Black Bruises I

I can stare into the blackness,
the void of many abysses
behind every dark curtains
I can endure calm and silence
watching pole dancers grind,
watching stars scintillate,
watching still shadows on the walls,
watching dislimned reflections,
watching trees pass me by,
watching ethers wash the screen,
watching my lonely feet,
watching little things sway;
but am I the only one watching
these black bruised visions?

poem by Norman Santos
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Quite Pollue

Asunder me from this plane of existence
Where ephemeral defeat coils down into
Perpetual scars that meanders deep
Rising every full moon regardless
Of the infinite susurrations of the harlot
Whiffs of bliss, evanescent whips
Dabbing the stings of death
Lead me down to the ethereal trance
Of perpetual demise, a consummate defeat
Withholding concrete bliss in the margins
Teetering out of keel, out to kill
This coarse grating feel

poem by Norman Santos
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Reconciliation

The door snooped ajar
gazing like the sun
on a torn sky
and its eyes sifting through
our silent ruminations

We rummaged through
the ruins of the past,
stepping into the light
with all that was supressed
in the darkness of our nights

Trepidation took form
in the silhouette of a shadow
cringing for the same reason
and the shudders started to sound
like songs from gentle violins

I knew that
I am not alone

[...] Read more

poem by Norman Santos
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Counting Stars At Noon

Yes, days would fall like rain
Rapping the window pane,
And squander like the cigarette
Constantly burning in the tray,
And it will stain with somber prints
Like your lips on your coffee cup
But we shall not count stars
When the daylights sun is still on
And we shall not count dying days
When the night had gallantly dawn
But until then, in the brown turfs
And rocky aisles of the winding road
We shall reckon… We shall be owned.

poem by Norman Santos
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Swansong

Nothing in the shade
of the sun divulges
its fate perched upon
the silver line on the horizon
for every gloaming
its supercilious flames
sank to its dark demise
and in the long furlough
it musters the starshine
so when the wintry moon
waned from her divan
he would shoot a flaming arrow
and shear the canopies eastward
revived with duplicitous hopes
unbeknownst to the tongue
awaiting to quell it again
in a forked and malcontent cycle

poem by Norman Santos
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Antediluvian

Like crystals from the sky
we shall fall, break, and shatter

We will slap on windshields
and siphon into the gutters
and in the guts of this beast
my slivers will collect themselves
to find your vestiges and your faith
malingering in this palled weather
to regain the waned colors
and drabbed intentions

But would you permit me
to meet you in the directionless sea
where our astray meanders sank
abjectly drowning in its caliginosity?

poem by Norman Santos
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Heist

Immolated before the jeopardy
of my sudden involution -
Now beckoned and yearned,
now abjured and declined;
Our bellicose collision
cloyed with affinity
now floundering like a cry
in a shapeless silhouette
of a shackled poltergeist
Is this you terse revenge
or your inconsistent demand?
With dove-feet and rose-tongue
you pilfered the molted skin
and took the vulnerability
away for granted
and threw me into
the hollows of abeyance.

poem by Norman Santos
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The Furlough Is Done

I tarried amongst
the mediocre and superficial
hoping to thaw in the farce,
but there was no glory nor grace
in sedating with injectable faith

Now I paced into the carnage
with svelte gentle legs
because no matter how the splinters break
this fervor to burn cannot be staid

The furlough is done
and all is purged in the abeyance,
empty handed, I left everything behind
as I approach what's in front of me
with an undaunted loaded gun

poem by Norman Santos
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His Second Decade

An artisan of surreal noises
Made of groans and chortles
Making words that sat like lead
pounce like a spear of chains
Pulling the vaults to break
And let loose a paunch soul
With a flagrant gaunt face
To become the visage
Of his subtly dubbed art.

While it's easy to toss
White roses on a grave
It is his eloquent etude
To exhume its blossoming.

Welcome to your second decade,
Undoubtedly your golden age,
Now flourish in your parade.

poem by Norman Santos
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Mote

Precipitating into the dust
Wind tussling in a thrust
Riveted amidst a city
With no eyes for sympathy
Tossed in an endless brunt
All too tired for this bunt
Serendipity is uninvited
To the heart of the blighted

Caught in the streak of tangerine
An afternoon for the pristine
Where do I resign?
In the absence of all benign?
When cinders depart the fire
When dust seizes to fly
What utopia do they find?
The good riddance for the blind?

poem by Norman Santos
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