Yellow Haven
I remember the forfeited nights when hunger
Had sent me mangling into fortified walls
Groveling to thaw into the pallid inflection,
Squirming from the scraping inside the chambers
That putrefies the veneer to haplessly reveal
The unwritten words in the wrinkled skin,
Where the poisons crumpled to potions
Picking slivered beads and making a chalcedony
Of pebbles to grind in our running feet;
Turning serpentine vespers into the cinders
Of the day's vigorous fanning of ambiguity;
And ephemeral drizzles engulfed by the wave
Of esoteric perpetuity in a colossus rave;
In spite of the incisive transatlantic distance
Imposed by tacit seclusion and disparity
I found the light show on the ocean floor
Where gods are servile of the fathoms
Placing their languid heads in stone tables
For an immolation to omniscient mortality.
In a cup of golden concord that entangles
Our meta-fictional lives in a conscious strangle:
A highfaluting chaise, for arriving and departing
Impassable planes of plutocracy
To premature decadence that lingers
Into the absence of your sculling chortles
And vivacious silence riveted in the listening floor
As I touch you and feel the seraphs wafting
In your skin and melting crystal castles
And as I part, shoved by the demons
With awry prongs locking in a tale
That not one without a sip of the sharp
Spangling revelries in our fragile cup
Could neither evade nor leave triumphant.
I am one amongst the motions and susurrations,
Stringed in the latticing chances of conclusions,
Assuaging the winds of odyssey, never to bury
The skeletons when time flew like an albatross
Enslaving the sea and nary a home but the sky
Teeming with the liberal sensations to descry
The asphyxiated lungs of lost voices,
And collapsing ribs of lost viscera,
Intertwines the demon's lair into
The ornate heaven for the mortals.
As soon as we touch and spew verve
We lose contact and the valley of death
Yawns wearily to devour the mechanism
Learned in a plenitude of scant days:
A close good bye juggles with hello
Oblivious with all these lovely people.
poem by Norman Santos
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Related quotes
White Skin Black Heart
Yeah, whatcha gonna do now, now that you started?
Whatcha gonna do now, now that its done?
The words got out there, they float around and are coming right back down.
You gonna leave us lying here
Dealing with the consequences of a bad sound
Of a bad sound.
White skin black heart
White skin black heart
Whatcha gonna do now, that its spoken?
These words of a habit, have not faded away.
.................... it clear, conscious gets opened like a wound.
If you cant concieve a better line and better times,
Then let silence bury you, in the end.
When you feel it, when you feel it
Youre condemned.
You see, youve lost your strangle on the freedom road! you
Think ........................of something a long time ago! you
[spewed it out you were so] insecure! it was like ............. on
The toilet floor! youre a [nine seat] drunk, ............... and
You say you want something, .......... you heard the rednecks
Roaring for blood and then they wanted more! life was so small, you
Couldnt get enough. you made a start.
White skin black heart
Dripping,
White skin black heart
White skin black heart
White skin black heart
White skin black heart
Drag your eyes from [aurora] black heart!
White skin black heart
Drag your leg, get outta here [my sight]!
White skin black heart
White skin black heart
White skin black heart
White skin black heart
You didnt have to start
White skin black heart
White skin black heart
song performed by by Midnight Oil
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Immolation
The rotund sun slyly coveted
His diadem of light and warmth
Yonder the gnawing jagged teeth
Of these greedy mountain passes
And the days stretched without
The fire ball hung above the clouds
Of ignorance, innocence, malignance
So I squandered my gambling and
Gave up haggling with the King
I knelt before the oblivious sky
Scraping my bloodless knees
In the hoarse and mordant skin
Of the thinning ice beneath
Pleading for my immolation
So I can transcend in liberation
To the land of the phantoms
The oppression to be caught
In a reedy ensnare of vagary
Underneath jealousy and abhorrence
A labyrinth of flustered identity
Is a death far more excruciating
From the carnal conflagration
It is a shackle of lightning impaling
And lashing to the frozen core
A death that will live on, bleed on
In the echoes of this immolation
"Who am I to you, lovely people?
