Vicissitude I: Winter
A numbing sting eviscerates
The sky to a crystal hail
Her gloom falling from grace
Piling a stark garden of tulips
To mourn with the asleep river
And buried whispers in the ghastly gale
This mistral blanket of dagger kisses
Makes my bones shudder and cringe
In the dark nook of her vestige
Pawning a cigarette for the sun
Ensconced in a slathering absence
And ninety days of siphoned sun
I lambently mosey the emollient floor
Sinking without weight, stalled with no grounds
Seeking for an isthmus towards
A barricading sierra of seclusion
And averting the cajoles of death
In the verisimilitude of smokes
Dissipating from its svelte veneer
The sanguinary season continuous to fall
Pummeling my incendiary soul—
An attrition staggering for recoil—
But the torpor of the vision
Whittles an intrepid desire
To melt away with the thinning ice,
To be one with the lost interpolations
And amalgamate into the winter sky
poem by Norman Santos
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One Man Bandwagon of Harlequinade
I, inebriated by a saccharine mulling of the elapsed
Melee amidst the clock's sabers and now moored
By a pensive anchor that rattles with every mishaps
That whittles inside my ashen bones which chewed
Upon my scarce viscera; what disparity between poles
Could be more farcical than not one iota at all?
For in the surly leaf of the final page the verity basks
In a prissy repose apt for a surreptitious usurper
That I am, after all, a harlequin guzzled by a mask
Of a crystal ball, reflecting and deflecting, to pilfer
The unnamed mirth in every drooping environs
Siphoned by the reeling exigency of self deception
Ebullience is ephemeral only for the reason that
Death is a stealthy phantom, immortal in the ethereal
Grounds of a grotesque carnival ensconced in a hat
That I wore to subsist with the grotesque quintessential
Hamlet, teeming with a surfeit latticing fangs of beasts
And an infinitesimal number of vicarious pessimists
Truth is, I lose myself in this insuperable loquaciousness
As I grope for what I desire and how the death is casted
Forlorn as a reticent lion's ought to be, I do behest
And plea for a hand to rise in the sea of the oppressed
Maudlin that I am; I kneel every night to haggle for my craving
To be in the bassinet of lovely people, or to efface this aspiring
The thought of your pity smothers me and, in my gaunt nakedness,
I know well that I deserve it, earned it, for I am truly devoured,
Like a hapless gazelle gnashed by a tiger, by vicious loneliness
That I inexorably severed from these golden chains, a melancholic discord
I'm ailed and dead-beaten from riling, from cloying a maneuver
And in the muted times of its rapine, I, alone, mournfully flounder
I, alone, wallowed into the graves of my thousand deaths
In mausoleums stalled in the quagmire of my chambers
Igniting the wick in my bloodshot eyes and slathering tourniquets
To dab the wounds to rebuild the skyscrapers you love to slander
So that in this parceled desolation I can become a writer
And assert my existence in this laconically fiendish winter
I'll bleed again before the eulogy of this poem tingle the schmaltz air
And reiterate my cacophonous half-breathing quintessence:
I am bleakly alone and I cannot stand it, sometimes I do not care
But it's only a sedating stratagem; I want to be with acquaintances
Whom I've seen clearly and held in the stark pitch blackness
And who have perceived the one man bandwagon inside the forlornness.
poem by Norman Santos
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The Superfluity of Her Petals
In the dark of the pitch black velvet
Of the town's fluttering skies, she;
A rose, with quaint petals of solitary
Cries and somber interpolations
Scars the escritoire that could never
Bleed for her marred verve and demise
Saliently in silence she stirred the ripples
Of quietude and eviscerated the scorches
Perched upon her poreless skin
In the heraldry of emollient light orbs
Dangling in asunder lampposts parceling
The slumbering hostile doors and windows
Creating latticing shadows to eagerly dispose
The svelte prism of pristine strangeness
Austerely ensconced in this odorless town
Where motes plummet down eagerly
Whetting the lackluster sheen of her
Mystical redolence of truancy
Like an arachnid she spun her home,
Her grave, her trap, inside her bones
Like an arachnid she swings rooftops
With a silver thread in the semblance
Of a lynch and of an eloquent lace
To bind the mistral spell in the haze;
Her laces creates a psychedelic marquetry
That only few people can grasp and see
Those who danced with the shadows,
Those who pounced with the fall,
Those who quaffed the tea and spew
The pseudo-saccharine innuendo,
Those who plucked the thorns
Crawling the ladders of your hue,
Are here with me for you.
poem by Norman Santos
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Winter Whispering...
