Unbounded Solitude

Scorch your gnashing teeth on revelries,
By the whim of dead air
You were never there.

Gorge upon the ecstasy of amities,
By the first sign of erring
You were never there.

Smother it; you are alone profoundly
Amongst a crowd, amidst the city
You were never there.

Walk with legs superfluous and hungry
By the feral tides on the shore
Your foot prints were never there.

Succumb a pristine repose
One that is easy to loathe
For you were never there.

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poem by Norman Santos
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Fluorescent Musing (Sonnet)

I seek for the temporal gush of the wind
And vie to ferry the holocaust in a dream
Beneath the summer's palm I gleaned
For the wisps of the hottest stream
To fill these disembogued vessels
And exonerate the concealed streets
To the grandiosity of buried castles
And let the fluorescent sun seethe
Into the iron cellars of the eye
To blind the heavily stained vision
With mouth full of blood I shall cry
Until I bleed out this lingering derision
As I lay beneath the scorches of the weather
And as it muse back past the shudders.

poem by Norman Santos
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Freefalling

Freefalling into the arms of gravity
the echoes in the cobwebbed vault
remained a fading noise whilst these
shards of affinities inveigled with a calamity
spinning deep in a helical seafloor

A sudden gush of ecstatic currents
rippled into the wrinkled body
and a red breeze swept the gray face
for a moment of hapless vulnerability -
humility in a fray against obduracy
the coiled rope of resistance
killed the noose in a taut pull

Without hitting the rock bottom
I ruminate in a sedating topple:
Have I been at any edges at all?

poem by Norman Santos
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Cradle the Lion's Grave

The meandering Lion, impaired by a trance
Of feral instinct and hedonistic impetus
Torn to avert or succumb his fated tragedy
But only festoons the lion's unwritten fable
Ensconced by the eaves of pure enigma
Slithering the ornate tangling forlorn forest
Whilst the Moon stroke the fiery wisps
Of his cynical golden tresses and bastion
Grazing on his poignancy to submission
And scintillating a cordial theme park
Clandestine with a selfish feisty carnival
From the Lion's lacerations that stalls
Upon the labyrinthine forest's walls.

poem by Norman Santos
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Kite Hands (Transalation Of Kamay na Guryon)

Your supple, kite-like hands
bludgeoning with the weathered wind,
prancing on the frontiers of restrictions
It seems to me that you can graze
and seize the sun without burning

But the proximity of distance
shorn by the figure of your ashen hands,
in between the sun's gilded breaths
and the pitch black shadows of its dance
is but a splendid, fragmented illusion

And the svelte cord fastening the kite
is the only lace fixing this illusion
to the reality that was seeded
by the zephyr winds of hope
and the meek heaving of memories

poem by Norman Santos
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The Beau's Hunting

The sun seared the fine fringes
Of their shadows, a smoke transpired
They were burning an inferno
To thaw the thinning ice below
The swaying of their wobbly soles
The frost bit and sense was bereaved
Behind the intoxicated blear
They fell, but to where?
In the carnage of ephemeral Sundays?
Or in the concealed demons to lambaste?
Should I alert the armory?
Or should I pry harder?
Into the nights of the hunters
And learn the hunger game they play
And eloquently morph into an answer
For holes and questions
In the chest of veracity.

poem by Norman Santos
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C'mere

I tingle your perception
with an erotic tongue
dangling like the hand
of a dying man

Whisk the tea-rose fume
and reel from the risqué smoke
unfurl the carnal pangs
and fondle the insides

Everything is here
my diminutive stars,
my far-fetched sighs,
even the gloamings
that erupted from my sky

And the white page
is a mother's milk
feeding the oppression
into the dying pyre

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poem by Norman Santos
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To Blame The Air

This air does not only hold your fragrance
That I dangerously yearn for, like a candle light
In this pool of kerosene I soused my heart
It holds the petrichor, the semicide breaths,
A faint streak of puissant hope,
A sanguinary stench of a fray,
Tobacco scents and licorice,
A cry of war, a song of plea,
A hefty drapery of confusion;
For now I suck on these withered buds
Fixing a daunted lion poise
And breathing the oppressed air
To live in deaths, until
The atmosphere can cradle
The resurrection of what was
Blaming a shapeless enemy.

poem by Norman Santos
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Hostel

I rang the bell…
Impatient and dour
From the stride
In the drunken alleys
Deluged by the moon
Searching for a place,
A stale room
Inept and incomparable
To the grandest places
Stashed in the foliage
Of sunken pockets
Of gnarled hallways

A place
Where I am found
Welcomed
Nursed
Injected with fire
Bloated and ballooned
To take flight

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poem by Norman Santos
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Audience

Hello Stranger,
Which seat did you take?
My feet dawdle by the parquetry
My knees squirm in a rattle
As I inquired for vigor
Amidst the unvoiced languor
In your sincerity
And the spectral company
That moored my anticipation
And dragged me to this stage.
In row, in line
I cowered and sighed
As I pensively scanned
An emptied theater
Yet, I carried on
Reciting another poem:
"Hello Stranger,
I knew you won't be here
But I ensued anyway,
Head above water,

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poem by Norman Santos
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