I cannot see myself in those big
And once sincere doe-eyes.
I was yours, not just an accessory
Of what you can encompass
From each other's covenant.
But the tides washed away
My footprints on your shores
Because you walked on them
For they were your chalcedony,
And your tides, and your ebbs,
Your sea, your coveted jealousy.
Your waters heaved me too close
Then shoved me too far away
With your clashing demands
And a whirlpool of obfuscation.
It took its toll in my harried eyes
Because I am not a saint nor a god
I am just a comrade, and a misbegotten
Catalyst of a storm that shall fan
And hone your arduous appetite
For each other's somber ties.
Who am I to you ululates a cry
Submerged beneath the zealous
And ardent hunger you have,
Such subliminal lust to become
The mighty flame of the sun—
Between the two of you:
The brawl is to undo
What you have become
From dragging me too.
Good riddance, to you
My riddled affinities.
So long, and may you find
Your separate peaces."
I chide to the bony clouds to falter
And thaw into a bottomless river
And I shall walk the void bottom
Of this bottomless ocean vapidly,
I plead for the vestiges of the night
To mantle a pall on my shoulders
And I shall carry her into the impasse
And there I shall limbo with the dead
And wistfully peel off the mordant skin
Of your haunting memories: doe eyes
And porcelain skins, lips quavering
Of malaises, pains, and of the dead
Incisiveness of trust and honesty
Of far-flung amities, now they seal
Themselves with stitches to latch
The demons of loathing and treachery
And the blood lust for this immolation.
poem by Norman Santos
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Home Alone
I watched time crumble
On the brick floor's slumber
From its fated machinism
And the pallid light of summer
Leaning wearily on the walls
Escaped the frosted windows
With a somnolent opalescence
A wan and aimless escapade,
Such a dreamy afternoon
Where life pounces keeling out
Of gravity and vibrant hues
A slumbering dog, poignant from
The absence of barks and bones
An empty set of walls
Once a place called home
The house swooned over
From its winding knee
And struggling loop of
Tightrope heraldries,
Like the collapse of lungs
As a breath of verve escapes and
Heaves back with a titanic space
To accentuate the hollow break,
Topple and restore, filling emptiness
Without making a sound,
Without any motion, but
The absence of the souls
That became its constitutions
Floods the vivid light with gloom
And the summer is contained
Within a wintry solitude inside
The lone yearning bones
The curtains unruffled,
The floor spread wider,
The ceiling climbed loftier,
And the saudade croons
Played in the air waves
With laughs and simpers
Tinkering the static
And in this chamber,
For now, I'm home alone
Yet, soon, this place
Would be abandoned
By my trifle entity and
The company of my soliloquy
But not of my yearning
And shadows and shards
And lone feeling in the solitariness
That makes this place a home.
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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Times of the Parliament
In times of viral idiosyncrasy bloating
The plumes and dowry groveling to puncture
The birth of impassable interpolations
Esoteric from the cinders of my vision,
Their croons hum a lilt in a lazy melody
A euphonious resonating in the chambers
Eloquently caroming in complacent synergy
As I reckon the lucidity of the sun's sapid
Streaks in the somnolent floor to harry
The destitution that visited their truancy
Hallow is the gloriole of the exonerated malady
In times where the parliament go astray
In the inert moseying in apache stance
Goblets circling like emancipated doves
And we watched it with the constant sways
Of the pendulums hoarse flight of eddies
Overwhelming the velocity, the blithe cacophony
That coiled into downtrodden harmony
In times where the parliament swing differently
The innuendos aggravate the salient disparity
And the carnage bled a lifeless liquid
As the carrion putrefy the evasive verve
With tacit words in sighs and puffs
Of smoke and vim and smoke and demise
Malingering with the silent rustles of the leaves
Sprouting from the hospitable seeds
In times, of black and gold pirouetting
In a vertigo where I cannot condense
And morph in unison of pristine filth,
I create a parliament of dagger stares
And exhaling sounds of scrutinizing agony
And kick myself out the swiveling door
As the parliament perched unknowingly.
