The Ruse of the Pink Flamingo
My eyes swan through the sunward sand
Falling with the summer rain and the mist
That shrouds the haled halcyon raiment
Like a gray nostalgia unfenced but tamed
By an inclement drizzle, and here I am
Breathing with the moiré banana leaves
There was a stillness - a vertical line
Erected in the lugubrious susurrations
A silver thread fixed with the marionette
Wistfully frolicking in the aqueous mirror
And sending undulations without a sound
The enthralling artistry was my muse
In this void ulcer of the land, a pink blotch
In the postmortem dirge of savagery
My eyes swan through her wayward dance
The weathervane utterance of the wind
Spoke of the silence's response
To the dipping of her svelte legs
Into the unwavering poise of the pond
And its ageless skin rippled with subtlety
That the sun casted a shower of yellow light
Borne into the dawn of shriveling moths
Upon the mirroring of your charming grace
The tilting legs raised and lunged like a danseuse
With an undertone of vengeance but swathed
With the tired hoping for vindication
And with every mellifluous lift and sway
Was a hint of hope for another day
She careened her head into the dusk
And pivoted her salutary statuesque
Dancing for the reflection and the song
Of the trespassing swallows and storks
Titivating the chasing of the crimson dome
And becoming the ebullient light of the void
But the song will sojourn with the season
Of your gossamer inflection of carnation
It withers like the petals on your waist
And the amusement of your own reflection
Until then, who do you dance for?
The machinations of the elegiac song
Strummed by the plethora of leaves
And ornamented by the astray petals
Played with the willowy dancing feet
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poem by Norman Santos
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