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poetry
Satish Verma, 14 august 2016
Under The Shadows
Looking around for a loop of light,
a captive throws out his
trove of litter and ask for a
right to be killed.
This was question hour
of your conscience. Who would
now act as on executioner?
Anybody who has not stolen a glance?
You are standing alone with
the rats.The hips were exploding.
Owls will assemble later on
to mourn the death of a native giant.
Under a yellow moon I had met him
once. He had promised to talk about
sexual encounters with nameless
ghosts under the waterfalls.
Satish Verma, 13 august 2016
Pining
I write a song
for you which you will
not find in book.
The butterfly waits
for the bud to open its
secret of colors.
Did you taste
the tears of the sky ever
in a purple dawn?
Joe Breunig, 12 august 2016
Poem: Led By Love
Though Today’s path is uncharted,
I’m not worried; being led by Love,
shows that my trust is in the One,
Who wanted a relationship started
with me, before I actually knew
Him and the sacrifice He had made.
When I trust the plan and purpose
geared for my Life, breakthroughs
that I seek, will materialize by
the very seeds of Faith I possess;
with Him alone as my inner guide,
my soul will soar and divinely fly
as we journey together, each day;
I’m no longer concerned about being
lost or where I’m now headed, since
He lovingly accompanies me on my way.
Author notes
Inspired by:
Heb 11:8
Learn more about me and my poetry at:
http://amzn.to/1ffo9YZ
By Joseph J. Breunig 3rd, © 2016, All rights reserved.
Satish Verma, 12 august 2016
Death Of A Godman
I have agreed to cede
an unwritten moon
in a killing frenzy,
for a chequered spirituality.
Now visitation will start
ravishing the light at dawn.
The grievers will assemble
for a final scoop of dust.
Forgive my star,
for a failed touchdown.
A child stands before glitterati
born again to suffer the other sky.
Nothing comes out of nothing.
The circle was complete.
Satish Verma, 11 august 2016
Forgetting
What was about this face?
Between mirage and actuality?
A fireball was coming towards you.
You upturn the underside,
wanted to taste the blood
and get argasm.
The statues were posing nude.
Mothers were clad in leaves.
Fruits were the greed of man.
I refuse to lie in state. The
sand grains will find the innocence
of silver breasts when sky will
spat a murder. Were you ready
now to become corrupt?
At last the beginners are now
becoming the boots.
Satish Verma, 10 august 2016
Lips On Fire
Sometimes the ice burns,
a fish moves in your eyes.
The ubiquity was at lowest level,
nothing was visible in sun.
Mission crawl in the crotch
does not find any fever.
The golden cave has caved in.
Moon will find another sky.
Nerves were green, pain was
black. No mercy for hooks.
Your map was here and my stitches.
Let us see, who tells the lie.
Satish Verma, 9 august 2016
Without Reason
Living in a cyst, it
would explore the breast.
The black ethics goes beyond
the bounds of mystique of
non-movement.
A while away
a conflict comes out of the body.
Melts into a face.
There is no flesh, no skin.
Only transgression, holding my hands.
There were no arguments.
Only speech punctuated by silent sobs.
A taper standing in a gale.
The shadow flies like an arrow into
the pitcher of hemlock.
Satish Verma, 8 august 2016
Undoing
A tumbler climbs a rain
in all crimelessness.
Perhaps you will never know
my invaginating self. The thirst has
become a river.
A pile of books and I cannot read.
The shadow lengthens on the wall.
An eagle melts in the air.
They are shifting him for amputation.
Truth cannot walk.
I become my father tonight
and watch the house burning.
I am told there was lot of bleeding before.
There will be no need to rescuscitate.
The dead man says, why not?
Satish Verma, 7 august 2016
Bouquet Garni
A golden fish in
blue waters, with many eggs,
collecting the sperms.
Haiku in sun-
light was the essence of
the daydreaming.
The lost road in
bamboos comes out
as solitary song.
steven cooke, 6 august 2016
Assassination of love
A fertile wind lures a petting call
from the bull who will swim the Lough.
Immortality lurks within its perfume
of dynasty and a future king.
The scent of tomorrow makes love extinct
for our genes are perfumed with success.
Prada and Versace can make the lemon sweet
but the offspring will question this statue,
we call David.
Poets will bleed a loves embrace
this beauty of presence a royal write.
While nature spins the spiders web
of a lover who creates life with death.
These tears will soon be forgotten,
in the rose that greets the winter.
For love grows cold in the markets of man.
