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.
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poem by Norman Santos
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As I
As I battle out the austere torsions of the horizon
Plying to shove the gossamer sun to set
Into the insolent demise resting on his nest;
As I dispense the divergence of the liaison
Raveling a prostrate retroactive protraction
Musing on the gloaming before it dawns;
As I subtly winnow the skirts of this curtain
A prolix camouflage to interminable impasse
Shifting fractions and equations to resume this vying;
As I exonerate the black birds perched on the fringes
And obliterate the spiteful thaw of waxen houses
Tumbling a speck to the dead of the sapid vesper;
As the body touch the soul, like a hand in glove
Quelling the warmth and seething the frost
Bereaving the vehement possibility of consummation;
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poem by Norman Santos
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A Web of Bridges
The moon broods upon her phosphors
and wove her lasso to concatenate
the sundered dispositions basked indulgently
on the filths of self-desolating defeat
and in her reflection upon the moiré undulations
I confabulated with my own flamboyant charade
inside the shallow shelves of this den
where saints knelt before burning bridges
gnarled in a prayer for vindication - I am a gargoyle
scornful and bemused upon the illusion
deferentially succumbing to a feigned oblivion
The latticing shadows of the bridges
overlaps in a consummate web of darkness
where I caught myself in the juxtaposition
of the squalid morose in our superfluous transitions
waiting for the monarchial jeopardy
while the pillars wobbled and toppled
leaving me in the taciturn propinquity
of absolute confusion, deterred absolution,
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poem by Norman Santos
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Verisimilitude of Grandiose III: Debonair Soiree
Trample in the lacquer marbles of a soiree
And whittle an elegy from the toppling sea
Of our struggles behind the concealing drapes
And of the waltzing feet and swaying knees
And you will find nothing but a fraudulent soiree.
Come, debonairly donned in a dishabille suit
By the most splendid textile and luxurious craft
Hand tailored by your lamentations and sentiments
With a cigarette parting the fake smile on your lips,
A pen and paper squirming inside the tattered pockets,
For this is a revelry with a putrid kind of loneliness
Where you would wither like a hapless wallflower
Only without any walls to catch your recumbence
Or nacreous eyes to witness (or share) the sordidness.
Then raise a highball of gold dusts while
People drag at each other's sycophancy
In a swanking heraldry of tuxedos and ball gowns
Some would wear it mournful in black, some in fiery red,
Some in the tepidness of blue, some even half-naked,
But only in the same fashion of a bull fight's carnage.
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poem by Norman Santos
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People (And Their Attritions)
To dream in the shade of gray
And wake with the sound of silence
The redolent ululations of the stagnant wind
Will freeze the airwaves with icicles
Sharper than the tongues of fire
People are people
Marred with a weak heart
That heeds no change for mercy
When stricken by godly hands;
Like a serpent, infuriated from the ground
By the prime predators with blood
Warm and red that he envied
With such amazed incongruity
Disturbed by the clamors beyond the pale
And the pertinacious exploitations
These harried hands wrought upon graves
Praying with the white flowers
Tossed without remorse
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poem by Norman Santos
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Truce
Your nacreous eyes is a mirror
Palled by a multitude of horror
A window swung open
But shuttered by a void emptiness
In its hazel glaze I implored
My own lifeless reflection
Still - like a metallic lake
Concealing a surreptitious daemon
Whilst the myopia of vision won
And stifled any sanguine climate
We never batted an eyelash
In hope for a drifting light
And in fear of total eclipse
So eye to eye, we confabulated
With metaphors and false-analogies
As our thoughts morph into blindness
White as oblivion and black as its shadow
Piercing the robust chamber of life
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poem by Norman Santos
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Suitcases
I reckon in vivid pangs
like a salient entropy,
the pedagogy gnawing
in the sorry eyes
and the train arrives
confronting me with
my failures and losses
The first of the months
the weakening sanctum,
the constant rumination,
how we've been each other's asylum
now the suitcase's lock is defunct
and it is all spilling out -
I cannot hold it back
The arch your spine made
as you lower your head
on ponderous nimbuses
I was always at your back
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poem by Norman Santos
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Fading Letters
Tonight, like many a more
I unfolded your letters
tucked beside my bed
castrated of its fragrance
in every contour flailing,
every eloquence rising,
I found you - enveloped in sunshine
skimming through
the phosphorescent sand
like a lucid lullaby
I saddled back to Levanther
of exchanged letters -
your frail façade glassy
from dancing behind your eyes,
your words like beacons:
a lighthouse in a sea
coruscating with a song
in a night where I sink
underneath its storm,
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poem by Norman Santos
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A Bard's Song To The Pensive Canaries
Hiding in the floor
of a bottomless ocean
I watched bubbles scampered
to meet the climbing dithers
of light in this abyss
And muse alone I did
while the limpid limbs continually
oust the life it possessed
and the cage of feral memories
shattered from the inner tyranny
The flustered world
caromed in a wistful ballet
while my breaking bones played
the esoteric melody and
everything under this
pirouetting parasol was just
a defunct music box
playing songs - tinkering violins
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poem by Norman Santos
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Still As A Clock
When will the lacquer veneer erode with
Serrated shards of your jubilant complacence?
The Walls of Troy shouting an echolalia
Of somnabulistic susurrations usurping
The harried ego vying in barricaded seams,
Still finagles its claws on the svelte frame
Of my despondent shoulders and the burden
Is etched deeply into the collar bones, strangulated
By the vines of your leisurely blooming garden
Where time sinks into the hollow void,
And strings of icicles soused in fire,
Forbidden memories sprawls like the dermis
Of the passing season's contingency,
And words fluttered like innocuous paper planes
Winnowed by heaving breaths of serendipity
And pummeled by the soft drizzles of verity
Tarnishing the frangible papyrus into the salient
Turbulence of malignant clouts of veracity
When will you arrive like the sun rise
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poem by Norman Santos
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