To The Man of Multitude
In a jet black guise
With the patina of bold vying
You are the nighttime sky,
You are the fathoms of the pit,
And the quintessence of the labyrinth
Is within the scars of the manacles
That had marred the luster
Of your candor vision
But the lurking predators
In the fringes of your capitulating flame
Could never halt nor corrupt
The spangling splendor
Draped in the jet black guise.
I've seen you knead against the quakes
Sullied by the caustic impalement
Of a sardonic rebellion
To oust the dexterous entanglement
In a cajoling bereavement
But more than this, I have seen
You eruditely build lofty sentries
That divulges a binary path
For a tatterdemalion comrade
And yonder what I've seen, I had unfurled
A gyroscope of chances
Within your vestal core
Dabbing with its own remedy
Amidst the clangors and vexation
You remained resolute
To your sheering honesty
And it had baffled me
When you said you were reticent
For in each of your gutters
You propel your own current
Like a stern windmill
Looming amidst the mayhem
And the slapstick charades
Never delude in their consoles
For your sifting sagacity
Possessed an intrepid heart
You are a savant owl
Of enigmatic marquetry
Who had witnessed surfeit requiems
Of thousand floundering souls
Like that of a comely soul
Educed into a comely man,
Or like that of a lone lion;
And the sooty plumes
Of your subterfuge
Is just as enthusing as
The struggling vagabond
Beneath the puissant wings
And the labyrinthine eyes
I'll keep you in my loins;
A chanting spell against
The beguiling of the sirens
For you are teeming
With codes and keys
To a profound sublimation
Of verve and valiancy
Inside a prolix prose
Where I had found myself
Slurring in the eddies
But buoyed and riveted
In the esoteric resilience
Mount the insuperable gorge,
And I shall heave your lissome string
So you could set of far, adroit kite
And I wouldn't be cumbersome
In the blear of your frescoes
But if you could seize me
Please, let your winds ferry me
For you are so many!
That sometimes, my oppression envy,
And a moniker is not apt
For your puissant authenticity
Carry on, brother!
You're a man of multitude.
poem by Norman Santos
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Flustering Tides
Wide open sea, bludgeon my grand flee
To where the beast would sing to me
Debonairly and treacherously the riddle
That shrinks one mind to gamble and fiddle
Vying with feigned and compromised ideals
And mounting to craft vile and shabby realms
Asinine theory, there's no way up north
Could I rip time in this back and forth—
Cajoling in the blear mirage on the pavement?
Could I diminish the morsels of bereavement?
Riveted in tracks, lost amidst illumination
How can I resign with this feeble conviction?
My grand flee, have you abandoned me?
Corrupted of repose, denied of a sanctuary
Where I struggle with the surging tides
Amidst an iniquitous sea of sullied rides
Diagrammed from my fragmented wish
Another flight too high, fastidious, squeamish
When the fatal line is lackadaisically crossed
With anguish ensconced and hope direly poached
What heaven still endure this melancholy?
What heaven can recuperate one from this folly?
When every forked road anticipates a conclusion
Any heaven is a remedy to endure revulsion.
poem by Norman Santos
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Reign of the Rain
In a bleak stallion of the night's cape
A rider saddled in a Queen's grace
Hurdling in circles of dexterous resilience
Daintily wading the mirthful effervescence
Her horse neighed a shrieking cry
That bore through the vestal sky
And forks of light ruptured fast
And the blinding ended in a rasp
With the feet that sullied chastity
Of a Trojan horse purged in causticity
It stomped with the weight it carried;
A Queen hoisted in a schism of turgidity
The ashen eyes of the adroit rider
Scathed a commanding gyp much brighter
Than the sky that mantled her cape above me
Imploding the Trojan tears of grief upon me
And in the slapping of cold precious jewels
I found an exile in the stream of gravels.
Lost amidst the nostalgia of an insipid rain.
Lost in the nighttime memories that reign.
poem by Norman Santos
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Your Silence; an Invitation
Your hair of synthetic shades and its torrid arcane
That palms its wave to a coaxing fiction
Grating mirth of profuse delight,
Destructing hurricane.
Your little hands with polished tips and brazen palms
That surreptitiously throttles its own schmaltz flair
Fluttering egoistically,
Risqué trance in motion.