But love should not be abandoned
for creation is a spiritual thing.
As the warrior holds his head against the tree,
unspoken words transcend this earth
that only his isolation can see.
And in its meaning
love can find a nobility,
that prostitution will never be.
Love was a word that once made empires fall,
now reduced in the confetti of modernisation.
A face book soul caught in the pouting lips
of adolescence,
staring into the depths of an old man unseen.
And the obese teenager that parents adore
go blind to this locked door .
While mirrors delight in snow white dreams
and a wardrobe that secretly desires perversion.
For the window of porn gags for that.
Sex is the ticket to the premiere
that eventually all her friends will see
and the weak will be the spillage
Of a corn sack filled
by a man that only a rapist will see.
Walk into this gas chamber
And succumb to a kiss,
prostituted by a River Island fee
and a Rimmel greasy lipstick.
That makes the suitor hard
inflamed by the chemical caress of perfume
which will procreate another lost child
Into oblivion.
And love will show its face once more
In the bottle of regret
and a being too fat to work.
Spilling the grease from his chips
while watching the latest premiere
Of another adolescent dream
Joe Breunig, 6 august 2016
Poem: Embrace His Grace
When you… embrace His Grace,
you are made complete in Him;
the moral purity of His Word
and the power of His Presence
are sufficient for your race,
that you take alone on Earth.
He is your definitive Source,
your eternal, tireless Counsel,
your All-in-All and The Almighty.
Christ’s shed blood was worth
the sacrifice, He made for you!
Trust His Word, the finished work
on The Cross and His promises;
speak His Truth over your Life;
and you’ll discover breakthroughs
that draw you… even closer to Him!
Believe for His health, provision,
plan and purpose that He’s offered;
His efforts are final and complete;
honor Him now with songs and hymns!
Author notes
Inspired by:
Mal 3:6; Num 23:19; Psa 33:11, 143:8;
Col 3:16; Eph 5:19
Learn more about me and my poetry at:
http://amzn.to/1ffo9YZ
By Joseph J. Breunig 3rd, © 2016, All rights reserved.
Satish Verma, 6 august 2016
Humility
While drinking the long night
you became taller than the eternal
question, bitten by the moon.
Witchhunting will not stop
in oligarchy. A human right
stands on the ivory gate to enter the dust.
The weightlessness is paraded
nude amongst the full-lipped
follies of ornamental speech.
The duende was lacking in palace.
Rivals held the moonlight.
Now the muse will become celibate.
A giant mantis hops on a podium
to bless the dying god, and the candle
burns whole night.
Florian Konrad, 5 august 2016
Detalicje
to tekst niealfabetyczny
podpisujący się trzema krzyżykami
(pod jednym śpi drewniany smok
zgadnij pod którym)
czytasz- i widzisz jak na dłoni
że to poezja dotknięta mutyzmem
wycofana z życia
to park kryjący w sobie uroczy cmentarzyk
zdzierasz wierzchnią warstwę granitu i piasku
odsłania się fragment, połyskująca kość
fragmenty łusek
i żar stopiony w strzałkę
wiesz że prowadzi do wewnątrz
fałszywy kierunek
tam tylko drzwi- na głucho
odźwiernego pochowali w zeszłym roku
obiecywał że wróci
z torbą pełną jabłek
Florian Konrad, 5 august 2016
Macierzyzna
z ziemi florskiej- pod włos!
- mój nocny Stróż szczerzy nie najświeższe zębiska
a jakbyś przyciął pióra
poglądy- koniecznie w wybielacz
podleczył wyznanie(za bardzo zawiewa wonią blachy!)?
- pytam gościa z szyb i luster
może zawołać go/ ich/ nas
owinąć mapą i poczęstować
pseudochińską zupką z folii
niech znają miejsce w szeregu, zapamiętają
trasę zawodów (no dobrze- ucieczki
przed Gwardią Szwajcarską)
może uda się zająć któreś z pierwszych miejsc
e, jednak znielubiłem tych ja- ludków
odkąd przyłapałem jednego w szpilkach
z harlequinem w dłoni
-gardzi mi się, podśmiechuje
leciutko
Florian Konrad, 5 august 2016
Flornit
w czasach rozkwitu rzadko zapinano nas pod szyję
praca była groźną używką
pycha- w dobrym tonie
uważaliśmy się za ćwierćcarewiczów (feldszczeniactwo!)
mediatorów w odwiecznym sporze
pomiędzy kruchtą a piwniczką
(poczekaj aż pękną, okaże się że w niepoświęconym
winie było więcej veritasu)
a potem rozpylono sen, zza niedokończonych
lasów dała się słyszeć melodia
(techno? dancehall?)
