Norman F. Santos
Norman F. Santos Poems
Wide open sea, bludgeon my grand flee To where the beast would sing to me Debonairly and treacherously the riddle That shrinks one mind to gamble and fiddle
Cradle Of Deceit
Pacing down a string of deceit Strings that conceal attachments I wonder how tangled I weave Sunken deep in this resentment
In a moribund day reigned by an empathetic sun Serendipity lingered amongst ghosts withholding scant Fluid hands pale as the toppling films of the sun’s corona Flimsy hands shackled in a culvert; a deceitful supernova
Committed To Memory
Embolden the soul with the virility Found in no beasts, but in divinity The prize bequeathed by Mnemosyne The grandeurs and horrors to humanity
At the bottom of a tarnished trench; A pit of rejection, but a kingdom to most An amorphous tyrant flagrantly confound Of nefarious sorcery on every soul
Coding The Lionman
A Goddess she was, skirting the town with her presence Her lunatic glow clearly forebodes beams of liberation An opaque light: a stark sublimation of sterile illumination It struck his thin fringes as he had clandestinely wished
Under a rubber tree and her spangling hair Beneath her canopy and the aberrant flair A cavalcade of lambent orbs in an aerial parade The Mardi Gras drifted shambling in a masquerade
His voice –a hissing warmth in the atmosphere A violent warmth searing with a covert scheme His eyes –thick and black like oil, combustible Piercing with stern vigilance, probing with scrutiny
Calm tranquil blue The shade of my slumber Feelings of perfect brew Smiles from deep somber.
Once upon a time. A picturesque blur of line An etude cradling every night Laced in the line of silver light
Barricade Of Dominoes
For every query, a sedative truth Supercilious codes downhill the roots Surreptitious cards no eyes can muse Of one gambit too bare for this ruse-
An Empty Hearth
Cold tiles mock my motionlessness And the lashing ambers wavering in tempo. Frost mourn crawls up with the misery Knocking me tarnished a vacant chasm.
Birth Of The Lion Man
And he was a man with revealing sylvan eyes. Sad, wandering, eager-eyes swathed with sagacity. Coy he was, like an eagle in the wild; avert but suspicious. He is not a child, but he is less than a man.
Incongruous creeper of star crossed fate Muted dreamer with a living to tolerate Swanking too compensate the lack of luster A sycophantic wish delivering a note of disaster
Once upon a time.
A picturesque blur of line
An etude cradling every night
Laced in the line of silver light
When will your hope arrive
Without the inflection of lie?
What periphery do you behold?
Yonder idyllic nights unfold
In dreams basking in marigold