Your taciturn footsteps in crowded rooms
That whets all gluttons in yawning vales
Devouring in attrition,
Resounding an empty soul.
Your convicted eyes feinting from establishment
That vicariously stabs with vexation
Piercing the veil of cordial brides,
Prolix stare.
Your contoured lips slavering the mongrels
That sullies a hedonist in an incisive stance
Inflecting esoteric mesh,
Florid smile.
Your sharp tongue dawdling inside a metallic cellar
That spews too much to dismember quixotic words
Titillating desires of carnal carnage,
Lissome claymore.
Your fastidious guise and the hubris of your clad
That tut a sheave of notes of lamentable flux
Whittling away your comporting silence,
Intrepid harridan.
Your silence would be left with taut dictates
That yields and gushes inside your diminutive veins
Engaging friction in your brittle bones,
A vying triumph.
Your silence, who would hear them?
Blanching the vacuous skies into an endless poem
Succumbing repose of cumbersome rout,
Alaska.
poem by Norman Santos
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Kerosene Dove
From the dithering distance
The fountain puke swelling
In the belly of the sedentary sheens
Excoriating the cobbled streets
In the void knots of the theme park:
Amused with clockwork courtesy
And a tethering idiosyncrasy,
But the azure moiré of the canopy
Was no better than the soigné hostility
Imploding a muted friction;
A compulsion in its best
That scathes the incrustations
Of a reticent fellow in the flue
Clipping the flustering plumes
In the comport of a king
Ousted from his throne
Injecting the secrets to the bones
That where hollow in constitution.
Our fellow dove made of kerosene
Opted the safety in the blear of the scene
Suffocating on the surfeit effervesce of coos
While the soupcon quintessence kicked and flew
Far from the cotillion of the pendulums
And the infelicitous instigator of the palming odium,
But in the frangible hurls of the paroxysm
Beneath the torpor of his brooding wings
Is a fire that consoles the condoles of bliss
Yearning for the violent daze of the setting sun
To flick the yawning switch of shuffled impulse
Clipping itself to branch out in deeper fathoms
In the bosom of a cavern with smoldering fences
The wafting with the winnows of inadequacy
Lingering in the air will gyrate to enthuse
The urges of sadomasochism in the kerosene
Lathering and inebriating our taciturn fellow
With pseudo-valiancy and its kiths and kins
Thus, he will hurtle unfettered by any string
And he shall kiss the pregnant gloaming
Allowing its fingers to seize and grate
The lithe feathers bristling to scintillate
With the ignition of the kerosene
And the air shall stop breathing
And fanning the implosion of whim
To watch the dove incinerate
Slithering in austere vividness
Into a surreal orb of quasar
Sending the sun to abeyance
While singing the swansong in synergy;
The demise in an esoteric lilt
Humming in a whispering sift.
poem by Norman Santos
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Unfettered Kite
Permit the effervescence of the wind
To don on your dishabille glacial shoulders
And take you in a sailing apt for your besieging
To an island heaving of palm trees
Swaying and combing of forking possibilities
Chances are, well, ineffable they are
And I cannot paint it with words
Because my palette is dull and eroded
But I know and I submit to believing
That chance will guide you in, by your elbow
To a promenade, a cavalcade, or a castle
Where no eyes had ever been to musing
Not even conception can even pry in
So leave this undulant slumber
And sear past the poignant clouds
Because you cannot be tethered in a ground
In the semblance of an effulgent specter
Invisible, lingering and malingering
To twine and string your unfathomable fate
And as you submit and remit
The jewels that shall permit
A key towards emanation
Of greater chances, in greater grounds
I shall heave you back difficultly
When I stare back at your backward glances
Yet I will endure and pull your emollient string
So you would only set off farther
Yonder the aptitude of your strings
Past the inclement horizon
Floundering past my aqueous vision
And I shall unstring you willingly,
My unfettered kite
And sedate myself with vicarious oblivion
As I muse upon the turgid azure skies
That you dominated like an adroit bird
With the aroma of yuletide breeze
And pantomimic carols tinkering
On the rustling and toppling leaves
Of the gyratory December, the last 31st
Of the first last year, and I will be,
Myself, an unfettered kite
As I lay in solitude and jealousy
Unfettered from the very start
And when the wind blows upon my spine
With no hands to pull back my strings,
No one to point the nonexistent escape door,
Fended by blithe despondent fingers
Of another egotistic specter in a ballet
Beneath the melody of her own canopy
I am left with no other submission
But be taken to my bereavement
And not to the island of chances
For I am a hapless, flightless,
Unfettered kite.
