Bard Manqué
Where are you, bard manqué?
My eager ears still believe
And perceive the vestiges of your song
And the plucking of the caustic strings
Of your old sangfroid guitar
And I had besought and sought for you
In the undergrowth of the mantling fog
Of impasse in the gulfing city streets
In every cul-de-sac and even libraries
For every interpolation reckons
The cessation of a soigné epistle
And the drifting ebbs of clouds
Unfurl the elapsed chronicles
But still genuflects and beckon
That your shadows still resonate
In spite of the brusque rapine of melody
Now scant in a senile memory
I yearn for you, in the callous blares
Of the city's ravenous amusement
And in the abundance of silence;
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poem by Norman Santos
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The Immolation
The rotund sun slyly coveted
His diadem of light and warmth
Yonder the gnawing jagged teeth
Of these greedy mountain passes
And the days stretched without
The fire ball hung above the clouds
Of ignorance, innocence, malignance
So I squandered my gambling and
Gave up haggling with the King
I knelt before the oblivious sky
Scraping my bloodless knees
In the hoarse and mordant skin
Of the thinning ice beneath
Pleading for my immolation
So I can transcend in liberation
To the land of the phantoms
The oppression to be caught
In a reedy ensnare of vagary
Underneath jealousy and abhorrence
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poem by Norman Santos
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Mister Ebberman
In the bloodcurdling stretch of blind alleys
Akin to thawing sewers reeking with malice
A moniker, a sobriquet, his ambiguity hocked
Mister Ebberman, he sat like a frozen rock
A forlorn rummy with a violent brandy on his left
And on his right, a rod apt for a conceptual theft
Mister Ebberman, sober and pale as the liquor
Held his heart on the seams with flagrant squalor
Mister Ebberman mused past the stagnant river
Darker than the black bile of his abused liver
As he cajole to steadfast his ambidextrous hands
Trembling like the rocks of the floor, cold and bland
From under the river where winter rest its arms
And the albino sun forgot to provide with warmth
Mister Ebberman prayed in his vehement silence
He cowered and sighed for his river's decadence
Pensively, he waited amidst the toppling milieu
To reel in a fish and hope back in the view
Though his wan lethargic bait had failed to lure
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poem by Norman Santos
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Underneath The Sycamore
The glacial mist shrouding the eve
Cradles the redolence of your reveries
Prematurely ripen from a hungry vie
To keep time at bay and life a chance
In your statuesque grace blooms
A dream in the day, a comfort to lay
And we were so close in a distant way
But for the jeopardy of truth and cliché
This transatlanticism is for your decay
Every now and then as time tramples
When cicatrix sighs and sunlight halts
I get so alone, flat and hollow,
Despite of the truancies, I'm still amidst
The enthralls of the moon's harlequinade
And its servile and vivid orbs at cay
I would be lured to saunter back
Our winding roads and jagged paths
And halt beneath the sycamore
Where we met clad with liminalities
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poem by Norman Santos
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Wall Engulfed By Shy Flowers
There is a rendezvous with flamboyance -
a stillness gilded by the peace of detachment
as tacit as the uncurling of moonflowers
when the night sprawls on her divan
and raises her goblet to the distant stars -
and he alone, in his howling dungeons, can
usurp the esoteric grandiosity in malcontent
Everything is intimate and close
in the sterile skin of your vulnerability -
the drifting autumn wind, the lifted eyelids,
the dancing lips, the glaring waltzing feet
But in your soliloquy - unraveling threads
that strangulates your recuperating breaths,
your swallowed words raving in the dark
fanning the embers of your glassy heart
the spurious tides of the oceans crash
into a lull amidst your redundant tremors
and everything sink into the unfathomable
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poem by Norman Santos
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To Live and Not To Breathe
Five arms snooping coyly
At the persiennes of the equipoise
Of the red dying night and vim of dawn
Rapping the emollient shuddering
So everything paces with synergy
And in these times I am most alive
Inside the cloys of avarice and pride
Growing more eyes and superfluous hands
And my tentacles would permit me
To wander far off, maybe too far
That I reach the enemy lines
Ticking the mines, fulminating the wiles
And the expulsion of solitude
Malingers with the billowing dusts
In the silence of the hiatus
I have been to different abodes
Of auspicious filth dangling the throat;
Families masticating endearment
And thawing faces of loathe,
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poem by Norman Santos
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Forlorn Riddles
On a piece of brown paper
The wild zinnia splattered
Among the porcelains and silvers
Like an ankle splintered
Of a once feral danseuse
Now embezzled by age
With the sun conquering west
The paper befallen a cage
Where the dribbled ink blots
Dangled like a hapless bait
And the sun punctures in a blotch
Eroding the scar with the faith
And the myths and the spellbound
That has never been found
On a desiccated ink blot
A grotesque silhouette incarnated
Reeking with a sanguinary plot
Of carnage that had sculpted
The stature a gilded sphinx's repose
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poem by Norman Santos
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The Days of the Sun
A spill of crimson engulfs the lusty fringing line
Whilst cobalt and mauve bicker to intertwine
And saturate in a gelid-steely hue to define
The girth and skin of the poignant horizon
As the gloaming dawn close to topple the occasion
How many colors does the dusk possess?
And why these few tarry on my firmament?
The plethora of sunsets I obstinately watched
Cannot descry what destitution beguiles
So I count and gaze, on an on, without a mind
A phalanx can beckon the exodus in His corolla,
Obstruct the panorama and anticipate the doom
As it esplanade through a month of setting suns
Futilely for the sunrise yonder its tawny cape
That never comes around, never fixes me bound
Of His elegiac maladroit songs by crickets and cicadas
Somnolent brewed to regurgitate the pensive calculations
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poem by Norman Santos
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Cataloguing Nights
Inside an impassable night for a diffident boy;
Juxtaposed the pillar of his bed he coiled
From watching the final grain hastily dissipate
Fore infinity resurged his room, his subterfuge vacate
Vigorously, he confounds with a luxuriant tongue
Painting visions, unknowing his heart was wrung
For he was a boy withholding utopian eyes
Vulnerable from lies and metaphysically cries
With every plot his nights would conspire
He held onto profanity and blindly cross the wire
As prayers depart his sagacious lips
Departing to escape and stain like thieves
With lethargic eyes he would acquaint to rile
Inside a night of feigned lies and sedative denials.
Inside another eve for a reticent boy;
He perched on the hourglass, his soul was cloyed
As he lit a cigarette and taught himself to smoke
And hoped that the rings would seize the thoughts to choke
So the ethereal train would leave his downtrodden bed
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poem by Norman Santos
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The Great Wide Open
Reconnoitering the abysmal depth in the tranquil resurging
My dithering thoughts are dewdrops of glacial waters
That I cannot fathom to feed the famished ocean
But as they plummet down the mirror of the firmament,
A collective of placid hands that failed in the brunt
Of reaching and collecting the constellations, coiled
Sapped out of life, palming the high and angry surf
That revealed itself like twenty thousand buckling pearls
Steered brazenly like galloping mad stallions
And the inclement wind fecundates the welling call
The immense pacific hauled a sliver with every wave
And every ebb, and every saline rippling I am beckoned
With anarchical power glinting in its azure tiara
But the least I drown in this turbulent musing
The greater uproar welled through my throat
Where the heart was wedged from disengaging
And taut from screaming inadequate directions
Etched in its forlorn maps and spoken by its compasses
Through and through, the immense pacific calls
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poem by Norman Santos
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