Pleas of a Claymore III
Perhaps, the blight in all of us
Are denizens of a labyrinth
And are all engaged in a feudal mêlée
Amongst our ludicrous terrors
Etched in fleuron to our buried core;
Then we must all be the hero
Of our clandestine tailored tales
Regardless how omnibus the chronicles,
Or how rippling the wave of climax,
Or how dark the corners of the nadir,
It will narrate the atrocity
Of our dime a dozen breaths
Shallow or unfathomable,
In synergy with the heartbeat or not.
Sometimes, I do confabulate
With the cajoling omnipresence of hope
And submit to its scheme and proposition
That the struggling and the somnolent undertow
Makes a dogged-hungry hero,
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poem by Norman Santos
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Unforgiving Riddance
On the nights of stellar sharpness
Like the pixels of a lacquer photograph
I reckoned how you came to reality
Crossing the plethora of footsteps
And the myriad of engulfing seas
Your cold embrace of good riddance
Embraced by a lion's crown
Folded unto my chest and back
Like a broken ribcage splintered
From the steadfast monolith that you were
Your words surmounted the staves
Of the ladder you let down,
My guilt dangled like the last words
Catapulted at each other's citadel,
The redolence of yesterday flits
With all the far-fetched promises
I ask for all your poison again
So the faith you once injected
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poem by Norman Santos
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Verisimilitude of Grandiose I: Children's Party
Open the enthralling jar of the leprechaun and
Stifle upon the acrimonious taste in your tongue
Aggrandized by saccharine pebbles and cotton puffs
And find the candor dulcet of the plaguing jinx
In a Trip-To-Jerusalem ensconced in the vista
Of an eternal child, ministered by the bouffant sierras
Of the ad valorem toll of a children's party.
As you watch a grotesque clown in the frontline
Contorting a tepid balloon into a highfalutin swine
But nary a musing as the torsion of the eerie melancholia
Beneath the feint of the robustness and plethora
Of halcyon slapstick jokes and smeared rouges,
Or, as your vision attends the little gamine's fumbling
In ballasting the weight of innocuous zeal and ardor
And of the weight of the undulating hammer
That her unripe and feeble body ineptly juggles
To bludgeon the whimsical dangling of the piñata
And swoon over the accolade of rapture upon its rupture
While the knowing ones kept on sculling her heels
With a mendacious blindfold from the harshness of veracity
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poem by Norman Santos
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They March Towards the Sun
Fall with the drizzle and watch
The myriad of sunsets
Like the ubiquitous mist, and
Wade through the mud
To create the ripples that
Would whisk the stark portrait
Of the striding demise
One by one, footsteps fell
Like raindrops on the eaves
With the same alacrity
And magnitude, and mass,
Outnumbering the silence
Of my sojourning breath
And the gushing rivers
Pummeling the latticed walls
Of my abashed lashes
From my gaze they thawed
Into bodies, into silhouettes,
Into shadows treading
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poem by Norman Santos
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Owed To another Ode
If you'll find yourself in the midst of fierce winds and glacial lances
In the scrutinizing cornea of the storm where darkness dances and prances
You would hear a rummaging voice, a wail yearning to fulminate
In your clasped ears devoured by fear, sore enough to deteriorate
Whispering a code, the key to a labyrinthine yonder the wicked storm
Asserting an intrusion of blind devotion reaped from another maelstrom
And along the shriek shrilling melody there would be a spark of light
Ephemeral forking flash, to hark back your eyes its aptitude to take flight
From a single-angled view to the phantoms and chances reveling in the milieu
If hope is blinding, then so is loathing; vindication basks within you.
If you'll find yourself excoriating the layers of the scorching aurora of the sun
Shunning the streaks of light, undraping to probe another fear to out run
You would burn beneath the bludgeoning rivers, drown in ethereal fire
When you find endless anguish and torment beneath a flaming quagmire
And your sightless eyes would depart from life just to recognize
What has been there all along; a singsong carom accompanying the lies
We dream with oblivious eyes, find darkness in the garish light
We owe this to our frail constitutions; all too scarce and blight
From the estoque of blades where we gladly surrender and die
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poem by Norman Santos
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Bestiary Cages
Weary was the divergence of feathers and cries
Shaking the same tree and acquainting with
Different mendacities and atrocities
A fell star stripped its ever gnashing light
To sedulously inveigle the lost and astray
A red chamber left vacant and open
Crumbled with a vile miscalculation
And the forest stared at the battling sky
Its canopies were a parasol, but the weather
Was hoarding beasts from the inside
The night of the hunter sauntered a wintry stride:
The beetle moon remained hard with iridescence
That the metallic armor beholds with imposition,
The filigree of vulturine fowls encircled the vale
Where you slept turgidly like a defenseless child,
The febrile roar that inflames the broad throat
Underneath of the mountain lion's crown dissolved,
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poem by Norman Santos
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The Winter Of The Sun
Glacial sighs mantled the breaking light
in a soft dislmning abrasion
Like whispers lifted from the frost
that sheathed the slumbering sun
behind the solace of our sequence
and tedium of our shenanigans,
but the austere silence it brought
had drifted with a lack of euphony
and calm for macabre had conquered
the prying eyes and mangled with
the atrocious affliction brought
by the premature winter of the sun
The ice sheets that I meander started
to shatter and thaw, but the kingly fire ball
remained suspended on his veracious
gesture of absence, his superfluous fingers
pointed with a jeopardy through
the unlocked and opened barricades
where the black embers futilely honed
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poem by Norman Santos
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Sundered Crags
With the sun obliquely gliding between your dusk
Raising its head to cast shadows over ivory tusks
Gnawing with stale porcelains and phantasms
At the bottom of the swelling sundered chasms
I ponder blindly on its clinging bite and dying graze:
"Can I fill in the gaps and caress the space? "
Between these sundered crags are four arctic seas
Calm with gargantuan serpents and deceitful harpies
Withholding fathoms and speculations of galaxies
Interlaced with a cordial invitation in garrulity
The penumbra of the aqueous mirror cannot conceal
From skyscraping crags no hands can reel
Unfathomable oceans, too dense to stifle
Can you cajole with the angry lips of a rifle
Where callow cesspools of undying pits
Is a goblet of fallen stars and potential fleets
I lunge in imperceptibly in its glacial skin
Purged with another wish, unknowing and asinine
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poem by Norman Santos
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When The Clock Sojourns
When the Clock Sojourns
The grandfather's clock
Defunct, senile, and silenced
Loomed like a vertical demise
Rising in the muted corner
Or rather the clandestine core
Of the disembogued hearth
And I can tell in its scathed varnish
Of weary and eroding mauve
That it had once vied to emancipate
From the providence's dictates
And that was probably when
Its hands stopped from moving
The pendulum was now a lissome
Unwavering string to the grave
Of the clockwork's very soul
And although it never swings
Its phantom was undulating
Into the sloped paths of impasse
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poem by Norman Santos
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Vendetta
While the chagrined wine
rummaged like a felled rose -
electric shivers in the spine
willowing the pretty mouth
and the abolition of eyes
the tethers that we rival
only strops the exoneration
into exacerbating this
premature demise
Waltz into the dark curtain
like a soundless hunter
Hold your vehemence
in a gnarl I'd never grasp
and into my diamond penetralium
send the lamentations
like ghastly susurrations
from masquerading
varmints of my sanctum;
Like a connoisseur contender
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poem by Norman Santos
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