Winter Whispers …
In The Cold and Dark
As A Frosty Mist,
Her Breath Departs
Her Low Timbre
Sends Shivery Chills
Winter Whispers …
Trembles and Thrills
Winter Whispers …
Thru The Cold and Dark
Secret Confessions
Glitter and Spark
… A Rendezvous
A Liaison
On A Moonlit Blanket
… Love-Spun
… Wispy Words
Like Tendrils of Smoke
Freezer Burns and Brands
… Moans Spoke
A Trenchant Touch
But Innocent Tone
An Elemental Power
Of Her Own
Tho’ Stormy Night
There’s No Blustery Call
Just A Calm Hush
Soft As Snow Fall
Each Time She Meets
There’s Thaw In Speech
As Winter Whispers
What She Seeks …
… A Solid, Block-Season
Of Icy Swells
And Climatic Echoes
Of Avalanche Tales
Her Final Wish
Is To Leave Her Mark
Her Fading Sound
Sibilant and Stark
As Winter Whispers …
… Cold and Dark …
Slowly Melting
Any Bitter Heart
Written & ©: 3/19/10
By: The MoonBee
poem by MoonBee Canady
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O Stubborn Leaf
Alone, suspended high above the ground,
On barren limb, defying season’s change-
O stubborn leaf! Was I to winter bound,
Was I a hapless slave to winter’s rage,
I’d set aside this ghastly rake,
Climb your bough and give it a shake,
Bring you down to where broken leaves are found.
But in my heart I share your stubborn hold,
Resisting winter’s scourge upon the trees.
I cherish fall, the brilliant days of gold
And red, such colors dancing in the leaves,
Not fading brown from winter's freeze,
Falling, rotting, filling the eaves,
Till every trace is buried in the cold.
Chocolate Whispers...
Softly I melt into your brown eyes and you
into mines.
Chocolate whispers in my dreams...
Gently I lay you down on my satin sheets
and we make love until we both fall asleep.
Chocolate whispers in my dreams...
Deeply entwine in the passion of your kiss.
Chocolate whispers in my dreams...
Softly you call out my name in the night.
Chocolate whispers in my dreams...
As we walk hand in hand on the beach and
watch the sun set in the sky.
Chocolate whispers in my dreams...
I sink ever so deep into the abyss of your
ever sweet and tender chocolate kisses that I
need... It fills my day with the sweet whispers of
chocolate kisses in my dreams.
Jay Andrew Anderson-Taylor
Copyright ©2008 Jay Andrew Anderson-Taylor
poem by Jay AndersonTaylor
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To Those Dames with Crimson Eyes
I can reckon with the lucidity
Of the tranquil motions of the floor
Those farfetched nights sent to
The scrapings of the harried memory
Your skins, glistening from the blur,
Staggering through a solid corner
Like the stars settled in the firmament
Concealing its desire to fall
Betrothed to the potions of alcohol;
Your eyes, all six of them,
Crossed mine from the jovial turbulence
And I thought, from behind my telescope,
That a soul met another soul;
I permitted my lips to droop with my eyes
Macadamized with iron slyness
Averting the crimson redolence
That beckons a skirmish of the heart
A blitzkrieg of blind shots,
From blatant courteous unwritten words
To long small jeremiad of the silence
Buried in the sighs and diffidence,
To hot grazes boiling the blood vessels
Then the soul intertwined once more
In the crimson gases of the turfs
When you caressed my hair
And have my soul surrender
Exploiting its secrets and laments
Spoken in inebriated language
Of undulating bodies and ruffling sheets,
Jabbing open wounds and scraping skins
That faded in a silent scream.
And now, I aimlessly wonder
What those crimson eyes envisaged
Ignited by toxic lemonades
And serrations of aberrations
To provoke a lackluster man
To pour out the enzymes
Of the insentient soul
Sulking in the jagged corner
With feigned exuberance
And smiles castrated by
Cigarette kisses, hissing with
And enigmatic silence.
I wonder about your names
But I might have sent them
Far in the fathoms of Alaskan graves
Or maybe I forgot to ask them
For the soul was a gypsy
Meandering aimlessly with legs
Slathered by sedative bliss
Pawned for all famished nights
Of wailing bleak howls
But I failed to keep them
For the chemicals in your bloods
Was effortlessly devoured
By hedonistic blarneys
Yet, in these times of abandon
I wonder about you
Longing for answers,
Wanting requisitions;
What does this ugly vessel posses
To be invited in your boudoir
And swallow the phantom swords
With a wry of a smile
Crossing the darkness
As the scant strokes of my silhouette
Leave the fine svelte fringe
With no intention of returning?
