves into the charred sole—
A glissando of cacophonies all too sore
Like debris and remnants of a burned home
Autumn shed its skin in a burlesque show
Whilst my vision doze riveted in the window
Fore the blossoming of the prairie, I grazed
And trample into the superfluous cloys
The balmy scent about to spring and rouse
And before the final clout, the sugary kiss of death
And the saccharine words of the final text
I closed the book, preempting what's next
And the pallid aberrational changes of the season
Had never again crossed and tapped the window
poem by Norman Santos
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Gouging the Sun's Vessels
Here we go again, after forty-seven sunsets
Counting the insurmountable steps
Ballasting in the wicks of fireballs emblazing
Subtly stirring the warm nostalgic lullaby
Soused in a maladroit tangerine fire
That parcels the dirty grass blades oozing
From the notches of the downtrodden path
Here, again we bask enthralled to the wafts
Of the gloaming's ubiquitous crowd
Here, we find the footsteps heaved
In the sands desperately fertilizing
In an echopraxic melancholia
Here, we linger with the truant and the charlatan
Five thousand footsteps slumbering in the bassinet
Of inebriated foreign tongues
Stomping upon the malingering apprehension
Mirth and gloom registered in the visage of our liaison
But the sun shall not halt for the summer eve sky
Or the toppling pillars of our frail constitutions
We shall not digress with the violent gush
Rather we let the body be laid to rise
As the sojourner of the sun's setting
Without groveling, permit it be
And watch the footsteps thaw
Into the harlequin sun's maw
We are the wafting and the wisp
Of every dusk's shrouded sleep
And in the oblivious latticing of rays
We shall wander aimlessly the afternoon asleep
poem by Norman Santos
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The Spirit Of Sunset
There is magic at the end of everyday
You can see it on the horizon of play.
The sun slowly drops down to take a rest,
And then we lay down for the night until the morning crest.
There is beauty in every sunset, open your eyes to see perchance.
You may see the Sunset Spirit rest upon the suns departing glance
Her beauty is beyond reproach; her eyes leave a lasting impression.
And although she does not speak, her lips speak the night's confession.
The Sunset Spirit is this and more, she comes from the suns inner core.
She guides are sunsets for our pleasure, so that we are left wanting more
Her lust for attention motivates her, to show all of sunset's glory.
But, this my friends is truly only half of this beautiful story.
The Sunset Spirit has always been and she will always be,
For she has been set upon this earth at the Lord Gods decree
The Sunset Sprit is a savior to ensure the beauty that we all see,
But most of all she is the beauty in the sunset, that always comforts me.
REB (MAY 2012) I Love the sunsets, and to see the real beauty of them, you just have to open our eyes.
poem by Rik Bertrand
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Birghter Days
i look forward
to brighter days
with you,
more lights
to the darkness
of our souls, shades
of hues, and colors
of more rainbows
gentle rains music
of cicadas, soft
night winds and
cheers, and hugs,
and...kisses
brighter days
back to brighter days
on bleak presence
of folding sorrows.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Days in Red
Days days days in red
In days days days ahead
The sun is in autumn light
And moon of glowing dark
Sky deep and high
Days days days in red
Flowing on hours in night
Where love lost its flight
Once those were alright
Now they no more spark
Days days days in red
In days days days ahead
The sun is in autumn light
Is there a horizon of ignite
Where hours go on by
Days days days in red
Flowing memories at sight
No feeling seems now right
But love's still inside
Come come babe now close abide
Days days days in red
In days days days ahead
The sun is in autumn light
Is there a horizon of ignite
Where hours go on by
Days days days in red
poem by Peter S. Quinn
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Wasting Love
Maybe one day Ill be an honest man
Up till now Im doing the best I can
Long roads, long days,
Of sunrise to sunset, sunrise to sunset
Dream on brother while you can
Dream on sister I hope you find the one
All of our lives covered up quickly by the tides of time
Spend your days full of emptyness
Spend your years full of lonliness
Waisting love in a desperate caress
Rolling shadows of nights
Dream on brother while you can
Dream on sister I hope you find the one
All of our lives covered up quickly by the tides of time
Sands are flowing and the lines are in your hand
In your eyes I see the hunger
And the desperate cry that tears the night
song performed by by Iron Maiden
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Trampled Butterfly
You danced around the corolla
trampling universes vertiginously
like a butterfly perched on a flower,
a cold dew undulating in its sleep
Colours spilled from your back
sprawled from the weariness
soused in your saccharine sweat
the treacle of your quiescence
pervasively enticing, pirouetting
upon the dread of my stoic yearning
You sleep with heavy breaths
your body rising and falling
the cadence of your sighs
masquerading your half-open eyes
Your lovely bones shifting lambently
underneath the crimson flesh
beckoning a subtle invitation
to eviscerate in purged lust
I watched you, gazed at your infinity
your peace and risqué symmetry,
your gentle iridescence undiscovered
from your inundating inertness
I waited for you to shatter
the shrouding of your chrysalis
and as you lift your eyelids
your yawn will fill the crevasses
of my derided reality and
vividly deluded saturnalias
poem by Norman Santos
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Seven Days In The Sun
I've got a friend, her name is Laura
We took a holiday, seven sweet days in Majorca
We took a plane through to southern Spain
To see the ocean wave's blue
We sat and watched the moon
As crickets sung back cover tunes
Way back in May
Seven days in the sun, seven days in the sun
She's my heaven
She's a spark
Feels like heaven
So light me up
She's got this friend, his name is Paula
He likes to cross dress every friday night in clothes from Prada
We took a train, left behind the rain
To see the summer sunset glow
But now she's not around
I'm hanging on with broken hands
Way above the clouds
Seven days in the sun, seven days in the sun...sun
She's my heaven
She's a spark
Feels like heaven
So light me up
You really light me up
You really light me up
You really light me up
You really light me up
You really
Staring out through the crowd
It's pulling me underground
And who's gonna dig me out?