poem by Norman Santos
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Hallelujah
The ice melted from the stings of numbness in my feet
And I waited amidst the mistral flagellations
For the veil to pierce and let me crane closer
Into the cavil riddles of my consummate defeat
With the chaffing of lips grating the flames
Of genocide impales and bleak susurrations
But hulking levity eviscerated and never came
Not in the tangles of dire confabulations,
Not beneath the tottering consoles of the sheets,
And not in the phosphors of the lampshade's scintillations
In between the pages of tainted derision
Ballasting in inebriation in the taut string
Of vehement gnawing on the verdigris of vying
To bereave the destitution in the cliff hanging
Erotic seductions of stabbing knives
In the ruptured chest and ruffled lines
To mount a resolution and embrace the misery
Of sullied vassalage, of sardonic inequity,
Ramifying on a sapid contingency
With or without the pernicious rhapsodies
Pressing the fangs of destitute inadequacy
From the aggregated cajoles of despondency
Another derisory effulgence of exequies
But death remained an execrable thief
To let me proceed on my meander
In the floors of inferno
Singing in florid tongues
"Hallelujah! "
poem by Norman Santos
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Echoes Of The Silence
The black squirming beads
Confine the groveling quietus
Beneath the strands of my canopy
And it cradles a somnolence
Farce, vis-à-vis the despondence
Of the elusive spangling ivories
Amidst the sound of desolation
I can hear the echoes fringe
The quiescent of a hiatus
Of the shriveling breaths
Of my lost secluded island
Where the sun never mount
Thus, never shrink out
From the dearth of my toppling horizon
Effervescent carols linger and slither
Suffocating the mistral atmosphere
Reckoning the blaring tapestry
Albeit, the frescoes dispensed
The myriad of gaiety's absence
Mantled by the echoes of silence
Of the rattling black beads
As pyrotechnics splattered on the ceiling
And the light show kept stirring
The ricochet of the quietude
In a detrimental ripple
Paving all frothing waves
To obliterate the emerging
Isthmus of sequestered tentacles
And the black beads wondered
Wandering far off sobriety
Entangled with a lethal envy
Upon the jocund gypsies
Excluding such complacence,
What is it searing in their revelries
That is louder than my carousing silence?
The fire of a poet manqué
Was quelled by the merriment where
Quietude was inscribed on the RSVP
Meanwhile, the living shadows
Fumbled on prismatic meadows
Where my words use to tinker
Now ensconced in the echoes of silence.
If I would ballast pensively
In a muted and pantomimic spiel
With or without you or me
There will be a surfeit of abeyance
Where are you, temporal eternity?
My mouth is dry, the beads had died
I can still hear the echoes and its silence.
In a strident whimper
Of a vociferous tatterdemalion
The silence hallooed and coiled
In an echolalia of reiteration
And in the rebound, there I reside
I am the unheard vociferation
In the echoes of the silence.
poem by Norman Santos
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Sonnet – Amidst
Amidst pitch -black darkness, God shows a light;
Amidst a Forest thick, He shows a way;
Amidst black clouds, He brings a moonlit night;
Amidst sorrows, God gives a happy day.
Amidst the desert, Oasis God shows;
Amidst the stormy Sea, He brings calm;
Amidst much strife, He opens newer doors;
Amidst much hopelessness, a helping palm.
Amidst tempest, God shows a bright light-house;
Amidst the glaciers, much sought-after peak;
Amidst our solitude, He gives a spouse;
Amidst the ravines deep, the lost lamb meek.