idziemy tak, drapiąc słowa piosenek
(czerwone flaki na Monte Cassino
- chłopaki
przyszłam na świat po to, aby kochać cienie
-laski)
weselicho się rozkręca, a my- w rozklekotanych halówkach
brzuchy z głodu- jak bębny pralek
franie wypełnione żwirem
bzdurzymy o dziewczynie, co to na rauszu
upadła na podłogę. twarz wrosła w dechy
zaraz przyplatał się pop czy pastor, oprawiono
głowę nieszczęśnicy w ramy
i wisi w jakiejś cerkwi, czy zborze
poczerniała od kopcących świec
upragniona biesiada- coraz dalej. państwo młodzi
pewnie doczekali się wnuków
oplatamy nowe historie, kaleczą się usta
nie rozdziobią nas pawie, nie rozwloką brony
na ikonie
krzywi się przedwcześnie postarzała buzia
Satish Verma, 5 august 2016
Weaving Silence
Do I have a choice
before knifing the page
for a meaning, when I was
drowned in a nostalgia?
Cinchona bark. This was my
keyword for living bitterly
under a tryant inciting
the riots of colors.
The digital death comes as
a reward for insane truth.
You turn the back on home
and walk towards the sea –
to count the empty shells on beach.
Here life completes a cycle
from emptiness to emptiness.
You are ready to go in void.
*On the death of Steve Jobs.
Gert Strydom, 4 august 2016
For now and for always
Will it last this romantic fantasy of shadow and light?
The crimson-red rising moon hangs low where we do walk
through this lovers-lane that it is making tonight.
You are right against me while of lasting love we talk.
Is it magic or a strange kind of reality
when your arms slip around my head,
when you do passionately kiss me
am I alive, in heaven or dead?
As if God on us does His blessing endow
when you promise to be my wife
your whole face does glow,
and this is a day in my and your life.
Satish Verma, 4 august 2016
Kindled Night
Put off the lantern.
I am waiting for the moon’s
primal face. The lesser flamingoes
were going to shed the pink color.
Nude as a python, the kiss
of pomegranates, kills by asphyxiation.
I suffer in the hands of protests.
The black ice now enters the eye of a needle.
A barefoot noun feeds the junta.
The butter babies will serve the poetry
of poor on the mats of principles.
I will remain unslept on straw.
A newspaper eats the story this side.
After the bloodbath surgeons weep.
An armless lover hugs a priest
for not calling the gods.
steven cooke, 3 august 2016
The boy of silence
The face behind the harlequins gaze
hides the scars of yesterdays man.
Born in an Attercliffe slum
in the rags of fathers graft,
with a pencil for a voice
stolen from milk mans note.
A boy in possession of an imagination
and no future
Who can still see a glimmer in the rust
buried in the abandoned steel works,
lost in council’s regeneration
of a green field sites that now offers
the quest for a four leaf clover.
This gift can be a lonely thing
in a world of regimented minds.
Inspiration needs a partner
for every word is a journey.
Writing belongs to my addiction
and my love
for the glorious water of Scotland.
For a single malt can make a man hear
the ghosts from the past.
The fear of being the scruffiest lad at school
leaves a generals memory of war
bullies and a pregnant girls shame.
A school is a flag that I shall not pass
for its contents means nothing to me.
The wood that that lost its view
to the Stalag of tomorrow’s drones
Can only cry in silence.
But I who was born in its shadow
found solitude and my fortress
Inside a tent of twigs
in a cold uncaring world.
My soul could never connect with
the wage packet teachers
who are as forgetful as me.
The boy who found his dreams
In the cover of the oak.
Whose presence still remembers
the torn book of Sassoon
thrown into the brambles discarded,
as the generation within it was.
I am the voice whose audience was the wood
and applause came from imagination,
though the spirits of the past looked on.
The immortality of silence
is only a pretender.
For it shouts within my soul of past memories,
Of a ghost I do not know
existing in the denial of god.
A being that time cannot touch.
And long after I am dead ,
the wind will carry this immortal feather
and in its dance a ghost will be seen.
Looking for a stolen pencil
and a torn book that nobody reads.
Satish Verma, 3 august 2016
Ashes Of Hate
Melting in the cauldron to feed,
until later, I will seek you
in parallel interpretations.
Presently, thoughts are very disturbing.
Human rights for animals
caged in peals
of god realization.
