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To The Kingmakers

A thousand and almost a hundred days in a quicksand
Wavering in constant dithers of your mirage
We subconsciously pulled different directions
As you bask into your floridly tousled lives
I lurked behind the curtains of our allegiance
Drinking your blood crumbling from the banquet
Of a not so subtly profound carousal:
A vortex of your meshed grandiosity
Like a stalactite building fragments of delusions
And gorging upon the sparks of your constellations
I lay there silently vying and scavenging
The sliver of your diamond's affable grating.

From where I cringed saliently breathing
The throne loomed like a statue to envision
How lofty you are against the searing skies
That parted our trifling motions and corrosion
Hence, the swaying of your golden dusts
Revealed the clouds draping the swarthy crust
And in the veneer of this decaying river
I found myself a king amidst your kingdoms.

To my king-makers, let us pummel with the drizzle
And transpire with the smoke of the toppling
Cinders in our charred lips- from different derisions
And collapse with the walls of our celestial
Ideals and visions; let's rebuild a kingdom.

poem by Norman Santos
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There Is A Kingdom

Just like a bird that sings up the sun
In a dawn so very dark
Such is my faith for you
Such is my faith
And all the world's darkness can't swallow up
A single spark
Such is my love for you
Such is my love

There is a kingdom
There is a king
And he lives without
And he lives within
There is a kingdom
There is a king
And he lives without
And he lives within

The starry heavens above me
The moral law within
So the world appears
So the world appears
This day so sweet
It will never come again
So the world appears
Through this mist of tears

There is a kingdom
There is a king
And he lives without
And he lives within
There is a kingdom
There is a king
And he lives without
And he lives within

The starry heavens above me
The moral law within
So the world appears
Through this mist of tears

There is a kingdom
There is a king
And he lives without
And he lives within
There is a kingdom
There is a king
There is a king
And he is everything

song performed by by Nick Cave & The Bad Seeds from The Boatman's Call
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Hymn 145

Christ and Aaron.
Heb. 7; 9.

Jesus, in thee our eyes behold
A thousand glories more,
Than the rich gems and polished gold
The sons of Aaron wore.

They first their own burnt-offerings brought,
To purge themselves from sin;
Thy life was pure without a spot,
And all thy nature clean.

[Fresh blood as constant as the day
Was on their altar spilt;
But thy one offering takes away
For ever all our guilt.]

[Their priesthood ran through several hands,
For mortal was their race;
Thy never-changing office stands
Eternal as thy days.]

[Once in the circuit of a year,
With blood, but not his own,
Aaron within the veil appears
Before the golden throne:

But Christ, by his own powerful blood,
Ascends above the skies,
And in the presence of our God
Shows his own sacrifice.]

Jesus, the King of glory, reigns
On Zion's heav'nly hill;
Looks like a lamb that has been slain,
And wears his priesthood still.

He ever lives to intercede
Before his Father's face:
Give him, my soul, thy cause to plead,
Nor doubt the Father's grace.

poem by Isaac Watts
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To Make A King Of Fools

What had the voiceless night undone
Unto this parcel of weeping land
The tranquil zephyr had mangled unto
The bastion of a fortified heaven
A celestial vanguard of unsinkable quartz
From the chalcedony was exonerated
And the echoes of the shrill symphonic lament
Of its anthems and schmaltz trumpets
That tinkered the peripatetic haunt
Tarries the hollow bliss in the safeguard

Shall I smile unto my reflection
To tourniquet the putrefaction?
What a king of fools ballast
The sterile gilt of crown loose
And rules a mighty kingdom
Of phantoms with faces alike
And in his throne tramples
As he cringed into the death of him:
The curse of the shadows
Never willed for departing

Well, come! My waxing moon shall unfurl
The colossal shadows of unforgiving
Shall I amuse you with the torment and anguish
Rising with every heaving of breathing?
For in these phases of the shifting world
Nothing encompasses the obstinate clouds
And forgiveness shall hope for hope
Shrouding the dark in togetherness

In his kingdom, he is incomplete
Perhaps, in the shadows of his world
He would rule again, completely
In his consummate incompleteness.

poem by Norman Santos
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The Moon; A King

