Squalor Asylum
The abiding moon collected
my knowing surrenders
basking in the squalidness
of my black heart
and asked in a tone
as mellifluous as the angry tides:
Where does a crow fly?
The nights of scarlet
where the saturnalia
collapsed in a dark secret
and the butterflies perched
over a buried amber
was devoured in famish
as carnage spattered
with burnt colors
and moaning plumage
Watching the astray musings
on a riving remedy
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poem by Norman Santos
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Never Too Distant
Basking the dithering umbra
of an endless, moonless
void oceanic night
where the clockwork caught tremors
with terse ebb and flow
before it defiantly sojourns
in a vertical line ensconced
in the abysmal marrows of depth,
I became the caper, and the ruse
is the stillness of the vesper
I undulated through
the most convoluted slopes
never too distant from
the diamond-tethers
riveting me in the manifold
phases of this empty night
Because in this cobwebbed room
your shadows remained prancing
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poem by Norman Santos
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Until My Valkyrie Arrives
Assiduously, the gears pirouetted in their waltz
and the pendulum swayed with my inebriation
careening with all the lonely bones
and ephemeral montages and letters -
camouflaged in stone walls and iron eyes
like a gray madhouse without windows,
without doors; just a cage sheathing
the holocaust dislimning every breath
The cicatrix ailed and one by one
the hands of day reached out -
The rain soundlessly pummeling into sand,
the gyration of black figures in a storm,
the awakening of tulips on the lifted spring,
the stars promenading their diadems -
Life was blossoming at its best
because death is arriving like a thief
One by one, the world left
the labyrinthine cul-de-sac and
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poem by Norman Santos
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Fostering The Desperation
A plenitude of ten days can cradle the impasse
And the drudgery of the smothering blasé
For in the times where the jocund days revel
Without sparing a single seat despite your grovels,
Not even the delusive carousing inside your head
Can bend the bleak defeat heaving a lynching thread,
You are bound to incarcerate the pangs of jealousy
And subsist in a burrow on the crust of mendacity
A surfeit of abeyance is a bed of black tulips
Where death silently coils entangling in diminutive wisps
How long can you endure breathing the stygian gale?
How long can you keep your vessel from shattering in stale
Fragments of desperation? And swallow the swords that halt
Your shrouding verve or demise; your congealed surreptitious art
Of feigned exuberance and complacent retorts
To the vehement proposal of trepidation's mellifluous courts
Another futile endeavor to foster the desperation in a poetry
Is but another escalation of the devastated treaty
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poem by Norman Santos
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Tom and Fatima
I saw your warm footprints, Fatima
They lingered in the sinking quartz
Stalled within the quaint wonder
That crossed this parceled paper
I saw them, standing with the colossus
Unruffled in the vapid slough of fire
A crawling inferno of treacherous
Skirmish waltz of phantom swords
And from this florid vantage
My solemn eyes rolled in naivety
To find my own footprints
Meandering supply and aimlessly
Caught in the inebriated throttle
Of the feral roars of hope
Traversing the dampen moss
Until abeyance congealed
When I saw our prints dissipate
As it crossed the enigma
Of the cesspool of ignorance
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poem by Norman Santos
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Mockingjay
I never opted
For abhorrence
But there was a serration
In your lattices, that I
Can no longer endure
I love you too much
That I need to hate you
So I can spare
Myself my redemption
I never wished
For these torrent rivulets
Where your angst flow
Gushing with your
Indifference and ignorance
Making everything
Easier to loathe
Easing the guilt
With your oppressing
Selfishness
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poem by Norman Santos
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Tongues Of The Gods
The gods had harbored their message
The thunder of languid and lewd tongues
In a whisper surging inside my bones
In frothing rolls of vapid vitality
Paving the lulled clouds of safety
And there were rivers in opposite directions
Razing each other's fluent currents
In the midst of the havoc was the turbulence
Heralding the parceled profanity of the gods
Distracting my assiduous recuperation
In the dancing flames of an upside inferno
In the night's eloquent guise
The god's would drink from my blood
And spit into my somnolent veins
And I would be swathed from within
The unfathomable depths of the viscera
With a febrile engulfment of the soul-
Of the old weary evocative soul-
Dies in a single graze of the petulant
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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
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poem by Norman Santos
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Firebreak
Moseying in the skin of your complacence
I build an ornate heraldry of sycamores
With carnal lattices to fringe the eaves
But no vulture dares to crane and sing,
No quasar halt to pry and beam,
No burl stopped from lewdly skewing
Deeper and deeper, you are penetrating.
You amble sprightly, sagaciously, innocuously
Caroming into the maze gracefully
I was weighed to kneeling with a plea
And a silent cry for a trespassing treachery
But gravity opposed the resistance
And the sycamores flounced wistfully
My forest sprouted the ripped wings
And the castrated prongs in the foliage
Of dying moss and buried memories
Uttering the melody of a gamine
That mounts walls for a dream
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poem by Norman Santos
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Bedtime Stories
Once upon a time.
A picturesque blur of line
An etude cradling every night
Laced in the line of silver light
When will your hope arrive
Without the inflection of lie?
What periphery do you behold?
Yonder idyllic nights unfold
In dreams basking in marigold
And scathe veracity sneers untold
Once upon an incidence,
Once upon an ignorance,
Once in a loop of ambivalence;
A tale exuding such complacence.
Salvation. Redemption.
Darling tales of grand illusion
Fold your arms, shut your eyes in peace
Sleep in the serenity you find in bliss
Oblivion is so abused
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poem by Norman Santos
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