I was thinking to quit the stage.
Symptoms are horrific.
Neoplasm was spreading.
I am scared of the plague.
Sweet corns of sex:
million pieces smile,
drained out healing?
Who will save the river?
Discharges are crippling
the soft limbs,
the truth.
Man walks, shudders, falls
wants to rise again,
from the ashes of hate.
Gert Strydom, 2 august 2016
The temptation of being near to her
There is something in how she looks at me and looks away again
and I think aloud Satan, Lucifer, demon, devil be gone
as she is going to seduce me with her summer sunshine laughter
in the twilight, dark night or bright day
with her eyes that glitter when she notices me
and I wonder if God does provide such lovely girls
with her walking away that continually whispers promises
and her voice that falls sweetly on my ear
but when she stands right in front of me
and talks to me my breath is taken away
and I notice a small muscle jumping, jumping in her throat
and her snow-white teeth, her hands, freckles and feet is something
against which I do not know how to resist
and then she brings her lips right against mine.
Gert Strydom, 2 august 2016
Your walking away is measured in watt
Your walking away is measured in watt.
Not the 1100 p.m.p.o. of a door slamming shut behind you
that are opened and slammed again
but it is the pattering gait that just can be heard
and the whisper of satin
when you do go to our bedroom
and welcoming the door stays open
when continuously the fourteen-day rain does softly fall
and flames hiss at the fireplace and wood gleam red from the heat
while Steve Hofmeyer on the Kenwood music system
does sing sadly like Neil Diamond
and candles burn romantically at the bath
like a Jewish candlestick that welcomes the Sabbath
and does announce the beginning of the year of jubilee
where everything is again nice and right
to far into the future
and no children or grandchildren
do bring resistance in their visiting multitude
and you and I are alone
like Adam and Eve
when they did noticed each other for the first time.
Satish Verma, 2 august 2016
Pill
Stay away from the main road
Subhumans are coming.
Face of black spiders, long arms
creeping, hopping.
The green blood and burning sticks;
gateway to moon
sun decides to vanish.
Confronting the flesh makes you clenched snake,
lymphocytes start crowding
death was drawing near.
A fawn wanders without mother
pink eyes, trotting on grass,
syndicated trackers are circling.
End or means? What you choose,
will decide the future of man.
Let the flame become nameless.
A cupped beak and hairy thighs
climb on the rock
to squander the seeds.
Clouds are gathering at distance
I may not wait for the rain.
I am going to swallow the pill.
Gert Strydom, 1 august 2016
In the garden (ABECEDARIUM)
Annoyed the small girl turns to him and says: “Oh no.”
Bees do fly around her in the garden.
Caesar stands in front of her
dangling a wooden sword in his hand,
eager to come to her defence.
Followers to come to their aid do not exist.
Great numbers of vicious bees want to sting them.
He hits a few as enemies down.
Ibises fly up frightened and screaming
just when a whole swarm of bees want to sting them.
Keen-witted he drags her away by the hand.
“Leave us alone you demons,” he screams.
More and more bees fly venomously nearer,
nowhere there is any escape
“Obviously we are going to loose this battle,” his princess says anxious.
Pacify they cannot the enemy. Who is the wretched
quisling that have betrayed them to the foes?
Racing, their hearts beat and they cannot guess while the enemy swish nearer
sting and buzz and they have got to
take defeat and fall back.
Unarmed against the enemy they flee to the protection of the
villa with its huge windows
where no bees can reach them and like a real
Xanthippe mother yells at them to get out of the
yard where it has become very dangerous.
Zulu, the Maltese poodle continually does howl outside.
Satish Verma, 1 august 2016
Cranium
They entered the genome of enemy
to hide agoraphobia
I will be tortured now
by hanging man.
A loaded belief;
being with crocodiles was safe.
How far we swim in reverse currents?
The moon will annihilate us.
There was fear for dwelling in hateful ripples.
It was the gift of rivals,
a phenomenon of sacrfice for the lamb.
Not being with the times, you walk heavily,
waking stones in blood.
It was too late to ask for the pain – killers.
The language does not help.
The words trot clumsily.
You search the solace in coarseness
protecting cranium.
Satish Verma, 31 july 2016
Ancient Address
Black emptiness.
Death opens like a flower,
somebody is walking in.
You think of a soft punishment
for becoming faithless.
It was becoming a way of life.
Unlimited agony of wait
something to happen.
Nothing is heard in the field.
No shots. No kill.
Your day was over.
Night descends like a puzzle.
