Gray Skies
Gray mornings underneath
the plummeting of silver beads
is a cold seraph sitting upon
his celestial wings of fire
shedding petals, caviling for silence
willowing in a soft psychastenia
and of steel-bruised dreams
and the avalanche of his realm
he lost the tangled threads
of his adamant musing
but the heavens cannot speak
and unravel his constellations
without quelling his mirrors
and his vapid etude pounced
like a chain of spears from
the vaults of his commiserating
as he vied against his flaming aeons
and become the mausoleum inside
the bones of the gray morning skies.
poem by Norman Santos
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Burnt
Why can't we look
Deep inside ourselves?
While my sole existence
Is a fountain of amber
In the breadth of your
Burning waltz with each other
You fan his putrefaction
By throwing a dry stick
And the victim of the immolation
Is my scarce flame
And he fans his own fire
With the coals of my dying
To meet a fire break
With you
While the sly tongue
Of fire I held is
A picador hurtling
For its own death
Because I shall not
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poem by Norman Santos
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Destitution
The table spun
Like a coarse roulette
And the hilarity
Coruscated a fire
Singeing the bosom
Of the undulating waves
Of the frescoes
As the cup writhe
And quaffs pound
A soundless song
Of ricocheting toll.
A star fell
With the cinders
Of a raped cigarette
And no one cared
For this oppression
To be hauled
From splintering
In a detrimental
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poem by Norman Santos
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Waking The Dawn
The fumbling days finally crashed
Along with the rolling waves
And shattered like the breaking tides
Where the apathetic crags stood
Like silent marks of a grave
I would finally rise
With all mustered confidence
From beneath the ocean floor
Where I hid with the light show
Of the flamboyant nights
I shall wear my best suit to enthuse
The waking dawn on the shore
A tatterdemalion suit
But still, my best
With all flamboyance I can muster
And I would run in the beach
Alone from the wakening
And shake the hands of the dawn
Though, I know how this would end
Another premature sunset.
poem by Norman Santos
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Joust
There were two shadows
Under one erratic sun
Two angry, sibilant veins
To hum the same rhyme
Trepidation gnaws the soul
And we knew a good resolve:
Trepidation makes knights and lions
And we knew it wouldn't dissolve
You were brave enough to lunge
But your sword wouldn't joust
I was brave enough to take the jabs
But I cannot halt my lonely wake
In cowardice we futilely spun
Gilded threads in the dark
In cowardice we also lost
The ends of our tangled yarns
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poem by Norman Santos
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Closer to The Tigers
Closer to the tigers
I steadfast my uncertainties
these telegrams speak
of the labyrinthine forest
and its tangled paths
They revved, they haunted
but I am brazened
by forlorn despondence
and in the trees, I whispered,
my tongue undulates
and spoke with seeing eyes
and the trees listened with temper
The leaves soughed and zithered
my message is cradled
but the sea is demented
with the blue rivulets on her veins
and the listening frost in her heart
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poem by Norman Santos
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Gulf of Existence
As I peel myself to nakedness
My grotesque form seeping out
And trying to slither away
From their vindictive stares
I seek for displacement
In scouring ebonies and ivories
Only to unfurl the answer
That basks in another question
"Why am I here? "
And I thought staggering
"And not here at all? "
Like a farcical candle at noon time
Prick and twist the wick
With the flame hollering back
For survival, for a game
Amongst porcelains and tramps
I have lost my place
In the scornful prairie grounds
Whilst I perish vying.
This is inane and pointless.
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poem by Norman Santos
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Screaming Silence
Juggling abortive bliss and ephemeral anguish
And discreetly dwelling by your pensive shadows
I started to grope for exoneration in a muffled wish
Only to find myself lacerating with greater sorrow
Yet, I promised to be stern in despite the grating slits
And exhumed the corpse of all denied warfare
I quaffed your poison to fill my emptied wrists
And subsist in the chromospheres of the tiger's lair
That my own coercions, fractions, and distractions
Feigned, like a cross to drag and carry in a furrow
Teeming with vindictive eyes of incarceration
My silence screamed of sated state of hollow.
poem by Norman Santos
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A Demon In Her Vanity
In the night's harried soliloquy
You tousle your hair and wipe
The miasma of the panthoms'
Breath flushing your pallid face
With such arrogance and grace
A complacence that synergize
With the stellar distractions
That your pristine poise behold,
You smudge the rouge and stains
Of the derided warfare in the world
Of alleys and myriad of empty stations
A fastidious ballet in front
Of the mirror's godly fingers
You grinned, oscillated your lips
Red as the devil swaying its legs
In the inveigling undulations
You whetted your piercing eyes
And fooled yourself again
In the pristine reflection.
poem by Norman Santos
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Move Along
The roads had gone
Slewing with the temporal days
Of the kindest streaks
That had given you a place
And the impetus
To mount a leg
Without the other
Is harder at its best
As the place faded
And you try to do the same
Superimposing satisfaction
Into the zilch
Of bleak reinstitution
Of the weak constitutions:
Tongue's of lions,
Empiric barricades,
Gorging of the self.
Good riddance
To the memories
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poem by Norman Santos
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