My apologies for this comedy,
But it was a good drag
Not in the flesh,
The thighs,
Or the crotch,
But in the wisps
Of the unwanted soul;
The very quintessence
Of being accepted.
poem by Norman Santos
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Summer's Kiss
Write me a summer song
plant here a warming kiss
seed it in these furrows long
in sunsets' languid dip.
Sing lyrics to my buried soul
which lives beneath
in numbing receded cold.
Sing to me underground
another season's bloom.
See my soul steeled against
against this dying cold abyss.
I shall not die in winter's cold
nor miss this year's summer's kiss
I'll bloom my soul's flower
in garden green-
my petals high sky'ed-
flower flights and butterflies
star dust destines;
all my hopes mingled.
Plant me here then
on ready cheek
just one summer's kiss,
my furrow to bloom
my soul 'neath
will rise fully watered
flowers fully bloomed;
Now start in me another
Hope's Season
even beneath
my winter's frozen
soil.
And here regard
Winter's frozen bloom
kissed by your summer lips
your's planted
upon mine.
poem by Lonnie Hicks
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The River Flows
The river flows quiet and swift
It twists and turns as the waters drift
It branches and breaks—its fingers entwine
It grows and grows—snakes like a vine.
The river with the soft scent of a calm day
With the smell of clean—hanging—still—in the grey
And sweetness carried on the breath of morning
It caresses the river—the waters flowing.
The river—crystalline from winter melt
And sweet with the summer soon felt
It tastes of springtime—the season between
And flows the river—so blue and clean.
The river—its lazy trickle of water
The musical rhythm—the ocean’s daughter
It whispers and murmurs—a song of its own
Playing over and over—in continuous drone.
The river—so clear and cool
The water flows—the color like a jewel
Its soft arms embrace the shore
The river surging from the days before.
The river flows quiet and swift
It twists and turns as the waters drift
It branches and breaks—its fingers in twine
It grows and grows—snakes like a vine.
poem by Kailey Jennings
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Dance Of Lost Phantoms
A brimful of hath had gone astray
With the torpor of the rainy days
As the patina of tobacco-scent sliced
A wanton interpolation beneath my nose
Where the balmy cloys created a fog
Hollering your frangible visage
Beneath the mistral canopy and the sapid
Temptations of the dilettante eve
I beseech for a putrefied glory
That used to ripple beneath my feet
Where had gone the buoyancy
And the ethereal perpetuity
Extending eloquently
With every heaving breathe?
Where gone the pillars
Ensconced within the cellars
Of my swinging heart?
To what do these lungs demand?
These fingers sense a certain grave
With every shiver of your grotesque gaze
Paints patent traces of life and its vibes
The lipstick upon this weary cigarette
Sketches back to the soulless faces
And broken stories of song
Vibrant and floral salvation,
Has woe taken you away?
Into the depths of hue and despair
You aren't incapable of a dark murder
Sighing with bars clung to your chest
Can you see the sun pirouette in your name?
The blur gets denser, I see no blinking eyes
Flashes of white and cold, burning blue
Cut through the prisons of your requiem
Die with me tonight, to live another death
Die with me tomorrow, to live another end
poem by Norman Santos
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Sala
A quaint sepia photograph reckons
Of my deceased old grandparents
In their cordial nuptial palpably soaked
And cloaked in God's veil and covenant
It perishes amongst the ghastly cobwebs
And the dusts in the wailing lifelessness
Of the immodest and muted living room
And in my somnolent and castrated vision
It had painted another mawkish picture,
A concrete memoire of the absence
Of love, of death, and of love in death
So I refocused on the sala instead
With the scraped pastel wallpapers
Toppling on the cold floor parquet
A catastrophic finagling that reveals
The abused skin of my genuine home:
The arms of acquiesced oblivion
Sprawling on the threadbare divan
And watching the midnight sitcoms
With my levity, and purging the ecstasy
Of my the escape in late night episodes;
Cradling my aversion and diversion
To dance with the perfidious moonlight;
Or read the hideous diffidence in my poetries
To the overwhelming nonchalance of the sparrows
Oblivion is here, in this juncture of the sala,
Furnished with such ludicrous fantasies
Almost accenting my brusque reality
That I sew upon my lifelong starvation
For love, for death, for love in death
For romance, for heaven, for that which will never
And the conservative chandelier was dimmed
From the stark brightness of the glacial fire
Burning in the patios of my forlorn mire
Fluttering with the barricading shades
Of these heavy carnation pink curtains
Like a colossal shadow in the dark
A surreptitious phantom lurking
And scheming on its feet, to devour
My harried refuge in this sala
Oblivion, it could be too arresting
That the lampshades thawed in fragments
Oblivion could be bountiful in fragments
But then again, it could probably be not,
Oblivion could be harsh; it could be very harsh,
When your oblivion is a puncturing memory
That only ensued in the insipidness of the sala
Not on its dark corner nor on its garish floor
Rather, in the sala where you are alone
But fixated with the company of a scent
Similar to the morning dews that never came.