poem by Norman Santos
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Attic Key
When the transpiration of earliest dews
Failed to staid and invigorate
The amputated isthmus of the atrium
You would blithely shun
All the lovely, saccharine bones
Even the crunchy stride
Of the svelte V-formation
Of the veering migrating birds
Paving the soggy nimbuses
Of hapless shades and parasols
For they unfurl a reminder
Of capitulating abandonments
And like a wolf without a howl
You would aimlessly amble
With feet of morose
To cave inside, distraught,
In the clandestine dappled corners
Where the myriad of the dead
And the plenitude of dying breaths
Rattle uncouthly for
A greater hunger
And in the riving of hushed comport
Of the attic's remedy
You would sulk to descry
Your maudlin heart beating briskly
Sodden from the attrition
Of the charlatan sun
Amongst the trellises of cobwebs
And shoddy bed of dusts
You would lay your empathy
And the stagnant breathing
Of the attic's clockwork verve
Would feign an assuaging sweep
To resuscitate the prattling blood
Fervently seeping through
To clutch you closer
Like a bullet darting through
The place where no one knew
Divulging its own nadir
And that was all
That your bleeding needs
To find that you are
Not yet in the bottom
Of your so called pits
And the sun would again seethe
Grazing mellifluously
The bullets buried
To your aching lovely bones
And swear and spiel a promise
To purge the bleak attic
From its latticing derision
And let the light stray and stall
When the next morning dawn
But you always seem to forget
Where the promises coiled
Perhaps, you have crucified a script
In the scathing walls of the chambers
Of the pumping mechanical valves
That you need the fathoms
Of the attic's secrets
So you would stash
The attic key
Into the pathos
Of remorseful wisps
In cases
Of emergency.
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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House of the Setting Sun
In the tawny moiré of your eaves
I found a city lying asleep
Buried in their tangled locks
Of synthetic gold and
In the tinkers of inebriation
I found the streets
That will ferry me home
And the sun would never bow
To cut the salient swath
Of time and vertigo
Because these walls hold
The pliant corolla of
Of surfeit gaiety
And this floor is the threshold
Of infinite chances
In the pale gilded walls
I impale myself like a wallpaper
Slathering every soul
Into the graves in my skin
I am one with the yellow house
And we are the maladroit spin
Of the clock's wafting arms,
The silent breathing
In the attic's chambers,
And in your bright collection
Of quasars and chandeliers
I will never be a shadow.
poem by Norman Santos
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Endless reach
Attached to her skin, the overwhelming desire
that makes her days endless and hopelessly
aware of the absence of his touch, the never will be,
'thought' the endless yearn, the feeling of a touch
will never be, certainly not his, her skin will never
meet his hands. He was too superior, she was too
ordinary, The fame rules his world, Simplicity is not
with him. Blindness doesn't realize that he is really
naked. No gold, diamond or pearls will keep his soul.
But still he is not conscious, ordinary her will never
catch up. Time will tell him, when the white hair and
wrinkle skin start's to show. The killing system of time,
eventually will get him; his distinguish and shinning
fame will reflect his ego making his world dramatically
change into an old man with regrets
and disappointments; Will leave behind a mark.
poem by Elenushka Toledo
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Taverns
Amongst buoyant chortles
And charlatan tales
From sinewy gutters
Of jocund corruptions
The wafting jigger
And latticing clambers
Of fervent tongues brought
Nostalgia dissipated
From the clogged pores
Of the shriveling skin,
And melancholia was
As evasive as the wind
With the yearning dithering
In the echopractic reveling
Frosted eyes mounted the seams
Of barricading sierras
And you wouldn't hear
The riddance of the opened doors
In these taverns
You may rest your head
And haunt with
The phantom of the blunt
Susurrations of the floor
Clad with anguished blood
Purging the mausoleum gore
Residing in the bones
In these taverns
You may play the puppet
Stringed to your own
And play the criminal
In a sordid carnival
Botching to pilfer
The hooked gambler's
Clandestine pockets
Or somebody else's
Putrefaction
And be hailed
A hero
In these taverns
You will go astray
With the roars of
Singeing throats
And in the predicament
Impaled with grills
You shall be found
Moseying
With charred feet
And holding
A sedentary poem
Basking in the eyes
Of inebriation
In these taverns
There's a pot of gold
Swimming with the arrows
That struck the strings
Of fettered birds
And they are winnowed
By the fluent humming
Of false hopes
And sedative truths.