Amidst the chaos, God ushers new hope,
Amidst the gloom, He gives the church a Pope.
poem by John Celes
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1: From the Void
A rift in the bones ached
To be amongst the quakes
Of the forest's riddling dance
As I sink in fathoms futilely
Gulping ounces of buoyancy,
Aloof in the inert stance,
Siphoned of sporadic chances,
Slurring in the slopes of darkness,
Chagrined in the tranquil motion,
Lost in the stability of perpetual lost:
This malign cycle is a serpent
Chasing its own tail,
Poisoning its own cure.
The pedagogy of the night
Lies in the pitch black, point blank
Despondence buried in the sighs
In the salient grave in these eyes
Imagine the fathoms to brave
To find my core rocking slowly
Assuaging the moribund sways
Of the pendulums and hooks
That slivered the atmosphere
To sequester my soul
From my body
And from yours
And they called this place
Void.
poem by Norman Santos
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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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Suspended Mortality
My bones shifted
Where a truant soul
Once malingered,
My eyes lisp into
The siphoning light
Purge into whiteness,
My lips quaver malignantly
And then sojourns shuddering
As a wisp of breath escaped
Into an abortive valley,
My grip tightens then
Loosen its flimsy cajoling
Torn between fighting
For convalescence and
Submitting into honesty:
To severing the cord;
I chose to fought to keep
The persiennes open
And to resuscitate
The painful haggling
But how do we fill our holes?
We live and breathe,
But what do we live for?
This skin is marred
By scars of little deaths
Pestered by the superfluity
Of bruises and sanguinary
For many a struggling and
Infinite unrivaled contending
These oppressions that
Sullies the sleepless vault
Is the same desiccation
I found in a burning wood
Thrown into the hearth
Accumulating warmth
This is the machinism
Of the puppet and his strings
Finding quintessence in
Harried places.
And as we ruminate
Into these glacial trail
Of our squalid putrefaction
We hope to make amends
Underneath a requiem
We vie for verve, we vie for demise
We vie to remember, we vie to forget
The tongue held in the cheek
From gorging the elegy
Because in living life
We nurture death
And the greater breath
I heave for your robust
Vigor and bereft
The greater defilement
Slither in your veins
Like sleeping cells
Waiting to burst
And poison you from
The very core
Without my struggles
The pain and its
Ever glorious spawns
I am tight-roping
In a suspended moment
Of perpetual decay
poem by Norman Santos
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I Have Seen a Fellow
I have known a fellow
With a statuesque threshold
For the flipping jabs
Of kerosene tongues
And I had seen him
In so many nights
Under a farcical lamppost
Reckoning the deluging drought
That had imposed his inebriation
With his sordid fingers latched
Into the waist of desolation,
And he was scarcely available
By the maws of the sun
For he is tethered
To inadequacy
And poverty
Of all squalid kinds.
I have seen this fellow
From a distance and he was fine
With his dyed chestnut tresses
Combing the wisps of light
That drifts far from his eyes
Which were blackly tired
Sunken deep in a vale
Dug by his skeptic vision,
And then I looked closer
Into the marred paper
And he was hideous
And grotesque.
He was lean, too anorexic lean,
That the looming sun
Cloyed in a taut metal string
Can never stroke his spine
Slithering in sinewy lids
Thus, would never cast his shadow
And he was seemingly tall
Until he darted through a crowd
And cringed without recoil.
I have seen this fellow
Saunter past the catastrophe
Of pawned breaths
And sycophancies,
Dragging his heels
Through the scathing embers
Of bleak serenity
Juggling abortive things
On his scrawny hands
To dodge the mangling bullets
Of the loneliness
That he can never avert.
I have seen this fellow
Clutch his chest at nights
Tossing a vigorous cigarette
Into the silent bedlam
Of the creeping pillars
Of the elusive vying for
The kiss of the serpent sun
I have seen him strip
His medical uniform down
Clothes off, lights on
Fondling his copper flesh
With the caress of his laments
And his soul shut
The persiennes and swindles
A lion's puissant prowl
I have seen this fellow
Build lofty fences
Of steely open palms rigidly
Shearing the foliage
Of the vacant sky
And likewise,
Subtly pleading
For alms,
And sometimes
Saliently groveling
In a beguiling barricade.
I have heard this fellow
Pray for what he shouldn't,
Rubbing the space juxtaposed
The bridge of his nose
Until the salty sea
Turn into a bitter wine
Of spangling crimson
And the gush of blood
Would sober him up.
