Usurped Eternal Frame
Your vines crawling upon my constitutions -
a glove to the empty hands of my
insufficient quintessence decapitates
the imposition with a severe abandon
In a not so subtle larceny of flames,
I foisted an intrepid whuthering
equipoise my defeated brawls
slowly stone-freezing in naivety
Because this loquacious tableau
still jousts with your nonplus propositions
adhering to the mellifluous conflagrations
by the hands of your phantom's exodus
And still, the furnace of your skies
shears the shadows of your manifold nets
like a storm-troubled sunny day
passing with an undecipherable augury
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poem by Norman Santos
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The Drab Splendor Of A Gargoyle
The dark came generously
with storm-troubled wings
The stars are all quelled
and the wind hangs purposelessly
There is a streak of verdigris
on the cicatrizing vault
A corolla of change dangles,
a shifting moon unfolds
and my imposition remained
a lackluster glacial metal
The weather was still as gold
and voracious as greedy kings
the crooked hands of the day
basked in luxurious rendezvous
Whilst I dreamed in hues of gray
weaving poems to the blasé moon
stitching the tatterdemalion tapestry
that mantled the ailing wounds
I found myself waiting
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poem by Norman Santos
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Fortuity for a Mnemonist
Corrosive maps of calamitous sailings
Shambled with the shivering pebbles on his feet
As he vied to mould in this shaping
And molt from a smothering predicament
In grills of iron for an ill-fated mnemonist.
As he acquaints with the candid kind of hope—
A cheap analgesic, an unstained gleam of faith,
And eviscerate the forlorn kind of hope—
Tethered in a bipolar dagger of suffering;
He shall digress like an intrepid blackbird
From the debauching glacial torments
Of the menmonist's veraciousness—
Purged of idealisms, and direly maimed
By reminiscences of the fine languid rapiers
Of your comely trivialities and particulars
Shrilling like the jaunty risqué razors
Of the wintry famished slavering mouth
Of the pasquinade discreetly wrought
In the solitariness of his brooding soul
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poem by Norman Santos
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When The Opened Is Closed
Hiding behind the alley ensconced
In the open page of your palms
The sun never reached your core -
A cold song the harpist cannot play
Without scathing her lissome fingers
Your pernicious montage can reel
Unfathomable pensiveness stalled
With a detrimental distraught
And like the gyratory leaves of July
We plummet down into an ennui
Of counting the withered petals
And plucking the defensive thorns
Reading behind the taut lines
That strode in the rousing verses
But when the library closes
How do we festoon the metronome
Slowly sojourning to decadence?
The sunset leaned on a pillar
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poem by Norman Santos
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Four A.M. Gazing
A tangential full moon was riveted
At the torpor dew of the late dawn
Have you seen how bloated ‘twas?
How ripe still it was at four AM?
No? You didn't even pry,
You have surmised a sunrise.
Well, let me fondle your metal vault,
Macadamized by forking soirées
Clad with a spurious shallow varnish,
The morning moon was ominously peering
Trough the notches of every window
Through the nicks of every undulated sleep
Like an ominous darting eye in torsion
Austerely ashen, sedentary, and pregnant
Just as the reflection of my own petrified orbits
As the crow flies into her grating unwavering stare
I trampled into a staid and hapless meandering
If there's, at least, one restless owl beseeching
And gazing bemused by the argot of the torn horizon
Staring back into the moon, even in a trifle,
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poem by Norman Santos
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Anatomy of Rue
The far flung tirade bellowed
into the gray reflection
and the resistance knelt
before its banquet of rue
but sleep was neglected
by the sullen eyes,
and tales were still narrated
into the frosted-glass
fearfully staring daggers
like a hysteric pistol
crying at point blank
knowing well that the only eyes
it can look into are the mirror's
The seasons passed hurriedly
but solace never came with
the showering yellow petals
and the breadth of trepidation
grew like a feral bush of ivies
and its thorns instilled
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poem by Norman Santos
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Shipwrecked Tragedies
The Capitan's tailored tales dilated a valiance
Much lethal than a pirate's rapine and encumbrance
A venomous blade to the wretched's grave
A mellifluous immolation surfing the waves
Ensconced in an enthusing fluvial grove
Of prismatic lilies, daisies, and asphodels
Hastily enrapturing to ship the weary oars
When the lightning and thunder are jubilantly
Prancing with tempest winds of sanguinary
Holocaust undulating in the firmament
And toppling ravenously down like a veil
Pouring down the rut of a heirloom gown
Of the widowed bride of a phantom town
Pothering the turgid and billowing vapors
Condensing fumes cached in the great fathoms
Of a slumbering berserk in an intractable shade
Of hollow and gaudy laze of the forlorn escapade,
Where one does not need a horde of iniquitous harpies
To mar the lamentations of the stimulated elegies
And one does not require an ensemble of sirens
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poem by Norman Santos
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Suspended Mortality
My bones shifted
Where a truant soul
Once malingered,
My eyes lisp into
The siphoning light
Purge into whiteness,
My lips quaver malignantly
And then sojourns shuddering
As a wisp of breath escaped
Into an abortive valley,
My grip tightens then
Loosen its flimsy cajoling
Torn between fighting
For convalescence and
Submitting into honesty:
To severing the cord;
I chose to fought to keep
The persiennes open
And to resuscitate
The painful haggling
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poem by Norman Santos
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Technicolored Lily
Superfluous enchantment
Sealed between my own lips
Purges the vile nicotine
With no intention to wean
And throw a part of me
Because I have learned
Of a splendor farfetched
From your bigoted context
And I have unearthed
From other yearning denizens
That I, too, possess jewels
In the rarest forms
Brighter than any luminaries
And that my endeavors
Don't deserve to be so tragic,
Thus, persuading infinity
In a sense far from drudgery
As I muse upon a lone lily
That creeps upon my spine
Whenever I resign my eyes
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poem by Norman Santos
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Jar of Origami Cranes
In rooftops, in trellises
People strut like an alley cat
Gyrating their flamboyance
And trying hard to enthuse
The blasé of the spectators below
In gardens, in sea shores
People will prod for a gazebo
And conceal their precious jewels
Screen them from the thorns and tides
And from the sweltering sight of the sun
In planes, ships, or trains
People would doze in the expedition
And rest their lethargic heads
To miss the motion picture
Playing outside their windows
In bedrooms, in churches
People would utter a prayer
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poem by Norman Santos
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