Sat upon an earthen throne:
The moon; a king.
Forever cursed to rule alone:
The moon; a king.
With bright celestial crown of stars:
The moon; a king.
So weary from battle and tattooed with scars:
The moon; a king.

poem by Eoin Smith
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One Hundred Thousand Marching

One hundred thousand marching
One hundred thousand men
One hundred thousand heading
To a place and a time when
One hundred thousand dying
One hundred thousand cold
One hundred thousand praying
Forever young and never old
One hundred thousand lives were lost
One hundred thousand felt the pain
One hundred thousand maimed and slaughtered
And yet those armies march again.

poem by David Keig
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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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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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Reveling

Sitting like a glacial fire
In a somber carousal,
Enthralled in the comport
Of the quagmire's sheets,
I tinkered swords with the sun
And played violin strings
With centipede legs crawling
In the tawny pastel walls
And sooty dozing eyes
And counted the halting susurrations
Of the clocks monotonous song
Waiting for the consummate abeyance
Where I will be one with oblivion
Under the Olympian curtains
And a vortex of uncertain
Seeping of blood to blood
And hauling of calamities
Inscribed in the ribs
Of colliding travesties
Let me resume my meander
Along the walls of marionettes
In the harlequin's bassinet
Let me drink the enzymes
And the technicolor bile
Of vim and demise
In the same impaling gorge
And make myself a vale
Of salted bodies
And gilded revelries.

poem by Norman Santos
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The Burning Of The Temple

Fierce wrath of Solomon,
Where sleepest thou ?
0 see, The fabric which thou won
Earth and ocean to give thee-
0 look at the red skies.

Or hath the sun plunged down ?
What is this molten gold-
These thundering fires blown
Through heaven, where the smoke rolled ?
Again the great king dies.

His dreams go out in smoke.
His days he let not pass
And sculptured here are broke,
Are charred as the burnt grass,
Gone as his mouth's last sighs.

poem by Isaac Rosenberg
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Fairyland

If people came to know where my king's palace is, it would vanish
into the air.
The walls are of white silver and the roof of shining gold.
The queen lives in a palace with seven courtyards, and she
wears a jewel that cost all the wealth of seven kingdoms.
But let me tell you, mother, in a whisper, where my king's
palace is.
It is at the corner of our terrace where the pot of the tulsi
plant stands.
The princess lies sleeping on the far-away shore of the seven
impassable seas.
There is none in the world who can find her but myself.
She has bracelets on her arms and pearl drops in her ears; her
hair sweeps down upon the floor.
She will wake when I touch her with my magic wand and jewels
will fall from her lips when she smiles.
But let me whisper in your ear, mother; she is there in the
corner of our terrace where the pot of the tulsi plant stands.
When it is time for you to go to the river for your bath, step
up to that terrace on the roof.
I sit in the corner where the shadow of the walls meet
together.
Only puss is allowed to come with me, for she know where the
barber in the story lives.
But let me whisper, mother, in your ear where the barber in
the story lives.
It is at the corner of the terrace where the pot of the tulsi
plant stands.

poem by Rabindranath Tagore
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Perpetuity

After the searing flames have gone.
When the choking black smoke has blown away.
I walked where once green forests stood.
Only ash and charred ruin remain.

The feeling of despair I could not hide.
Then at my foot midst grey dust appeared.
The brightest sliver of green grass.
And I knew all was not lost.

Perpetuity reigned.

poem by Kurt Hearth
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Hiatus

The alleys collapsed as the lungs did
As the lampposts flickered with the vision
A shadowy mirage lingered to caress
The soft yellow lights, the singeing blood
Searing from the charred soles
I walked with the roaring fire
The fire pranced with the songs
Hiding in the browning calendar
I halted, panted, eviscerating
Amassing vigor, accumulating air,
I'd watch you from here;
Until I feel my legs again
Until I relearn the tempo
To sway with the grace
Of your wandering pendulums.

The cinders flounced
A message from the sirens
Cutting the swath
Of these drunken roads

I sank, deeper and deeper.

poem by Norman Santos
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Beautiful River

And he showed me a pure River of Water of Life, clear as crystal, proceeding out of the Throne of God and of the Lamb." -- Rev. xxii. 1

Shall we gather at the river
Where bright angel feet have trod;
With its crystal tide forever
Flowing by the throne of God?

CHORUS.