I have seen this fellow
Quaver violently
From holding the razor
To swoon the stubbles
Of his clad garden
And from avoiding the halloos
Of the pulsing in his neck.
I have seen this fellow
Watch me watch
A fellow who never had
Anyone looking after
In the massive number
Of his latent breathing.
poem by Norman Santos
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My Zithers Sang No Melody
Like an arachnid, I constantly weave a web
as I swing across transatlantic roofs and trellises
to catch little mildews and a menagerie on the latticework,
I knit the metallic sheen of their wings and armors -
these little quasars of my sundered oceans
and the nebulous framework creates the quintessence
of every single thread I veer and embroider from drudgery
Like how a marionette is played by strings, I tethered myself
into these lissome rivulets running behind our old hills
but when these bridges are toppled from the constitutions
all these filament enshrouds my void, flimsy frame
like a folder of daggers puncturing the tiny vessels of the blood
that shall deluge me from the inside to suffocation
Without these manifold stairs of escalation, I remain
riveted into a seamless sea - a glacial rock standing amidst
the turbulent lashing of the waves, washed by setting suns,
all the muses assailed into a furtive sculling away from me
Without these laconic multitude, I am small, I am little,
a little notch in the fringeless world of shadows
zithering myriad of strings that sang for nobody
I capitulate before these inverted bastion where inside
I incarcerated myself, bereaved of the network
that extends my breath into your mornings and
sent forth my frothing eyes upon your breaking,
and like a dragonfly in a drying quagmire
my wings hurriedly beat on to reconnoiter
the drought of the air as you slowly dissipate from me
and I shall not halt, for I have none to lose,
until I am finally suspended in my own famished cord.
poem by Norman Santos
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Incarceration
I have lost my dexterous hands,
My impenetrable iron eyes,
And the harried sly of my smile,
For all superfluous shards of heaven
Encapsulated in an esoteric creed
Of vying regardless; a hunger
For vindication in its uttermost
Despicable context, more apt
A regardless vying;
When I woke up garroted
By the juxtaposed malaise in my bed
That I am a tatterdemalion maudlin
Incarcerated by the mendacity
Of false-hopes and sedative truths
And seized by the sleeper cell
Of the all-pervading pervert:
Harsh veracity, I knew I am
Forever and alone;
A precarious curse of solitariness
And there is no reservation
For recuperation, for convalesce
I lost everything I had
When I had realized,
I never had at all.
poem by Norman Santos
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Pleas of a Claymore III
Perhaps, the blight in all of us
Are denizens of a labyrinth
And are all engaged in a feudal mêlée
Amongst our ludicrous terrors
Etched in fleuron to our buried core;
Then we must all be the hero
Of our clandestine tailored tales
Regardless how omnibus the chronicles,
Or how rippling the wave of climax,
Or how dark the corners of the nadir,
It will narrate the atrocity
Of our dime a dozen breaths
Shallow or unfathomable,
In synergy with the heartbeat or not.
Sometimes, I do confabulate
With the cajoling omnipresence of hope
And submit to its scheme and proposition
That the struggling and the somnolent undertow
Makes a dogged-hungry hero,
And yonder this sedative restrain;
This famished comatose sleep
Of an oppressed hero or heroine
Solders one from rubbish slivers
Into a potent artillery of silvers
And the anguish veers and sprayed
Asphalt to the grave.
Do you bleed in your riling fists?
Or do you bleed in your asphyxiated hilt?
I, for one, was honed a claymore
And you can picture me
Glistening at the back of the hands
Of the yawning sunset
And erecting motionless
Into a small hill of the earth
Like a string to a buried puppet
Pleading, in its taut stance
To be stricken and undulate
Into the emollient hands
Of a puissant hero
With profound caverns in calluses
Of the yielding palms;
A raddled blade
Shrilling for the mellifluous
Hands of suicide.
poem by Norman Santos
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Insomnia
Affable moon pestering with a silver smile,
You have met a diffident withholding a cynic eye
But what is there a reticent boy ought to do?
