Pawned Hearts

A mazy rat-race razed
In the dog-strut highways
Shearing the haze
Billowing in the head
Now haplessly astray
Beneath a downtrodden parasol
So you held the lever tight
Braving the daunting height
Of the searing defeat
Gnarled fists above
The pounding in the chest
Where the heart shatters
And the serrations slices
The vacant chambers to bleed
Enthralled in the logic
That was pawned for
A heart,
With no avail.

poem by Norman Santos
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Looking Back and Away

Emotions swelling
like a storm taking form
Out of words,
cold tears worn
Vacant eyes watching dancing motes
a fictive space where spirits float
Profound reveries consuming me
and waking brings a hilt-deep agony
A cloudburst:
My spirit crumbles
and lamentations pour
I picture our finger interlaced
but yours are slipping out of place
and like an empty goblet I wished to fill
you sealed your lips and kept it real

poem by Norman Santos
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Black Bruises III

I can wallow under the blackness,
the quietude underwater
coaxing to a surmised fray
I can endure the insipidness
sleuthing senescence arrive,
sleuthing balmy perfumes,
sleuthing cigarette kisses,
sleuthing ablaze kerosene,
sleuthing sly putrefactions,
sleuthing unawake buds,
sleuthing old handkerchiefs,
sleuthing ruffled pillowcases;
but am I the only one smelling
these black bruised fragrances?

poem by Norman Santos
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Macabre In Breaths

Such forlorn hope
Falls in the red soil
With the crumbs of your
Porcelains, gnawing with
The tautly grinding maw
The disdain and angst
Molding more disdain
In this nihilistic scarcity
Of waters to tread
The filth glistened
In the crimson drought
Like a puked bile
Reminiscent of the shattered
Face of oblivious thrills
The serrated silence
In holding breaths
Underwater,
Under abeyance
A purveyance
For subsistence.

poem by Norman Santos
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Heaven in a Bitter Bud

Dangling by the ceiling these moths
Such lackluster but can never abort
Eternity that these starlights behold
Let it go, take flight, let it all unfold
A constellation I had never knew
A cyst of emptiness that have pursued
To instigate another endless flight
I'll take my best friend some other night
To show the heaven in a bitter bud,
Bliss and anguish holds the same rod
Hope is not so bad,
Heaven is not so bad.

poem by Norman Santos
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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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