Sun Seeker
The round yellow face
Can see beneath the veneer
Of armadillo artillery
Its gaze soldering the daunted soul
To molt an inclement aversion
And in its abysmal eyes
Stood an archenemy
Mocking the rage in my face
Leaning on an obtuse obsidian
Unseeing eyes staring daggers
So I burrowed into the dark
But in the pall of jet black
I can only coil at peace
With the warm memory of the sun
Lingering in these burns
And his superfluous rays
Percolating the stained sieves
I would never be alone
Cadenced with these secrets
In this desolate black hole
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poem by Norman Santos
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Petals of Fire
Perfidious aroma
I bleed upon the panorama
And kneel before your thorns
In your loins, to be rubbed in
My distant and fictive
Pliant garden queen
Because the severe verity
In my coiled subterfuge
Is that in my reclusion
I yearn to be saved and hauled
By a pensive flower
With flaming petals
In a fictive plane
With virulent juices
I do not even care
You can take my blood
I will haplessly pawn it
For an ounce of honesty
And of love.
Yes, I grovel and plea,
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poem by Norman Santos
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Phalanx of Doorways
As we resigned into our sleep
and tossed on our disparate sides
we close our weary eyes
and descended into shadows
slathered with doubt and fear
from a life-long dream
that leaked into our reality
In the void terrain
of lifted unconsciousness
these flustered feet
meander with klutz speed
along a phalanx of doorways
searching for my way back
into your ajar impasse
And in this insatiable alley
I make myself a labyrinth
where every silhouette
are prancing beacons
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poem by Norman Santos
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Just Follow Where The Light Goes
In her stammering scintillations
She owned the forlorn vesper
Famished for an abeyance
She was an armada of light
A sprinkled sugar in the lattices
Of a cobwebbed chandelier
The ubiquity of the dark sky
Was already her possession
But she cannot see her petals
That are tightly curled, of a sudden
Wide open like a moonflower
Fringing the dominion of
The fringeless silhouette
Of the constantly shifting weather
And there was no trail
That you have not followed
Northern light, far behind
Is south, distally are east and west
What lisping choreography
Can you not follow.
poem by Norman Santos
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Pained and Ailing
A knot pulled in the gut,
a lynch tangled in the neck
shattering the lungs-
how much pain,
how much sordidness
do I need to feel alive?
I squirmed in flames
in a bed of leonine coals
and the dead stone's mangled
to create a pallid flicker of light -
the only stain of hope
in its drab lifelessness
This weak vessel
is once again wrecked;
How many damn should I give?
How many damn should I take?
I am out of death sticks,
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poem by Norman Santos
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Gray Skies
Gray mornings underneath
the plummeting of silver beads
is a cold seraph sitting upon
his celestial wings of fire
shedding petals, caviling for silence
willowing in a soft psychastenia
and of steel-bruised dreams
and the avalanche of his realm
he lost the tangled threads
of his adamant musing
but the heavens cannot speak
and unravel his constellations
without quelling his mirrors
and his vapid etude pounced
like a chain of spears from
the vaults of his commiserating
as he vied against his flaming aeons
and become the mausoleum inside
the bones of the gray morning skies.
poem by Norman Santos
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Burnt
Why can't we look
Deep inside ourselves?
While my sole existence
Is a fountain of amber
In the breadth of your
Burning waltz with each other
You fan his putrefaction
By throwing a dry stick
And the victim of the immolation
Is my scarce flame
And he fans his own fire
With the coals of my dying
To meet a fire break
With you
While the sly tongue
Of fire I held is
A picador hurtling
For its own death
Because I shall not
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poem by Norman Santos
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Destitution
The table spun
Like a coarse roulette
And the hilarity
Coruscated a fire
Singeing the bosom
Of the undulating waves
Of the frescoes
As the cup writhe
And quaffs pound
A soundless song
Of ricocheting toll.
A star fell
With the cinders
Of a raped cigarette
And no one cared
For this oppression
To be hauled
From splintering
In a detrimental
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poem by Norman Santos
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Waking The Dawn
The fumbling days finally crashed
Along with the rolling waves
And shattered like the breaking tides
Where the apathetic crags stood
Like silent marks of a grave
I would finally rise
With all mustered confidence
From beneath the ocean floor
Where I hid with the light show
Of the flamboyant nights
I shall wear my best suit to enthuse
The waking dawn on the shore
A tatterdemalion suit
But still, my best
With all flamboyance I can muster
And I would run in the beach
Alone from the wakening
And shake the hands of the dawn
Though, I know how this would end
Another premature sunset.
poem by Norman Santos
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Joust
There were two shadows
Under one erratic sun
Two angry, sibilant veins
To hum the same rhyme
Trepidation gnaws the soul
And we knew a good resolve:
Trepidation makes knights and lions
And we knew it wouldn't dissolve
You were brave enough to lunge
But your sword wouldn't joust
I was brave enough to take the jabs
But I cannot halt my lonely wake
In cowardice we futilely spun
Gilded threads in the dark
In cowardice we also lost
The ends of our tangled yarns
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poem by Norman Santos
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