poem by Norman Santos
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Whispers Of The North
Whispers of the north
Soon I will go forth
To that wild and barren land
Where nature takes its course
Whispers of the wind
Soon I will be there again
Bound with a wild and restless drive
That pulls me from within
And we can ride away
We can glide all day
And we can fly away
Whispers of the north
Soon I will return again
To those endless afternoons
In sunshine and in rain
Whispers of my love
Days and weeks on end
I will share my thoughts of her
In prayers that I will send
And we can ride away
We can glide all day
And we can fly away
Whispers of the north
The river and the shore
In the land that tested eskimos
Ten thousand years before
Whispers of my heart
In the tracks of animals
I will leave my footprints there
To lie beneath the snow
And we can ride away
We can glide all day
And we can fly away
Whispers of the wind
I will feel it sting
I will see it rise and fall
I will hear it sing
The sound is like a song to me
It takes away the pain
The river is the melody
And sky is the refrain
And we can ride away
We can glide all day
And we can fly away
And we can ride away
We can glide all day
And we can fly away
Whispers of the north
Soon I will go forth
Whispers of the north
Soon I will go forth
song performed by by Gordon Lightfoot
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Mistral
Mistral
Strong wind to end winter
With that I’ll paint city full of color
To spring theme
To the blue sea…to the blue sky…
Further…higher…
I’ll forget the land I trust so far
Because you suddenly come
In front of me that walking plain
When two winds meet
That wind twirl makes my eyes spin
Like merry-go-round on the sky
Mistral
Blue wind spring caller blows to the sea
I can fly to the sky
Because you throw my weakness
After passing this season
Blow again mistral
Further…higher…
To the blue sea…
To the blue sky…
Further…higher…
poem by Maria Sudibyo
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The Faces Of Winter~
Anguish put on it's Winter face-
It's icy story embroidered into the snow
A brocade of cold that chilled to ones bone
A compassionless season where the sorrow just grows;
Falling through it's window pane of time...
Anguish laid down it's blanket of white
No sleet-only the harsh sting of cold
You know-that cutting winter bite?
You'd swear that it was slicing into you...
Through the darkest of the skies Winter grey-
Anguish put on it's Winter face
And brought a blizzard of sheer despair my way! ;
By: Theodora Onken
June 29,2012
poem by Theodora Onken
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Love Sonnet 167 Black Colors My Days, It's A Waste Of Night
Black colors my days, it's a waste of night,
In dark stark raiment, it cloaks of my heart,
For love has dimmed, the bright days seemed in blight,
Its dark hues tint, even dreams that depart;
Yet, nary is there picture without shades,
No returns to wait, if you did not leave,
And with much exposure, novelty fades,
Makes your absence, bit easier to bereave;
Life is not all garden where roses grow,
For with it thrive the weeds which cause the pain,
And mark, that blue skies make not the rainbow,
It's the sunshine, with some help from the rain;
........Let my bright days be rained by your coming,
........If that assures rainbows will be showing.
poem by Reyvrex Questor Reyes
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The Growing Season
The seasons work together
To make the world possible
Summer, the sun season
Fall, the leaf season
Winter, the snow season
And spring, the time of beauty
Summer, the yellow season
Fall, the orange season
Winter, the white season
And spring, the time of the rainbow
Summer, the blank season
Fall, the shadow season
Winter, the dying season
And spring, the growing season
The growing season
Lips Like Sugar
She floats like a swan
Grace on the water
Lips like sugar
Lips like sugar
Just when you think you've caught her
She glides across the water
She calls for you tonight
To share this moonlight
She'll flow down your river
And ask him and she'll give you
Lips like sugar
Sugar kisses
Lips like sugar
Sugar kisses
She knows what she knows
I know what she's thinking
Sugar kisses
Sugar kisses
Just when you think she's yours
She's flown to other shores
To laugh at how you break
To melt into this lake
She'll flow down your river
And ask him and she'll give you
Lips like sugar
Sugar kisses
Lips like sugar
Sugar kisses
She'll be my mirror
Reflect what I am
A loser and a winner
The King of Siam
And my Siamese twin
She knows what I'm thinking
???
