poetry

poetry
Satish Verma

Satish Verma, 26 april 2015

Another Name

When postponed, death had no meaning.
It was lying in ambush.
Journey was imperfect without
a termination.
Behind the dust was another desire.

Another thumb on the trigger
starts shooting through the bubble
of moon. Every bone springs
to jump for final galaxy
of hidden stars.

Striving was brutal. Being
was dying for life. Profits
of morality on sale. Fragrance
without house. A memory
now invites another name.

Daughter of next life
lives hundreds of years
in death. Becoming
becomes the fear!


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Satish Verma

Satish Verma, 25 april 2015

Green Eyes

Faith was not taking him
near the truth.
Staring at reason
his inner self became a burden
on the whispering road.

They were going to exhume
the body of the martyr
for finding the ethos of hope
invoking the afternoon sun
to guide them in dark.

So the blood had a terrible
celebration of alienation
generating the heat of hate
not for the proud mother
who was grieving.

Time will not forgive
for the murder of green eyes.
The masses are rising
like a turbulent sea
riding through the tears.


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Salvatore Ala

Salvatore Ala, 24 april 2015

Strip Search

for Victor Hernández Cruz  
 
Strip search because I was full of the drug love,
Strip search because my name is an eye-rhyme with Allah,
Strip search because of Mafia stereotypes,
Strip search because I was carpooling to Mexican Village,
Strip search because I carried a book of poetry,
Strip search because I was traveling to New Orleans,
Strip search because I loved a woman with two names,
Strip search because a black woman offered me a ride,
Strip search for desiring Belle Isle after midnight,
Strip search because I am not a savior but a Salvatore,
Strip search for bleeding from hands and feet,
Strip search for driving naked and saving time,
Strip search for visiting the graves of my ancestors,
Strip search for the orange blossoms on my bride,
Strip search for the smoke of ablution and peace,
Strip search for defiance at the borders of freedom.


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Salvatore Ala

Salvatore Ala, 24 april 2015

Pathetic Fallacy

The most noxious landfill is language.
Books are polluted; libraries, dump sites.
Due to toxic levels of pathetic fallacy
Bookstores recall infected books;
Greenpeace intervenes poetry readings;
Poets are fined for offshore word spills.
Why must a cloud be forever lonely?
Why must the sea be always cruel?
Books burn by their own hands.
Lexicon’s toxic waste contaminates
Our graves and poisons our shadows
From which we rise to stain the world.


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Satish Verma

Satish Verma, 24 april 2015

Fountain

Revolting inwardly
the fountain chokes.
New year amputates
the fingers of a whole man.
History repeats a parallel.

He sets the house on fire.
Sky withdraws the light
till the queen of darkness sleeps
before the future unfolds.
Smell of burning flesh drifts.

This moment was for God
to wipe the sweat on frightened face.
Hair and bones hide in the urn
that was forgotten.
Death has mouthed a betrayal.


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Satish Verma

Satish Verma, 23 april 2015

Like A Firebird

Like a whiff of pungent smoke
morality hurts.
The inner song dies
in chorus of sharp tongues.

Anger beats the wall
causes no beginning,
no ending.
A naked shadow burns.

The voice on the edge of truth
jumps in the dust of lies
like a firebird
bathes in immortal grief.

For deliverance from the depravity,
one who calls you a name.
How I longed to invoke
a time outside the space!


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Satish Verma

Satish Verma, 22 april 2015

Circle Of Glory

Pain unites the victims.
Discreetly, afterword, was the same.
Only loser helped you to die instantly
for the millions of stars.

The shadow was a terrorist
on the terrace.
Wounds were flying on erected dais,
the circle of glory was complete.

Over the dead nurseries
sun was kneading the earth,
for a graying sky
to bear the night.

A shameful retreat
of the weaver, of faked skin,
when body was stained with orange bruises
inviting the moon.


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Satish Verma

Satish Verma, 21 april 2015

Bon Voyage

Absolute yes or no
makes you wish
not to understand philosophy
of semipermeable life.

Sort of, lies pass through,
truth is left behind.
The fingerprints don’t speak
the identity of runaway minutes.

Somewhere you fail miserably,
break the cushions
and lie on thorns
to feel the terror of time.

Where the birds have gone?
Trees have startled the sky.
The staircase is broken.
Bon voyage to blue eyes.


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B.Z. Niditch

B.Z. Niditch, 20 april 2015

PLAYING HANDEL

Playing Handel
in my mind and head
playing you
for a month at a time
at the end of the war
hearing the rain
falling like the 1945 nails
of the Cross
on one small corner
of the universe
in sound proof studios
on the ball infields
or by the ocean sands
under a beautiful foreign sun
washed bodies of water
with you swimming out,
your notes not lost in visiting
to honor the righteous
in the concentration camps,
when you feel
like a thousand days
of long suffering,
we can always hear you.
 


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B.Z. Niditch

B.Z. Niditch, 20 april 2015

WHAT IS NATURE

Say to the clouds
give up your rain
to the scaffold
give up your poets
who want to live,
to the grassland
stay back for March
for soccer games
to the dunes
crush the sap of Maple
for your morning pancakes,
by the marshes
have a cup of Bourbon
from Paris here in Warsaw
to remember me by
who will always
be back to the edges
of nature.


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