I Am A Multitude
I stand underneath the white light
and it casted a myriad of shadows
from the blasé holding me together:
who am I amongst these multitude?
And if I found out whom, where should I go
to brave and smite all these incertitudes?
Ennui sits on my stomach with a weight
of a royalty commanding my veins
to shut and it pilfers every gilded sheen
that excites my slumbering faith -
and this king I spoke off, he rules
like a tyrrant over my realms
because he is my supressed reflection
with an army of arrogant derision
A jester paints his face with a grin
that beckons and pulls hearty strings
and everyone will look at him with
pleasure of comic disbelief: why would he
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poem by Norman Santos
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Ravine Of Abortive Bliss And Sorrows
From dancing with your lofty shadows I trampled and lost
The metronome of my shifting pace and the road I wallowed
As pernicious as losing the maps to your own penetralium
The dark conquered my impenetrable but open heart
The hysteria brought upon her livid lightning in my eyes and I raged
My infinitesimal voice ricocheted in your halls but are you estranged
From my voice, dear monoliths? Or was I lost in your wailing corridors?
The immense sky was a watchful eye upon every shift
Like a king in a game of chess restricting my abashed feet
And checking and rivaling every move in a wintery snare
Its glacial and hoarse whimper was an intimidating roar
Its watchfulness stalled the night in these impassable walls
That incarcerated my defenselessness - like an implored aegis
And sometimes like a fluently guised and malingering demise
In this hall, where I am everywhere but no longer hold existence
Disembogued of everything, yet tethered to everything -
A veiled allegiance to the inner burning of angels and demons,
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poem by Norman Santos
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Clock and Compass
Ardent arms that never dare halt
The flailing gestures in a dawdling waltz.
Clock and Compass, and the solitude curse
That leashed their hands onto their hearse,
Whilst chasing the tails of tales of vicissitude
The blasé endeavor, the blithe ineptitude
Of the labyrinthine revelry, where they frolic
And tinker, the macabre in the melody is chronic.
"Clock, in your hands that fumble to rock
An infant to ripen in a tale of another deadlock
Take me in a cavalcade to the shards of your ocean
Jarred in your veins, with tides in constant ashen-
Currents, and I shall fumble to catch your waves
Immortal cradles in a flimsy steady pace
In your flannel tux and silver scaffolds
Tell me what to consume, tell what to hold."
"Compass, lead me down into your darkness
Into your clandestine garden, into your nest
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poem by Norman Santos
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Women
The night was gravid with many secrets
And as the fecundated moon probed
Through the lattices of the branches
The giddy wind shook her lovely boughs
And the sinful fruits fell into the ground
Rapidly blossoming to become the garden
Of a woman's clandestine volitions
And women, I spoke of you:
Like a fell star, a woman can make you wish
Or make you hope and believe in promises
Without constitutions, with empty bliss
A woman will glamor and capture you
With her eloquent and elusive wisps
Like a defenseless bird, she would beat her wings
To scull her own wind and you will plead
To be her zephyr and in her slavery
You shall be ferried to a new firmament
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poem by Norman Santos
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Thousand Wars in One Day
I rouse up from a hefty bunt
Of a hapless, sleepless dreaming
With a dehydration manifesting
All over my paper thin body
Brought upon a short-lived revelry
That tinkered in last night's episode
And the post blues are not leaving me
Along with the ethereal phantoms
That comes to life every zenith
Of the darkness of night time
Where the hands of the clock
Would steal a chance to touch
Each other, though like fireworks,
Ephemeral but orgasmic,
And as I raised to bow my head
Upon another meandering
In this labyrinthine garden
I shroud myself with valiance
Plastering a shattered vying
Last night's rain failed to purge it
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poem by Norman Santos
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Asunder Dawn
As everything slither into the breaking dawn
My girdles grew tighter with the anticipation;
A melancholic kick of angry chemicals
Reciting incisively euphonious harmonies
What is there basking behind the sunrise?
Bleak and golden like a tangible gloriole
Resembling a golden noose only sharper
And for every treasure there will be a culprit
Like how every feel good is stained with treachery
I wished to sink by the crevasse of a memory
Unmarred by your presence; in innocence
And as you unsheathe a smile that you vie to own
I would keep my frown like the chasm that it was
And if you will throw your cigarette away
I would start to drag deeper until I smother
Myself with audacity, to let go of your company
Because I would rather watch a comrade die vying
Than sulk sewing death wishes from lazy strings
That is, if it is death cleaving inside this migraine
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poem by Norman Santos
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Old Lion Man
In this lair I built
all around myself
the tigers lost their hunger
and lions slept like coals
without a flicker of flame
There were footsteps
lambent and poetic.
How can one find me
ballasting a violent nothingness
in the void of this cellar
where the prison is the warden?
Perhaps the spigot
made the saline water
sing enigmatically
into the harried pipes
of gelid gold and brass
As the dawn morphs to dusk
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poem by Norman Santos
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Guffaw, Scouring Hyena
In the luxuriant, yet petrified floor
Of the torrid palms of her savanna
Where the tigers' prance and scamper
And the farce blades of soughing grasses
Are combed to placidness upon their heavy paws
Whilst his svelte and famished pillars stood
And grinded upon the torrid pebbles
And they rattled in an apprehension
And trembled upon the covetousness
Instigated by tiger's vitriol that she identified
Whilst he sulked in the corner of her
Sparse stream of bigoted empathy
Shrouded in a discreet subterfuge;
Discreetly flagrant, a blatant contradiction
Yet no one pried, and no one understood
Not even the vicarious vulturine brethren,
Witnessing the gnashing of a tooth on a tooth,
Perched amongst the fringes of the dunes
That climbs and crumples upon the palms
Of a sweaty savanna, like fingers or claws
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poem by Norman Santos
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Ad Astra Per Aspera
Hiss with the silence if it wouldn't stir,
Brave the lion with congealed fear,
And you'll figure how the bullets sing
Embracing the force without ducking the sting
In a rippling dream of kerosene
Ignite the flame of the obscene
Vista of nakedness dispensed into lewd
Vulnerability, though the sentries stood
With all the surrealistic smatters
Of the reeling picture behind the shutters
And the albino leaves of the old sycamore
Will pour down its vapid phosphor,
While the rustles will swoon over the soul
As it engulfed the body in whole
Dripping into her supple breasts
As the night don its very best
Subliminal guise to entice
The weary batting of wandering eyes
To severe the golden ties,
To sever the tethering lies
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poem by Norman Santos
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Unfettered Kite
Permit the effervescence of the wind
To don on your dishabille glacial shoulders
And take you in a sailing apt for your besieging
To an island heaving of palm trees
Swaying and combing of forking possibilities
Chances are, well, ineffable they are
And I cannot paint it with words
Because my palette is dull and eroded
But I know and I submit to believing
That chance will guide you in, by your elbow
To a promenade, a cavalcade, or a castle
Where no eyes had ever been to musing
Not even conception can even pry in
So leave this undulant slumber
And sear past the poignant clouds
Because you cannot be tethered in a ground
In the semblance of an effulgent specter
Invisible, lingering and malingering
To twine and string your unfathomable fate
And as you submit and remit
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poem by Norman Santos
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