She'll flow down your river
And ask him and she'll give you
Lips like sugar
Sugar kisses
Lips like sugar
Sugar kisses
song performed by by Coldplay
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Lost
Days lost in empty colors
Time lost in dark clouds
dreams lost at the end
of some forgotten rainbow
whispers in silent sounds
You opened up your wings
on your head shining bright
you showed your halo
holding out your hand
I held on to yours
Now days are never lost again
my soul flying free
somewhere in the wind
with you, where you took me
Once sorrows cried at night
now no longer do they exist
with what tomorrow brings
sealed with your sweet kiss
the past buried in the sand
Two hearts that contrite
lost once forever
never to love like this
joined as one together
(spiritwind-2009)
poem by Spiritwind Wood
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It's the Season of the Pawning
It's the season of the pawning.
And dusted treasures hoarded...
Are each polished leisurely.
Trinkets silver and gold,
Some trimmed in brass and copper...
Must now be sold.
Unloaded for pocket change.
'Cause these days aren't the same...
As they have been.
It has dawned on those in longing...
Belongings they once flaunted,
Can not remain!
Not with them.
That paycheck once so needed,
Has depleted from their hands...
And sent overseas.
The beast that once had fed them.
Seeks more greed.
It's the season of the pawning.
And dusted treasures hoarded...
Are each polished leisurely.
Trinkets silver and gold,
Some trimmed in brass and copper...
Must now be sold.
And those who laughed and jeered,
At those they denied and criticized...
Are now the ones in fear!
It appears they now feel anguished.
And hidden eyes can't stop their dripping tears.
Hoping to get quick dollars,
Are they who scream and holler...
'This is not fair! '
But as they once lifted noses,
Not one of them supposed...
One day they'd be stripped naked,
Of what had been theirs!
The caring of others...
Has vanished in the air!
It's the season of the pawning.
And dusted treasures hoarded...
Are left behind,
To find many folks like them...
In despair!
No one cares,
What is or is not fair!
It's the season of the pawning.
And those who laughed and jeered...
Now dropp to knees,
To drip from eyes...
Their flowing tears.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Severance, With Veering Hands
The languid nimbuses amplified
the grass bugs under an ocher sunset
and their metallic sirens wailed
for nostalgia with veering hands
and it revved like a highway
and haunted like taillights
The maladroit afternoons strangled
in yellow haze and cigarette lace
dawned again, with waning iridescence
and a blinding severance cleaving
from the stark light of veracity
in the equipoise of day and night
your figure sank dithering
One hundred forty nine dismal days
exhumed the antebellum bones
and hoarded them in the closet
to thwart the besieging of time and change
The emollient influx cloys the somnolence
with a sweet pang from the drudgery
but by this window pane, you still remain
sauntering back and forth my alleyways
You hold my breath, you engulf my silence
Days become a metronomic deadweight
encumbering the flyleaf to flay for amends
and in the insatiable stagnancy
I remember the stride, the long haul,
and amongst these far-fetched visions
I remember you and our perdition
that peppered this willowy gust of morose
with the brusqueness of squalor
In this seamless, bleak pensiveness
our loose threads knitted themselves
mantling me in a velvet luster
with a mendaciloquent verve
drowning in the depths of its veneer
like how I bask in this unreality.
poem by Norman Santos
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Rainfall on the river
Rainfall on the river
~
Sat beneath an old oak tree
Watching the rain fall on the river
The water jumps with every splash
Circles roll out in rippled formation
Interacting only to disappear
And begin again continuous
With the rain still falling
The sound rustles through the air
The sky like an old grey blanket
Thrown across the world
Leaking as far as the eye can see
Patchy and weathered
Beneath the shade of the oak tree
With only a spray of rainfall
Watching the river dance
Ripples and jumps
poem by Matthew Holloway
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