Latest items:

poetry

Satish Verma, 9 july 2021

The Seeds Of Our Lips

I will come and meet
you in absence of past.
Why to open the window
to moon. I was not right,
not wrong.

Incensed in endless emotions
by default. I still love
my muse desperately, when you
come and go
in between the verses.

The time bars you
in moments, in twists of puzzles.
You don't make a move,
don't fold your wings,
and cast your spell in the shadows.

The lost sun of my path,
sends the fresh, full moon― between
night and day to blend the pain
and ecstasy of rapture, of knowing
the depth of holy lake.

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Satish Verma, 8 july 2021

Bewitching

Absolutely zilch.
Sometimes you feel―
nothing moves.

Coming out of
remorse, there was no
confronting power―

to reason. Even
time freezes in your pen,
ink evaporates.

The blues, become
a sacred cove, where
a lake would take birth.

And a speaking
pain will embrace your
sinking boat.

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Satish Verma, 7 july 2021

Autumn's Harmony

Moon crazed fonts
starting a genocide of words
in narcolepsy.

Don't ask me about the amphetamines!

The letters have gone crazy.
No discipline,
no shoes.
They run wildly barefoot,
make you feel a victim of curved lips.

There were no afterthoughts―
about the massacre of essence,
of message, gist and substance.

You stand alone in jungle
of books, unprinted, unspoken
of, finding the
sequence of life.

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Satish Verma, 5 july 2021

Indigenously

Sheer drop of lightning
takes the brown
land by storm.

The cult grows―
in the hills for
the wolf to stay.

There was no healing
ceremony after
the snake bites.

The bodies are revered with thyme,
when the moon
dips, before dawn.

The natives
were ready to abandon
the glory of man made world.

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Satish Verma, 4 july 2021

No Dues

Misreading―
the time zone, clock
refuses to rewind.

The brain shuts,
absenting the self.
No seeing no hearing.

The street,
resuscitates you.
Train whistles to take you away.

What home?
There was no destination.
You will not reach anywhere.

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Morgan, 2 july 2021

Seige

Reading on--
'I can't believe it', cried old Vallette, in toney Italian. 'The nerve!'
His secretary's quip was plainer. He adored the old man and his crazy bravery.
'Een-cred-DEE-bee--lay! Can she think of no interest but her own? A chip off the old block. Thanks for nothing!'
And so on.
'Oliver, she's your sovereign', old Vallette reminded him.
Oliver said nothing. True her didn't like bad-mouthing his queen.
Say nought, regret nought. But he wanted his sympathies clear.
Through the corbelled windows, towards the ruins of St Elmo across the harbor, old Vallette studied the crumbled western rampart, the stone-filled moat, the figures of the engineers atop the wall. Like ants.
He recalled the battle--those long, hot, awful, bloody days--
days he would like to forget but couldn't. He thought of the men--how bravely they fought, how horribly they died.
He viewed the yellow fronts of the palaces--graceful outcroppings of limestone cliffs they sprang from--
both turned fiery gold in the low sun,
the in-between stretch of dozing water a pool for descending angels to bathe in.
It bent back the sun's rays.
Magnifico!
'As it always would be', thought old Vallette. Thanks to him. Anachronism, indeed!
But he didn't say that last part. He just felt it.
Turning from the window, he swore in Italian.
It must have sounded gracious to Oliver's ears.
Without doubt, English was the language of profanity.
On the marquinia table, inlaid with pink and orange stone
he tossed the missive bearing the English queen's seal.
'Thanks, thanks, thanks, much-indebted--thanks for...
thanks, thanks, etc.'
'Of course', said old Vallette. 'Don't mention it.'
The envoys who brought it couldn't read but in the hall below
were feasting on plaice and drinking Sicilian wine.
Outside, the sea bristled with ships, sailing placidly
to Genoa, Marseille, faraway Valencia,
bearing spices and wheat from the Levant and slaves to London.
'Good riddance. And the language--barbaric!'
There was lots to do. Old horrors fade before fresh triumphs.
Across the harbor the city was rising fast.
He, himself, laid the first stone. Would he live to see it done?
He doubted it. Not the way he felt. But God willing, he would.
The mantel clock chimed six. Along the peninsula
in each little belfrey, swung a bell on its rung. Soon
there was a chorus. It lasted a whole minute, then ceased.
Old Vallette liked the bell sound.
He would have a little dinner then go to bed.
'And Oliver...'
'Yes, sir?'
'Go to bed.'

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Morgan, 2 july 2021

Haiku

On a certain day
we caught many crows
but their cries all flew away.

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Satish Verma, 2 july 2021

Three Vistas

Do not count.
Do not return my poems―
written for you,
in memory of hot pink
flamingoes, that had not returned
to their abodes.

Flashbacks. Fear of colors
arises. You shut your eyes.
Idolatry soaring. Night
will ask the stars. Why am I
carrying the burden of a rock
on my shoulders?
Moon laughs.

You stay quiet,
will not commit any kill.
A train whistles by. Evening
plays a thief, stealing your demeanor.
Inside you burn. No smoke was
coming out. No reference―
to smiles and tears.

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Satish Verma, 1 july 2021

Truism

Almost reached.
Your tongue slips;
Then you fall.

The cyclone,
develops an eye, to hit.
You become blind.

An outcast―
became a star
in dark sky.

Why the elite,
of choice or exhibit―
wants to wear rags?

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Satish Verma, 30 june 2021

You tie a
sacred thread to
the hollow tree.

That walks around
in search of
a morose Buddha.

The world
has gone beyond
the suffering.

A square, a
circle, a dot?
Who are you?

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10 - 30 - 100

Latest items:

poetry

The Seeds Of Our Lips

Bewitching

Autumn's Harmony

Indigenously

No Dues

Seige

Haiku

Three Vistas

Truism

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