We used to take a walk on velvet sands across the beach
We used to build a fire, and stare into the rising heat
You used to set me free, lift me from the concrete seas
Seven days in the sun
She's my heaven
She's a spark
Feels like heaven
So light me up
You really light me up
You really light me up
You really light me up
You really light me up
You really light me up
You really light me up
You really light me up
You really light me up
You blow my mind
song performed by by Feeder
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Lost in the dark
I walk through the dawn
Onto the day
The light shines around me
The warmth fills my body
I rest peacefully in the sun
I awake at noon
And glance around at the colors
The vibrant shades and vivid hues
Like a painting of serenity
I feel calm and contempt
I wander the way
I find myself pacing
Without any purpose
I walk back the way
And listen to the silence
Then drift to sleep
As I close my eyes
The darkness creeps closer
The swirling oblivion engulfs me
And I am swallowed by dusk
I became one with the veil of shadows
Becoming lost in the haze of night
poem by Logan Fulk
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The Making of a Prince I: I Named Her Sybella
A strident silence speared
Through a long famished alley,
A turgid hymn of air swooned
Reeking of sapid quandaries,
That was when I caught her breath
Asphyxiating from the cacophony
That her pensive hands whittled
In a callow toil to defy
The sequester of the sea and sky;
Vying to taut a prissy wry
The verve in her eyes, unseeing
The veins in her hands, clogged
The plethora of colors in her skin
Thaws in a concoction—a melancholia
She knelt in a prayer, weeping
Before adamant caryatids, fringing
Her horizon, it was hers,
I windwalked and trespassed
Her veil of secrecy, profoundly
Bore her my eyes, empathically
I desire to tell her of bliss—
How it lingers around and about
For those who desire it, but
I saw the cairn and candles
She tussled and endeavored:
A grave for all her hopes,
And for all my words, hushed
I picked her up like a blossom
Drifted from her garden and
I knew I know not to speak
To tell her that I know her
For her eyes was a sleeping mirror
And it shines and lust and sheen
I knew her, I knew her
And I named her after her:
"Sybella, The Lady of Secrets"
One of my elusive triumphs
For I have conquered
A vacuous space
Of a gilded heart.
poem by Norman Santos
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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 Ruse of the Pink Flamingo
My eyes swan through the sunward sand
Falling with the summer rain and the mist
That shrouds the haled halcyon raiment
Like a gray nostalgia unfenced but tamed
By an inclement drizzle, and here I am
Breathing with the moiré banana leaves
There was a stillness - a vertical line
Erected in the lugubrious susurrations
A silver thread fixed with the marionette
Wistfully frolicking in the aqueous mirror
And sending undulations without a sound
The enthralling artistry was my muse
In this void ulcer of the land, a pink blotch
In the postmortem dirge of savagery
My eyes swan through her wayward dance
The weathervane utterance of the wind
Spoke of the silence's response
To the dipping of her svelte legs
Into the unwavering poise of the pond
And its ageless skin rippled with subtlety
That the sun casted a shower of yellow light
Borne into the dawn of shriveling moths
Upon the mirroring of your charming grace
The tilting legs raised and lunged like a danseuse
With an undertone of vengeance but swathed
With the tired hoping for vindication
And with every mellifluous lift and sway
Was a hint of hope for another day
She careened her head into the dusk
And pivoted her salutary statuesque
Dancing for the reflection and the song
Of the trespassing swallows and storks
Titivating the chasing of the crimson dome
And becoming the ebullient light of the void
But the song will sojourn with the season
Of your gossamer inflection of carnation
It withers like the petals on your waist
And the amusement of your own reflection
Until then, who do you dance for?
The machinations of the elegiac song
Strummed by the plethora of leaves
And ornamented by the astray petals
Played with the willowy dancing feet
And this ruse held her in the oscillating waist
And manipulated her pensive ballet
But when the fix is pilfered
Who will you dance for?
poem by Norman Santos
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