Lady in the Lighthouse

The raucous starlight could only extemporize
The chutzpa of a jocund seafaring crew—
That vigor, which ignites the forlorn sailing
Which remained unavailable inside the isolation
Of a gelid helm, where the walls and ceilings moan
Upon blotches of the effulgent full moon
Basking upon the hazy floor parquetry.

As I wrangled with the lullaby of somnolence
I self-consciously sever my scrawny aged fingers
Groping greedily by the steering wheel,
And parceling the immense myriad of tides
Of the devouring jaws of the open sea,
When I saw, from a sentry, a lady of mystique
Her rasping ropy hair wedged the luster
Of the illumination clasped by the lighthouse
Her billowing nightgown ceaselessly fluttered
With the waves that conceived and cradled
My seaward yearning, my cloistered flee.

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poem by Norman Santos
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Into Your Harried Night I Break In Silence

The cicadas beat their metallic wings to compensate
the vehicles lying asleep in the oil-black road
without a trifle of noise - away with the moon
in a peripatetic espionage for the myriad
of faults swimming through the abysmal horizon
and here, in the glacial nooks of darkness, I trample
to a wistful invitation - to pain and its bride
unveiled from the lustrous gilt and the castigations
unraveled from the knotted tapestry its frangible
and haplessly finagling heart - still and alone tonight

This silence sojourned to listen to you
as your world subsides with all the aeons
slithering into me with an impertinent pang
and I break for you, like a lifeless eye upfront
a motionless gloaming succumbing to its demise
And to break for you - your tides beating the shore
and the praying boulders on its shoulder, is all I can do
after ousting my sparrow-breaths on your mornings
or my tacit poems docked on your cigarette smoke,

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poem by Norman Santos
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Peering Through The Lattices

The day broke sprouting spidery lattices
And before it galloped the green verdure
It caught everything suspended, unraveling
The yarns of the eroding delirium of dreams
And like a hungry hunter, it devoured the prey
Before eyelids lifted to shower in the sun
These windows shunned by obdurate curtains

Somewhere, a moth earned a brand new wing
And struggled out of its chrysalis heralding
A brand new hope and a youthful hunger
So it shook its virulent dusts and sapped
The mildew suspended in the lattices of time
But before it glides the porcelain currents
It was caught suspended, wings perishing

I peered through the lattices, severed my eyes
I touched the marring embers of the sunset
A lighthouse to the directionless ocean
To find your reflection there, docked on a shore

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poem by Norman Santos
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Lambasted Deferral Of My Puissant Muse

In this world of odes
Every whisper is a trap
Rummaging for preys
A lascivious answer
Where hunger feeds on
Another a hunger;
An ouroboros inscribed
Without a concatenation
To fill in the famished lapses

In this clandestine world
A flaccid orb of gas
From the cigarette parting
Your thin veneered lips
And streams from gutters
Of your slicing eyes,
The land, fertile for the dead,
In your taut skin of white
The odes, traipsed in
The wrinkles nonexistent to the eye

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poem by Norman Santos
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Hello Strangers

Hello Stranger,
Are you still on the line?
How long had we been ghosts?
How far had we gone?
In the stretched out expanse,
Impasse the inevitable instance
Have you made yourself fine?
In a one way subway,
Buried in the silver light
Will you still recognize my face?
In a sea of a thousand crowd?
Well, you were never gone
You reek in the air I breathe
In and out, over my grip.
That proverbial enough
Had we fooled ourselves gladly?
Is the familiar longing enough?

Hello Stranger,
Is the mirror too blunt?

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poem by Norman Santos
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For The Nameless Bard

Your silence is a shrill cry
traversing the alley of edifices
stalled within the shadows
solely painted for your furlough

The epistles that bewilders the night
and the riposte that brawled in back alleys
coiled in an inert cacophony
and the populace remained asleep
without the pall of your sagacity

Soon shall I find your silhouette
a misfit in the familiar places where
you casted a shadow that remained riveted
toppling with the monuments
of your conquered charades
unmaking you a constant unreality

You have waned underneath the moon
and the waxing horn of its harlequinade

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poem by Norman Santos
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The Ruse of the Pink Flamingo

My eyes swan through the sunward sand
Falling with the summer rain and the mist
That shrouds the haled halcyon raiment
Like a gray nostalgia unfenced but tamed
By an inclement drizzle, and here I am
Breathing with the moiré banana leaves

There was a stillness - a vertical line
Erected in the lugubrious susurrations
A silver thread fixed with the marionette
Wistfully frolicking in the aqueous mirror
And sending undulations without a sound

The enthralling artistry was my muse
In this void ulcer of the land, a pink blotch
In the postmortem dirge of savagery
My eyes swan through her wayward dance

The weathervane utterance of the wind
Spoke of the silence's response

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poem by Norman Santos
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Defenestration

Summer passed by the window pane
With a moribund myriad of sunsets
Leaving tricks of soldering sweat
That dissipates too easily in a gush
Like how the dampen tears of mire tousled
Into the affluent scorches of the hearth
And with everything passing by
Like eloquent taillight's goodbye
I found myself in the window pane
Musing with eager eyes and stealthily
Trying to pocket surreal painted memories

But somewhere in the vivid montage
The lucidity becomes agonizingly piercing
That it cuts to the flesh and evokes
Unwanted phantoms of ubiquity and perpetuity
Such abstraction of beauty
Reckoning what will never be
And the maudlin that I am becoming
Sates eagerly in the glacial and lifeless

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poem by Norman Santos
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Kerosene Dove

From the dithering distance
The fountain puke swelling
In the belly of the sedentary sheens
Excoriating the cobbled streets
In the void knots of the theme park:
Amused with clockwork courtesy
And a tethering idiosyncrasy,
But the azure moiré of the canopy
Was no better than the soigné hostility
Imploding a muted friction;
A compulsion in its best
That scathes the incrustations
Of a reticent fellow in the flue
Clipping the flustering plumes
In the comport of a king
Ousted from his throne
Injecting the secrets to the bones
That where hollow in constitution.

Our fellow dove made of kerosene

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poem by Norman Santos
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The Heart Of Jealousy

I stood underneath
A myriad of starless nights
And the hefty eaves
Impressed an anguish
Rummaging through
The unsinkable pillars
But here, I found
An unconquerable vision
And from here
I can pick up everything:
Their stellar scintillations
That shrills romantically
Like knives of irony,
The rasping lightning
Of her presence,
Or the booming thunder
Of his liaison.

I usurped the land
That jutted from the soigné

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poem by Norman Santos
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