Sleep
The nights is an opaque curtain
Asleep solemnly before your eyes
Out shadowing the dark terrors
That basks in the chambers of the heart
An emollient and puissant sine
Sundering the obdurate chains
Where you contend to coil
Denser, closer to the knives
Vulnerably, haplessly cloyed and
Shriveled in the fingertips of fear
Raving in the darkness.
Look in your adamant eyes
The surface, taut, is blind
Look with your iron eyes
Where the fathom, gnarled, is sank
And the vision is deluded
Beyond repair, a lucid dream
That vied to breathe with flesh
And walk with saccharine feet
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poem by Norman Santos
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Under This Tacit Parasol, Your Soiree Perpetuates
A soiree in the woods perpetually beckons
with florid tinkerbells, soothing lulls,
and zephyr unspoken of the leaves -
like a gyratory chill of springtime
Inveigled, I bellowed and bristled, dyed
the colourless soil with my meandering
and there upon the serrated grass
I found a dry stick lying bemused
as futile as the sporadic tremors
of the clockwork hands of day
The night rustled in its bark -
threadbare from the weather's brawl
the moon beaming upon your shawl
with fluorescence that never lied
Yet, I didn't pick you up for your frailty
ruminates with a perilous enigma
under the dark cloaking parasols
of the eaves these trees provide
I can only lay with you, interpolating
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poem by Norman Santos
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Death of a Misanthropist
The least poignant funeral
Is the death of a misanthropist
For a misanthropist had already
Died a lot of little deaths
And the world had already
Played a thousand exequies
In the chortles of their hilarity
That had molted abhorrence,
But then again, there's a death
That can obliterate a misanthrope
And it is the most pleasurable death
For it is the birth of a different life
Effacing the veneer of misanthropy
Now there is a flamboyant fire
Incinerating inside my belly
That bores an affluent hunger
For more life, more hope,
And I never wanted more breaths
To engulf all rues from deaths
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poem by Norman Santos
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To The Man of Multitude
In a jet black guise
With the patina of bold vying
You are the nighttime sky,
You are the fathoms of the pit,
And the quintessence of the labyrinth
Is within the scars of the manacles
That had marred the luster
Of your candor vision
But the lurking predators
In the fringes of your capitulating flame
Could never halt nor corrupt
The spangling splendor
Draped in the jet black guise.
I've seen you knead against the quakes
Sullied by the caustic impalement
Of a sardonic rebellion
To oust the dexterous entanglement
In a cajoling bereavement
But more than this, I have seen
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poem by Norman Santos
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To A Strange Lass
Dear strange lass,
I know you are there
Wafting with the southern gale
Coruscating a subtle enigma
Maybe, not too subtle
For when I see you
I'll know everything
Is laid in there
In your open palms
Withholding the erratic flight
Of a tacit butterfly,
And the stashed grandiosity
Among callow moths
And vapid star lights.
Do you have a patrician smile
Or a languid beam of wry?
Will you bend a soigné one
With a mammoth credence
And a hummingbird decadence?
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poem by Norman Santos
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Hudson
Hudson bawled loudly inside his head
As the harpoons of lightning struck
Piercing his six-inch thick chest.
He had expected the violent rasp
Before it had even transpired,
Essentially, he actually
Ignited the electrified fire;
But farcically or inevitably,
It had not kept him from turning over
To flailing into the famished sea
Of consuming ignorance
It had consumed him, especially his eyes,
Now aqueous and dithering
With no reservations for coagulation.
With such wavering and waxed vision,
Hudson had dispensed vexation
Into a twaddle tug-of-war
Between skepticism and ignorance.
He tried to outrun the asphyxiation
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poem by Norman Santos
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Subsistence in Nonexistence
If I would exasperate and counterfeit a smile voided of depth,
Would you surmise it is corrupted by a whimsy death?
Held by brazen anguish and slaughtered torment in ambiguity
Beckoned by subdued wails throbbing beneath an exterior of dexterity
Praying with mendacities at the corner of the dark unsparing lips
Regression quells the fire of anticipation looming over the steepest cliff
No smoke too livid to mantle the rupturing scars and antipathy
Neither heaven nor hell can duly fortify what is and what should never be.
Sealed underneath a calendar with faltering figures and crawling senility
Exhume the squalors of tailored tales omitted of the grandest fallacy
By daylight, the incinerating lances of the sun stabs to bleed a carnival
Festooned with anonymous carousals, gilded with simpers too baronial
And by darkness, the scorching absence of hilarity cradles a labyrinth
An infinite carousel grotesquely attended with the balm of hyacinths.
Infested by one too many scathing pieces of a shattered shabby heaven
Take me in and we will both bleed with self-inflected gash with eyes open
The further you discern, the fewer you learn; the more you have to be stern
In burying the colors of your concern, veiling in the shadows where no one discerns
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poem by Norman Santos
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To Those Dames with Crimson Eyes
I can reckon with the lucidity
Of the tranquil motions of the floor
Those farfetched nights sent to
The scrapings of the harried memory
Your skins, glistening from the blur,
Staggering through a solid corner
Like the stars settled in the firmament
Concealing its desire to fall
Betrothed to the potions of alcohol;
Your eyes, all six of them,
Crossed mine from the jovial turbulence
And I thought, from behind my telescope,
That a soul met another soul;
I permitted my lips to droop with my eyes
Macadamized with iron slyness
Averting the crimson redolence
That beckons a skirmish of the heart
A blitzkrieg of blind shots,
From blatant courteous unwritten words
To long small jeremiad of the silence
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poem by Norman Santos
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Culprit
You are thunderstorms
And I am the faint drizzle
Pouring to moor by little
In colossal fragments
To be taken away
And you took me away
With your quintessential promises
I am inebriated every time
Betrothed to your sporadic gusts
That winnows the opulent line
I drew in the shuffling sand,
If my heart was a hovel house
It would be your commodious home
Albeit, you recklessly swept
The groveling breadth of walls
Now it has gone with the floors
Is this how you decline
Such a parsimonious offer?
You are a mockingbird
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poem by Norman Santos
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Segments Of A Circle
The stained-glass sky flounces and shatters
As the wonder of the night scintillates
Upon the sleeping skin of a promenade
In the circlet roads of a silent ballet
Light perched foots steps trample upon
The maladroit blotches of the porch lights
And beneath the maw of the waxing moon
Was the silhouette of a gaudy woman
She would always be the same woman
In her sapid vagueness, no peculiarities
No sobriquets, no facades, no niceties;
A plummeting ballet herself
She is always in the equipoise of my eyelids
At the beginning and end of rainy days
Quaffing the gray sketches of the atmosphere
Riding the blue winds of tranquilized euphoria
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poem by Norman Santos
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