poetry

poetry
Satish Verma

Satish Verma, 1 november 2014

2007! SO WHAT! !

I watched in horror,
your pride was tilting.
The landscape was losing the freedom of anonymity.
The labels were rejecting,
the moods of winds,
and embarrassing the consensual sleep.

Where was the need of constructing the arches
on ugly roads,
when mob was indulging in incestuous manner?
Incognito moves the truth, crest fallen.

I had been on edge since long.
This human atrophy was appalling,
while I was searching a doomed culture,
in orchards of wits.

Two thousand seven, and still our angular limbs
cannot move the time.


Satish Verma


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Jacques Maurice

Jacques Maurice, 31 october 2014

Short Cut

In the tangled roots I walk upon in lieu
of angled concrete sidewalks, no subtle clues
of something to do with souls impress me now,
no metaphoric mazes come to mind
to puzzle me with riddles of the meaning
of roots, nor do ideas or images
or intimations of immortality
surprise me with the force of things unknown
and new.

                    I walk upon the tangled roots
only because the way is straight and short.


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Jacques Maurice

Jacques Maurice, 31 october 2014

Brain Wretch

A pitiful wretch inhabits my brain;
In a boiling cauldron he writhes in pain.
When I perceive beauty or feel desire,
On impulse the cognizance feeds the fire.

The prisoner screams, he blisters and burns;
He suffers and dies--and then he returns.
As long as I love he will never rest;
The hug of a child puts him to the test.

Nothing will comfort this inmate of life
But hunger and cold, aloneness and strife.
He would pluck out my eyes, cut out my tongue,
And make me a bed out of thorns and dung.

Yet I have known those who were quite insane
Because no wretch lived in their brain.
I hope that until the moment I die
My head will resound with that sobering cry.


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Jacques Maurice

Jacques Maurice, 31 october 2014

Novice

Unglorified victories are glorious
yet, though no one knows
what the novice knows
as he goes from worse to better.
 
The consequence is small, of course --
too small for pros to care
to notice, for every pro
is a glorified novice.


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Satish Verma

Satish Verma, 31 october 2014

TH REALITY SHOW

Tell me how to tell you about a flat
robotic voice,
asking for euthanasia,
a rite of passage for ceremony of death.
He said, he preferred lethal injection
to noose. But it should be painless,
and there should be no leakage of pain
on face. Mercy it be.

This was not a stage show.
No mummer was performing.
Sitting in lotus position
inviting the inevitable. Be my destiny,
my end.

A terminal prayer of infant dream,
which could not find words,
worth any weakness.

Going separately on different routes,
meeting accidently at home
two things were quarreling with dark
quietly.


Satish Verma


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Joe Breunig

Joe Breunig, 30 october 2014

Poem: Stirred, But Not Shaken

The World is not enough for me, seeing that
my enrollment is inscribed on Heaven’s scroll;
my assignments are ongoing and I know that…
I’m secure with regard to the future of my soul.

I may not enjoy the exploits of James Bond,
but my faith’s exhilaration does not compare
in the traditional sense of the World’s view,
since the Presence of Jehovah is everywhere.

Empowered by His Spirit to take divine action,
defeat of evil principalities that surround
will eventually occur by the might of The Lord,
as I’m standing on The Word’s Biblical ground.

Though I’ll never fear the unknown I may face,
I’m thoroughly equipped and trained for battle.
The weapons of my warfare are spiritually based;
firmly I stand in “the gap” without being rattled.

Certainly I’m not jealous of the secret agent,
for I already possess the mystery to happiness:
the joy of The Lord is my source of contentment.
The strength of my faith is eternally relentless

and I’m loving this blessed existence each day.
My spirit is perpetually stirred, but not shaken!
Living victoriously remains as my mission statement
until the my life’s final day, when I’m taken… home.
 
 
 
Author Notes

Loosely based on:
1 King 8:27; Jer 23:23-24; Isa 6:3, 66:1;
2 Tim 2:19; Matt 7:24; 1 Pet 2:6; Eze 22:30;
Psa 28:7, 62:2; Eph 6:11-13; 2 Cor 5:8, 10:3-5

Learn more about me and my poetry at:
http://amzn.to/1ffo9YZ
 
By Joseph J. Breunig 3rd, © 2014, All rights reserved.


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Satish Verma

Satish Verma, 30 october 2014

Dirty Mirrors

Life may mean anything to you, but
I refuse, to become a utility.
Come, let us face the death of time.

We were whisked away,
had taken a wrong turn,
and when battle lines were drawn,
the guns were not ready.

Dirty mirrors always complained of a bad weather.
Today I will go for a long journey,
to get the gifts of peacocks from green trees.
I want to listen to their grievances whole night.

Humanity stinks when infected hands
handle the peace. I splash the truth
on your face,
to see the sun clearly.


Satish Verma


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Satish Verma

Satish Verma, 29 october 2014

LOVE & PAIN

Perhaps you know,
that you do not know,
the moment of truth is here,
and we are at the cross roads.

Night is without a cloud
and crescent moon is questioning a star.
Ghost of strayed peace
has slided back in dark.
Pure chemistry of love is boiling.

Planting the tender flowers on lips
I find nothing. I think I will go
for a new lover.
Strawberry was your choice,
but I always craved blue berries.
Pulpy red and blue black were teeth apart.

Your eyes are unreadable,
a watery grave of pain.
Something impossible should happen
Poetry is waiting for symbiosis.


Satish Verma


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Gert Strydom

Gert Strydom, 28 october 2014

Early on a winter morning in Cape Town

Early on a winter morning in Cape Town
the rain is sieving down as it has done for days,
the sky is covered with grey clouds
and inside are you and I
cosily in a hot bed.
 
There are footsteps in the hallway
that sneaks to the room and two cold children
get into the bed with us
and when the big old clock strikes seven o’clock
its time to get up, to get ready
for work and school.


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Satish Verma

Satish Verma, 27 october 2014

THE REDUNDANT

In a temple without god,
They performed a cryptcastration on a colossus,
targeting a total annihilation,
and liquidation of a beautiful saga.
And then, layer by layer unspeakable pain was released.

Nobody looked at my red eyes.
Half dead, half alive, groaning, spurting, dumb, dishevelled.
I was shouting, running in the dark alley,
the legendary mountain has collapsed.
From the cocoons come out skeletons.
Not true, not true, they were crying in unison.

Archaeopteryx without apron looks scary,
Let’s move to a different showcase
see the birth of a Caesar. How it rises from
the womb of democracy? How the thaw comes in a glacier?

The eyes of a tyrant sometimes look gloomy.
Is it possible to start a bonfire of lover’s coat in the chair?
Cast off the milkteeth and start from void?
Stretching the boundaries of death and immortality?
I am terribly confused and burned out.

The astral bodies sometimes look so good to me,
faraway from this ugly world.
At least they shine in their own light.
But we were always busy counting our awards
of gold thread, earned by dark strategies,
to make other feel small and ashamed!

You were talking, of self inflicting injuries
was a way of life,
with some people to purify their souls.
But I was wondering about soulless people.
How much they were pollulted and blackened
inside their lungs?

Strange it appears to talk about spirituality
in a slum of poor thinkers
where we were living beyond death.


Satish Verma


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