Grey cornea on the white lens:
clouds are playing a game,
mist has a smoky smell.
A city sleeps at last.
A poem I will not read.
It was my ancient address.
Joe Breunig, 30 july 2016
Poem: This Broken Road
I had been sadly blinded
by my sinful misery,
listening to Life pass by;
Would I, be able to see
the Love that You had bestowed?
I’m stuck on this broken road;
restore my vision today,
as my purpose has been slowed.
I was like Bartimaeus,
waiting for Christ to find me;
unto Him, I cried and called;
He lovingly met my plea.
He greeted me where I was,
shunned by the neighborhood crowd;
transfixed, I stood before Him,
with my spirit, humbly bowed.
With gentleness He then spoke:
“Son, what’s your heart’s desire?”
When I quickly answered Him,
my spirit caught Faith’s fire!
Surprised, I rose to my feet,
as my sight was now restored;
astonished, with thanksgiving,
I embraced and praised… my Lord!
Today, I’m walking by Faith
even when I can’t see it;
traveling this broken road,
prepared Your great will for me.
Teach me Lord, Your Holy Writ
and to live with renewed Faith!
Knowing that Your Grace has flowed;
please lift me up, from my knees!
Author notes
Inspired by:
Mark 10:46-52
Learn more about me and my poetry at:
http://amzn.to/1ffo9YZ
By Joseph J. Breunig 3rd, © 2016, All rights reserved.
Satish Verma, 30 july 2016
Future
Ugliness in pink flakes
elopes with a terrorist.
Sun bleaches the black scorn
muscles ache with cramps.
Full moon peeps through the veil
of branches. Eucalyptus sways
in majestic conception.
Time to exude honey.
A perfect discrimination against
the trees. A painful ulcer on tongue
bleeds, pure as the malignant pain.
I will not talk about existence.
The shadow of god crops up.
Foolish dolls play the game.
Subjectivity has frills to counter
the drive of madness.
Anguish becoming responsible
to deliver the particles of imagination,
which move faster than death.
Future of man was in peril.
Gert Strydom, 29 july 2016
Just for a moment it is there
Just for a moment it is there, the lightning bolt that falls
and the smell of something that burns and melts next to a puddle
from where the blue spark bright blinding touches and reach
and with a terrible thunder suddenly roars
with fear on the faces of my child, my wife
that just where I am standing
that lightning bolt does menacing fall.
In that moment’s blinding blue light
while a terrible rainstorm pours down
and I do shake like a reed
I do know that such moments does not linger
but you can take them out of your thoughts again
just like moments of bliss and happiness
where the touching, the colour, the sound and smell does remain
and etched you can find that moment again
from where like old letters you do fold them up and keep them in a small box.
When more lightning bolts slam down my ears are tingling and ringing
while I run to where the woman and child is waiting on the porch
and in the garden its twilight, almost night
where the woman and child are both crying from emotion.
Satish Verma, 29 july 2016
The Stings
He was not ready
for a stash of negligees
put up by moon, on the trees.
A hanging valley drops the pretense
meets the river on the way
for a rendezvous.
Nymphs are flying randomly
against crystals of stars
blank night asks for nothing.
Sometimes hallucinations are welcome
when it is too hot inside
and the life sucks madly.
It was all very puzzling
the nudes in mirrors,
the stings in prayers.
Leaning against the wall
gives a scope for existence
remember, the desires are many.
the separateness was the idea
to put the damper on shouts
we are not, what we willed.
Latest comments:
9 july 2025
violetta
Tak, tylko winko bezalkoholowe:)
9 july 2025
Belamonte/Senograsta
wisi, to był ten sam gagatek, chyba się opamiętał,
8 july 2025
jak ma na imie?
8 july 2025
jeden z nas
8 july 2025
nie da się
8 july 2025
Czego, piwa?:)
8 july 2025
Halki nie są aż takie cienkie:)
8 july 2025
No co ty:) nie akceptuję:)
8 july 2025
te diety są przerażające, gdzie zrozumienie
8 july 2025
wow. miałem kiedyś białą myszkę była wesoła
8 july 2025
i to jest piwołanie poety
8 july 2025
motyle moga nas opuścić i wtedy trzeba przejsc
10 july 2025
wiesiek
9 july 2025
wiesiek
8 july 2025
wiesiek
7 july 2025
jeśli tylko
5 july 2025
jeśli tylko
4 july 2025
Jaga
27 june 2025
Jaga
26 june 2025
Atanazy Pernat
23 june 2025
ajw
21 june 2025
Jaga