In these taverns
You may come
And you may go,
As everyone else will,
But you would leave
With the toll
Of a spiteful
Meandering.
poem by Norman Santos
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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A Perfect Day To Sail
Autumn hovered above the maladroit clouds
To descry our sanctum and astray meanders
And She shuddered, sprinkling a daze of gold
And sifted the ashes and bones of our deaths
In the sieves of Her trident are the remnants
Where my soul remained haplessly enthralled
And we watched it wan and die in a murder:
An auspicious castration of the gray curtains
In your resilient grin it flaunts a descant of scenes-
A bipolar thrill cleaves in me, a timorous ecstasy:
Eccentric and riveting, undulating and banefully riving.
The ghastly gossamer blooms saliently in the mire
Like a trickle of blood blossoming in the silver lake,
The ruse of vicissitude obfuscates a brand new shade
And the excoriation tautly smothers my inside
Drowning the myriad collections of pilfered sighs
But your picture was a pristine escalation, a stupor
Of purged exoneration, I loosen my heaving breath
Unlatched my tacit eyes to resign my contending
And permit the enigmatic lagoon tinker my incertitude
For it mirrors your mirth, and there sank my ululations
"The veneer of the lake, the psalms of the mimic sierras,
The soughing of the albino birches, the chanting of cicadas,
The touting of the gilded rays, the disgorging of the panorama,
The diadem of the sky; like an aubade of fata morgana"
You uttered them in a foreign voice that flabbergasts my storms
I cringed, lost in insecurity, musing on the ail of your panacea
And the whirlwind inside sculls heavier but the lake was mute
And resilient as you are, perhaps, I needed an ounce of fortitude-
A sliver of hope, a shard of faith: a chance to experience verve
In a sly jauntiness you seared like a blithe phalanx
And I vied for involution to reap my own wings
But I can only connive with the shoved ghosts
And commiserate with the aborted sorrows,
A desolate man juxtaposed a vindicated soul
In front of a fastidious lake that mirrors my demands,
I flinched but I cannot reveal, I broke but I cannot bleed
I interposed my share of inconsistency but I cannot feel
A desolate man—a warden, a prison; a perplex abolition
Is all that I can sap from the plenitude of sedations
"It is a good day for a stride, let's haul the boat"
You inveigled with the season's gaudy feint
"Of course, let's hurtle down the sleeping lake"
I superimposed an unrivaled acquiescence
But the fears marauding like tempest thunders
Sundered the soul from the quintessence of words
And there you are in your abundant bliss
Ferried in a chaise of victory, eagerly departing
To greener grounds, I assume without doubts
While I remained moored into my crackled grounds
Capitulated by the chicanery of severe turpitude
"Ho! The wind is good—warm and cold! "
You hollered as you run and swell like the lake
I broke another grin for the oxymoronic slate
And the fogs devoured your fine silhouette
As winter perched in my shoulders, frost biting
My finagling yearns and thwarting my fleet
Riveted with a peremptory despondence for escape
I can only aggrandize the inadequate profanity
"This is my moiré skin, see the scars running?
These are my maps, the vales in the cicatrix;
This what I cannot depart, in all my spite,
This is where I have become—my ocean, my lake,
My only birth land and my sole grave"
I quivered my lips in your bleared visage
And from the veil a bray pierced like lightning
"It's a perfect day to sail! " There was quietude
"It's a perfect day to sail! " Your new etude.
