Brothers in a Glasshouse
The silhouettes of many yesterdays
Floundered through the silent walls
Recounting how we roam these branches
Trespassing unnumbered rooms,
Filleting riddles from the harlequin moon,
Fishing through salient oceans,
Meandering with a pensive nonchalance
Like kings in a pompous parade
Bounded by a golden chain
And shorn by vindictive asymmetries
But days fluttered without transition
We molted from the visage of our reflections
With gauche arrogance pouncing
From the tethers of this glasshouse
Sending mordant shudders on its frangibility
Whilst wrathful malcontent is forged from
The angrily hissing flames of distraught
Ricocheting like bullets mangling
Through the cavernous but elusive vault,
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poem by Norman Santos
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Crossroad Entente
The muzzy gloaming watched
Two lovers gliding past
The old serpentine road
Catching the last streaks of fire
Both hands interlaced,
Both hearts on the sleeves,
Both surreptitiously stealing the charms
Dangling on both wrists
And before the road unwinds
They sealed treason with a kiss;
The road pounced in hubris
The lovers embraced defeat
As they fall in love
With the sole idea of it
And divulge into a treaty
With the intertwining roads.
Whilst downhill, past the museum
Where the boulevard was a jungle
And the illuminations were low
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poem by Norman Santos
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Treading The Choreography Of The Water
Underneath the cessation of the strident choreography
Of the waters that we treaded - now flat and asleep -
We harked the last note of the sparrow's garrulous song
And the initiation of the soughing of the swarthy leaves
That resembled the stropping of the daunted tongue
That we kept like keys to our clandestine doors
And unsheathed like knives that rose with alacrity
We mused and basked in this decade of vexing silence
Listening to the same stillness and interpolating architectures
But solving different equations with different visions
And as we speak through the grinding pebbles under our feet
We only harry the penultimate flare of the apprehensive dusk
So we can succumb into our individual darkness,
So we can bleed and revel in different places;
Because we can only be faithful with our infidelities
And this savageness that we deny and slept with
Burns out the hapless and sedentary peace that remained.
The clarity that scintillates with the luminaries
Are sundered preventing the eruption of the radiance
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poem by Norman Santos
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Void and Untitled
Asleep from November ten
To November eleven,
I dreamt of being alive.
A sunset can extend as far
As eternity without you
Your absence in your presence,
Your presence in your absence
The transatlantic distance:
One heartbeat away
So I faded behind
Your taciturn pace,
Your beautiful face
And I watch you grew brighter
Like an imploding sun
Garish light, I know this
Is but another guise
Egoistic barricade, I know this
Is how you sully yourself
So I gave up with your game
You know my faith, why test?
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poem by Norman Santos
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We Incinerate Lights with Fragile Mirrors
Do you know what basks behind your ears?
With your supple hair of lightning tucked lightly
Do you hear the sirens' screech and fluster you with fear?
That you reduced yourself in the speculum of a melody.
Have you been in the river of you veiled ears?
Where the conversations live and die a riddle
Resonated in reflections, ebbing not to err nor stir
The somnolent glow grazing the little shafts to bristle
At the floor of the river, the bosom of the mirror
Rouses an opalescent light; a wafer of a prism
A lamp discordant from the puissant lightning roar.
Sheathed in those ears: a hero to somnambulism.
Do you know what clings on your parting lips?
That dies with the deception of your dissenting teeth
Do you verbalize with tales of wars, tragedies, or assailed ships?
That your tongue flounced and fumbled towards an empty pit
Have you sang a ballad and extemporized metallically?
Painted with maroon hues and festooned with ivies;
A crowning barb of virulent thorns, lackadaisically
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poem by Norman Santos
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Zealous Friends, Jealous Lovers, Two-faced Waves
Charlie, with a hathful of gratitude;
Underneath a sundered lamppost that digresses
The fiendish simper of the harlequin moon and
Behind the dazing screen of the frothing smoke
You spewed so violently, with angst and misery,
You said, inebriated by the blood of a destitute heart
And the spell of attention and camaraderie
That you will never allow losing my place—
A wafer of a turret—regardless who she will be;
A maiden of unabashed promises—you alleged
Behind the foggy breath of capitulated death
That was so much invigorating, that I was one
Of your favorite gambling cards, and one victory
From your endless brunt and grueling struggles
So I held you tight, rived in a scorching paper cut
Post Script, and a long denied demise;
Where have you gone? But worry not
I can smell the most robust verdure
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poem by Norman Santos
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Tale Of An Alley Cat
There are effectuating things in the world
That makes you want to reside forever
Inside a conch shell's emollient whisper
Like the collision of acquiesced stares,
Or a bathe in her cold residing sweat
Or in a fountain of warm promises,
Or the memory of your fingers tinkering
With the resonance of wind chimes
As it desired to be entangled with a clandestine
Console bigger than the big screen
Until, the world topples into latticing alleys
And in every atrium of the heart
These lovely things encumbers the blood
And mold into loathsome reminiscences
And terrorizing acquaintances
For an astray alley cat.
Now the moon hung by a taut noose
And the stars shiver with decadence
I take its toll, pummeled by emblematic senescence
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poem by Norman Santos
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Amongst Foxes
Take me on a banquet table
With seats engaged by five people
Or three with superfluous orifices
And vindictive but superficial visions
Such obsequious fanatics, such prissy sticklers,
Such laggard cajolers of idiotic beliefs
Worse, no fancies or beliefs at all
Take me unto this vulpine table
And I might as well abscond my supper
And gnaw upon reticence and the taciturn
Reservations, for in notching the hinges
Of my mouth may expose the famished gulch
Inside the fractures of the skinned skeleton
Or worst, display the daunting jagged fangs
That gyrates and scintillates from friction
From riling the presence of each other
Because in the deep alleys of my soul
I might be one of the hoodwinked monsters
In cordial suppers, elegiac malls, or crowded rooms,
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poem by Norman Santos
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A Perfect Day To Sail
Autumn hovered above the maladroit clouds
To descry our sanctum and astray meanders
And She shuddered, sprinkling a daze of gold
And sifted the ashes and bones of our deaths
In the sieves of Her trident are the remnants
Where my soul remained haplessly enthralled
And we watched it wan and die in a murder:
An auspicious castration of the gray curtains
In your resilient grin it flaunts a descant of scenes-
A bipolar thrill cleaves in me, a timorous ecstasy:
Eccentric and riveting, undulating and banefully riving.
The ghastly gossamer blooms saliently in the mire
Like a trickle of blood blossoming in the silver lake,
The ruse of vicissitude obfuscates a brand new shade
And the excoriation tautly smothers my inside
Drowning the myriad collections of pilfered sighs
But your picture was a pristine escalation, a stupor
Of purged exoneration, I loosen my heaving breath
Unlatched my tacit eyes to resign my contending
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poem by Norman Santos
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Loath and Fear
If I would rely on phrenology,
Or science, or mythology,
I'd burn down this damned city
And disembark in a conclusion
Of the ugly veracity:
I loathe everything!
I fear everything!
I loathe that I am writing about loathing
And I fear that I might lose every one
Though I barely have anyone,
So I loathe even more on this fear.
I loathe that I write about myself all the time, and
I fear that I might not be writing at all
I loathe that I would narrate a story
In the surreal slopes of enigma, and
I fear, afterwards, that no one will pry
To understand or even console.
I loathe that my mouth cannot mouth
What my hands opted to write, and
I fear that my hands aren't equipped
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poem by Norman Santos
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