Inside your impassable time; a temptation in overdue
Your guise of enigma and your baffling lullaby
Perturbs a curious fire kindling austerely high
Your enigmatic hair of velvet black
Is a sinister secret like a dead man's rock
Nocturne silence, anarchy sleeps its rage
Beneath your canopy, multiplying in your heritage
"Can I define you? " this boy braved to ask
And his lopsided grin revealed peril in the crust
"Hollow, innocuous, worth a dime.
Your riddles are but words fated to rhyme
Dreams are but a fashion, sleep a hiatus
And we are all dead fishes in a river ominous."
The night cried in her couture dews
For another sleeper misconstrued
Her omnipresence, her cold supple embrace
Bled out of verve with the boy's chase.
poem by Norman Santos
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Sleeper Cell
Black blood, dark kiss
Winter resides in your lips
Amidst the forlorn woods
The frost benumbs the wounds
Impaling the Myrtle trunks looming
Sealed deeply, surreptitiously the afflicting
Sheathed malady, silenced peal
In treason lies your thrill
Infesting the glacial brooks
Annihilating my favorite books
Scars in the seams too narrow
Smothering lungs in gallows
Folded eyes, crystal sleep
Hoisted in a muffled weep
Buoyed in a vapid shore
Hibernating all three-sixty-four
A parade lingers on the sixty-fifth
Wake the bosom in the summer whiff
Crowning sun, summer breeze
Waking for all you missed
Riveted by the forest's roots
This cell is your only route
Cradled by such deceit
Feigned a feeling too succinct
The amity, the felony
Muzzles blazing with tears of agony
Beneath the bed you sleep
A flightless Eagle you dearly keep
To kill the sleeper who lies beside
To free the watcher's shackled pride
Scorching sun, crying skies
Rain on your parading lies
Red velvet draped the bed
From where the winter raise its head
Beseeching glory in bereft
The sleeper cell rouses and left.
poem by Norman Santos
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Ad Astra Per Aspera
Hiss with the silence if it wouldn't stir,
Brave the lion with congealed fear,
And you'll figure how the bullets sing
Embracing the force without ducking the sting
In a rippling dream of kerosene
Ignite the flame of the obscene
Vista of nakedness dispensed into lewd
Vulnerability, though the sentries stood
With all the surrealistic smatters
Of the reeling picture behind the shutters
And the albino leaves of the old sycamore
Will pour down its vapid phosphor,
While the rustles will swoon over the soul
As it engulfed the body in whole
Dripping into her supple breasts
As the night don its very best
Subliminal guise to entice
The weary batting of wandering eyes
To severe the golden ties,
To sever the tethering lies
In a shotgun clout more pliant than
A dilettante danseuse of the sun
Fondling my submission in the painful trance
Induced by the garish tempo of the dance
Of the lapses in the liminalities
When all the lovely bones sing with me
The sirens swansong of temporal keys;
Slinging mud into the skies
To give life to gravid star-cries,
And altering the times of the night
When we were one in a harried flight.
In spite of all the shifting of bridges
And all the sifting of the hinges
I still weave my web to be amongst
The sequestered blood of our long
Putrefying trail of gilded yarns
Please, take me again into your arms
And if this be painful, if this be sad
I'll sunder the glory I desire to clad
Just to be with you in your island
Licked before the isthmus can fortify the sand
Into a swarthy road towards the crown
Of your place's albino sun
And I pledge never to run athwart
In the veiled chambers the heart
Until there'll be none
No famished hope to become
The beauty in loins
Or the peril in the noise
Just one amongst the sludge
Giving birth to the remote trudge
Towards the star screams
Whispering in salient films
Hands pointing to the sky
Shearing your heaven's eyes
Like fences, divulging
Vulnerability, toppling.
poem by Norman Santos
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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We Incinerate Lights with Fragile Mirrors
Do you know what basks behind your ears?
With your supple hair of lightning tucked lightly
Do you hear the sirens' screech and fluster you with fear?
That you reduced yourself in the speculum of a melody.
Have you been in the river of you veiled ears?
Where the conversations live and die a riddle
Resonated in reflections, ebbing not to err nor stir
The somnolent glow grazing the little shafts to bristle
At the floor of the river, the bosom of the mirror
Rouses an opalescent light; a wafer of a prism
A lamp discordant from the puissant lightning roar.