The sun smoldered His wrath arduously
And the dews slewed from the genteel leaves
Whilst I, unmoved in my inert imposed grace,
Sailed the perfect day to sail away.
poem by Norman Santos
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Glass Boy, Spare Some
Pliant flame, spare one simper for a boy
Who wore a vessel of naked sincerity too lucid
That reduced his opulence into thin films
Of frailty, steadfast with detrimental affection
Of vulnerability, committed to debonair convictions
He submits into a disposition of undeserving woes and pains
In a terrain with no tender arms, a valley of jagged hopes
That glistened like the epitomizing skin of shattered glass
Phosphorescent crust encumbering a fragile soul
Spared of scarce sympathy, corrupted of his golden crown
Abrade of flaws and lamentations, tethered in a town
Of make believe people and cheap bliss that tinker
Inside a hollow glass receptacle too agonizing to touch
The papyrus-thin veneer of diaphanous crust
In a vow to transparency to the skeletons and demons
That cordially lingered in the wardrobe of terror
Giving away all that there is; hope and its disease
Porcelain grandiosity drained in a lack-lusting ride
Of rueful nights, sullying to impotency a glass-like pride
Held by the hand, but who would hold such fragile hands?
Shattered mirrors and razor edges, fulminate thy prancing light
And devour the darkness of the mantling abandonment
Spare a piece of heaven, glass boy of flimsy grip
Spare an ounce of faith, glass boy of authentic grief
For I have enough spared for a goblet full of emptiness
Iron eyes for a glass frame, a boy too earnest.
poem by Norman Santos
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Much That I Remember About You
I remember you
I remember the first time I saw you
Looking up and there you were, an angel on earth
It occurred when I didn’t expect it, wasn’t looking
Seeing you and thinking that you were pretty
Seeing you and wondering why, afterwards, I
Remember you more now
I remember your voice
I remember the first time I heard and it enchanted me
Dulcet tones playing hypnotic music disguised as a woman’s voice
It happened in conversation, in the harmony of all you spoke
Hearing the coy happiness in the words we shared
Hearing the smile in your tone so that I
Remember your voice now
I remember your eyes
I remember the first time I became lost in them
How it was a time when our eyes met in more than just a glance
It happened in a moment, together with you
Seeing in your eyes more than just a casual interest
Seeing in your eyes myself and us which is why I
Remember your eyes now
I remember your skin
I remember the first time I felt the touch of your skin
When your fingertips brushed mine in flirting invitation
It flashed in a moment, skin to skin
Feeling the electricity of your touch, your skin against mine
Feeling the heat passing between us as I
Remember the feel of your skin now
I remember how you made me feel
I remember the first time I admitted to myself
What I felt for you was more than just friendship
It came in a moment, talking with you
Realizing that every thought of you made me smile
Realizing that each smile made me
Remember even more how you made me feel
I remember why I fell for you
I remember this all the time now
The memory comes in thoughts, your voice, your eyes
It happens in every moment these days, loving you
Knowing that what happened between us is a good beginning
Knowing that we could be much more always helps me
Remember constantly why I fell in love with you
poem by David Terry
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Tails of Bliss
The truculent sensation of auspicious sedation in a puncturing thrill
Is as evasive as the clear vesper skies flooded with constellations
Bliss, I calculate like the fragment of aeons spewed by the clock
With hands dancing into the euphonious crooning of decadence;
Bliss, I forfeit to fringe you esoteric definition in a mooring point
But I wish to enter your anteroom and never leave, anchored in your skin,
And when I climb and crawl in the craters and crevasses you hollowed in
Your plasmatic visage my flimsy hands and mind still can never grasp
Who you are; Are you the same for everyone? How do I claim you
And fill the depression in your mattress? Or do you claim me and shatter
The impassable ashen moonbeam of my every night? If then, come, now.
In the awning of this protracted wondering nurtured by the city's malingering,
I wonder if I will ever touch you, the wisp of your tail that had grazed me once
The whiff that was not recounted by any noble man, the pleasure that had
Established a sagacious demand for cynicism's arduous flagrance,
In the patina of bleeding pain I tasted of your poison making me grovel
For the oblivious thrill, the ecstatic bereavement of feel, the orgasmic static in the ears,
In this world of blind alleys where death walks with garrulous snores of the shadows
I yearned for your faceless name, futilely aborting the lies riveted in hoping.