Sheathed in those ears: a hero to somnambulism.
Do you know what clings on your parting lips?
That dies with the deception of your dissenting teeth
Do you verbalize with tales of wars, tragedies, or assailed ships?
That your tongue flounced and fumbled towards an empty pit
Have you sang a ballad and extemporized metallically?
Painted with maroon hues and festooned with ivies;
A crowning barb of virulent thorns, lackadaisically
Resembling the tiara of the sun's panging quandaries
And its tongue profoundly gyrating the luminous light
Of ramifications; the etudes of truths, lies, and cries
With every departing words and whimsy notes in flight.
Kissing your fatal lips: the fire of the sentries in your eyes.
Do you know what perches on your gnarled shoulders?
Arched amongst carousals and amidst the mundane clockwork
Does it hamper you with the stifling squall of somber?
That ravenously bashes the solace of a slumbering berserk.
Have you wreaked footprints in spite of the futile endeavor?
In a desert imploded with coarse gusts of a chagrin trance,
And revamped by golden skies, the eyelid of a desiccated storm
Of shattered epitomizing sands and sardonic haze that prance
With the violent beam of the winding prolix moon
Hovering the effervescence of its pristine visage
Fragile frame that smears vaguely behind the bloom.
Espousing those frail shoulders: a savior's entourage.
Do you know what flutters with your hands enfeebled?
Bludgeoning the oceans between lissome fingers
Does it vex you like a voyage amidst tides too bold?
That you made a ghost in the vile sea to linger
Have you ever held the ocean in your palms?
That echoes the blazing firmament in ripples;
A thousand waves for the sun's thousand arms
Coiled silently like life in the beast's navel.
Shorn aqueous silhouette of lights, hope, and innuendo
Of an ornate chandelier clasped by the perilous sea
With the sweetest waves and a florid lighthouse in the milieu.
Holding your nimble hands: a widow of symmetry.
Do you know what glitzy light remains untold?
To fulminate bilateral somniloquy with its reflection
Do you kiss the cheeks; the vestige of a faithful word?
That subtly whispers a light in every conversation
Have you seen the rainbow that caroms inside?
Inside a mirror bijou stalling within the depths of you
And your world of wonders and its perverting glide
Like paper planes with wings of serendipity in pursuit.
We are candles, cradling incorporeal lights.
We are mirrors, counter-feigning aphorisms.
We spew of colors from mauve to maize all too bright.
Mantling our soul, the arsonist mane of a prism.
poem by Norman Santos
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Hands On Deck
The tides resurrected
And mangled with the undulation
A salient limn on my vision
Where power engulfs power,
Water condenses water,
Paroxysm crashes paroxysm;
Willowing the bouffant steerage
To descry the eviscerating road
In the ocean's trifling ablution
That sifted the luster of the reflection
In the palm of the sea's moiré
Leaving me astray and demented in the vesper
Of my flustering resolution
This is a peripatetic sailing
In the chagrined tongue of contingency
Shooting sundered quasars blindly
In the raucous rocking of the sea
That debilitates my recalcitrant heart
Rectified like the stones ashore
Excoriated by the constant slathering
Of the frothing waves
Flowing, ebbing, erring, fading
Leaving a malignant sheen
To vex the firm gradients of a feint
To delude the fastidious weather
I brought a compass from Atlantis
To flounder in lubricious skates
In the transverse behest of the callow water,
A compass with a turgid hand
Pointing to the inflected horizon
Shrouding the inclement songs
Of the siren's harangue,
An opposing limn on my ears
Digressing the secret subterfuge
To subsist the slumbering pathos
And to moor the soul to the body
With the ersatz felicity
Of silent screaming breaths
Hands on deck, heart on gallows,
Soul pouncing in the trident tides,
Loneliness sitting in the dark
Preyed and devoured by your loneliness
To survive the ocean hunger,
Bleakly lone in the incarcerating capitulate
Where the soul drown inside the body
As the ship ferry me away
Far from your distant memories
Where are the winds that took me
In the belly of the sea
Gravid with honesty
And enigma?
Where are the intrepid cajoles;
A peremptory invitation
To coddle
The trifling desiccation?
Hands on deck,
Hold tight
In letting go.
poem by Norman Santos
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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