The harsh gale of levanter had whispered a clout in my ears; a clandestine item
A map to your lair, where you slumber coiled around your lustrous virgin hair
Your place, a castle within reach made of frangible bricks from the dim corners
Cobwebbed with fear and secluded thoughts, your nest is in my corpuscles
In its warmth and passionate hue, simply put into words of mirth
You are a lever ensconced in the ribs and only I can pull you out
To transpire personified, either in the illusion of altered perspectives
Or the hapless hummingbird-chance in erecting your lofty pillars
Into the damped soil where everything sank with the void and hollow
Yes, reality, the dour malady of having you unfold into the corporeal
Land of the breathing tombs is already a painted picture in abstraction
Bliss, have you visited the strangled heads dangling for your platform?
The lifeless eyes darting into the void horizon, grasping for air?
Your tail is a trail of streams that had ran in quest to find you
Or in the demise of finding your ephemeral plane, cold and ashamed
Are these streams lacerating the gulfs and barricades, cold and ashamed
I am for these streams that had engulfed your boiling core
Your tails, as elusive as the sating of questions, wounds and hunger
The yarns taut in the trample for every interior entropy
Bliss, your illusion was enough to keep me here
Wondering about the pristine pyre of Hades.
poem by Norman Santos
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And Then You Remember
you're on top, you display something analytical, tails and heads in perfect harmony.
explanations, rationalizations, conclusions,
therefore,
i am.
then you are down. Colors come. Red, brown, yellow.
Metallic, rust. Shedding off. Tarnished silver.
Cracks. Lost diamonds. Melted gold.
ice turning to drips.
whirlpools. and rocking and pushing and shoving.
no why's please. You touch the lips. Sssh. No words.
No answers. No questions.
Just sitting down. Looking at a sunset. Orange turning to black.
Pure pitch black.
then the stars. Distant stars. You touch your hair.
Breathe the air. Suck them inside your lungs. Expand.
Close your eyes.
Now you are seeing all things in the dark so vividly.
Memories.Children running on the beach. Chasing. Hide and Seek.
On the table clothed with banana leaves, the food are laid.
Bare hands attack. And you gobble and haggle.
Meanwhile, the sea breeze arrive. The beach is empty.
The cradle swings and takes you to your youth.
Imagine what once was there. Just laughter.
You smile. Close your eyes. And then you remember.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Heart Of The Sunrise
(jon anderson/chris squire/bill bruford)
Love comes to you and you follow
Lose one on to the heart of the sunrise
Sharp-distance
How can the wind with its arms
All around me
Lost on a wave and then after
Dream on on to the heart of the sunrise
Sharp-distance
How can the wind with so many around me
Lost in the city
Lost in their eyes as you hurry by
Counting the broken ties they decide
Love comes to you and then after
Dream on on to the heart of the sunrise
Lost on a wave that youre dreaming
Dram on on to the heart of the sunrise
Sharp-distance
How can the wind with its arms all around
Me
Sharp-distance
How can the wind with so many around me
I feel lost in the city
Lost in their eyes as you hurry by
Counting the broken ties they decided
Straightt light moving and removing
Sharpness of the colour sun shine
Straight light searching all the meanings
Of the song
Long last treatment of the telling that
Relates to all the words sung
Dreamer easy in the chair that really fits
You
Love comes to you and then after
Dream on on to the heart of the sunrise
Sharp-distance
How can the sun with its arms all around
Me
Sharp-distance
How can the wind with so many around me
I feel lost in the city
song performed by by Yes
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Heart Of The Sunrise
(jon anderson/chris squire/bill bruford)
Love comes to you and you follow
Lose one on to the heart of the sunrise
Sharp-distance
How can the wind with its arms
All around me
Lost on a wave and then after
Dream on on to the heart of the sunrise
Sharp-distance
How can the wind with so many around me
Lost in the city
Lost in their eyes as you hurry by
Counting the broken ties they decide
Love comes to you and then after
Dream on on to the heart of the sunrise
Lost on a wave that youre dreaming
Dram on on to the heart of the sunrise
Sharp-distance
How can the wind with its arms all around
Me
Sharp-distance
How can the wind with so many around me
I feel lost in the city
Lost in their eyes as you hurry by
Counting the broken ties they decided
Straightt light moving and removing
Sharpness of the colour sun shine
Straight light searching all the meanings
Of the song
Long last treatment of the telling that
Relates to all the words sung
Dreamer easy in the chair that really fits
You
Love comes to you and then after
Dream on on to the heart of the sunrise
Sharp-distance
How can the sun with its arms all around
Me
Sharp-distance
How can the wind with so many around me
I feel lost in the city
song performed by by Yes
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Labyrinth
It descried me,
The sleeping tiger's fang
Hampering my neck,
And the endless brunt
And the plastered smile
Shrouding the perdition
Thawed with the white snow
As stark as amnesia
Where am I
Amidst your indifferent stares?
Cloy me again
And pilfer my vision
You are my adamant eyes
Sunken in delusion.
It caught me
The lacquer compassion
And the myopic acceptance
Chafing the fortified resistance
To undrape the bronze skin
And reveal the gaunt soul
Shackled inside a den
Of brazen yearning
And of unabashed fears
And here, at the floor
Of a vale I cannot fathom
Your touch still lingers
And it hurts with a pain
More immense
Than you'll ever unravel
As you graze the engraved
Scars and dilapidations;
These open wounds
Bathed in salt,
I felt the bleak fate
Of solitude bursting
Into evanescence
And the wallflowers
Weren't the only one
Crying with me
But then again
It sank to where
Everything is girdled:
The cul-de-sac of this
Ephemeral labyrinth
These emptied chasms
Inside of me
Contains your ghosts
And they will forever saunter
The dark limbo
Of its ornate alleys
And my eyes will
Grow dark as oil
Darker than
Oblivion
So I can keep you
Like a secret
In the dark
Until one day
I shall shrivel
From incinerating.
poem by Norman Santos
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Scent Explosion
The light inside is flowing out
A mother holds her pride, and glances to the ground
A key was left for her to find
Her seeds were lost inside, a shroud of endless clouds
Does it feel all right
cause you seem uptight
In a sea of relevance, riding through the wind
A seething wave of decadence, a lost communion
A scent explosion wakes your mind
Afraid the clocks will stop, and all will tumble down
She reached to touch the waterline
A faded cloth will rot, and all began to drop
Does it feel all right
cause it seems all right
In a sea of relevance, riding through the wind
A seething wave of decadence, a lost communion
song performed by by Uranium 235
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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A night with negligence
I could talk about the music
but what a cliché that would be
it's the people
with their facades and their complacency
I wish to understand them
to know who they are
they believe their recklessness is beautiful
and sometimes it is
but I know their fascinations
remain on shallow levels
They strive for those few fleeting minutes
of closeness with a stranger
while beads of sweat trickle down their sad skin
Loneliness thrives on nights like these
and they dance with it
They wait until it loves them
But it never does
and from that they suffer
their hunger makes them empty
the only thing they understand
is that they have to lose themselves
in order to find themselves
but their way of getting lost
is in the impulses
in the grazes of skin
and in clever exchanges of slurred words
they are held up by nothing
but a bass reverberation
a mixed drink
and maybe the hope
that they won't sleep alone tonight
and while this happens
Lonlieness sits in the dark corner
laughing at his victims
watching as they hopelessly
try to rid themselves of him
but he wrings out every ounce
of dignity they have
and injects it into his own veins
because with a name like Lonely
you will need all the dignity you can get
and his victims have lost their money
lost their time
and lost their energy
at the expense of what they believe is living
but these nights are not living
and will never even edge close to it
If they were truly satisfied
they wouldn't need
the sleazy pleasures these clubs allow
These are not glory days
and it's sad to know
people die thinking they are
If you want glory
Pick yourself up from these shoddy moments
and go make a difference in the world
but until then
the awful truth rests at this;
Loneliness is the most loyal company
some people will ever have
poem by Vanessa Grixti
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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