Latest items:

poetry

Satish Verma, 8 may 2021

Eternal Verities

Let there be dark
in your life.
One day, you will
be able to see the light.

Wind would sleep in the
earthen lamp during day.
Come evening―
tears will light the wick.

Hordes of moth have
resumed their sorties. Any
cruise of moon was
impossible.

Not acceptable was hiring the womb
for manipulating the race. An
eagle dance, brings out the
savagery of man.

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Satish Verma, 7 may 2021

Many Blues

Night begins
the self-discovery
with green and cream pills.

A binary existence
you would love to
break the myth.

The wind in the sails,
you are going―
nowhere in darkness.

All colors of―
midnight moon,
were for you.

Time will meet―
you in different masks,
to find the truth.

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Satish Verma, 6 may 2021

Uncensored

Begins to reel,
the dusk,
down the street.

The grey moon waits,
solemnly, for the
music of earth to start.

There is enigma―
in dark. You see
the inside of a shut house.

Like the stone
eyes reading the heliograph
of shrunken gods.

Plunged into a gorge
your eyes, to find
the secret of a fall.

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Satish Verma, 5 may 2021

Thinking Off

The clouds hang on the strings.
I cannot dry my eyes.

Picking up the pine cones, on grass―
one by one, as the years went by.

How did I lose my home again?
Were there not footprints in snow?

The caladiums, you planted in
summer, had the crimsoned spots.

Like the kirmizi sun
dipping in lake one night.

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Satish Verma, 4 may 2021

What You Were

Cessation had no direct threats.
You had stopped thinking.

A shadowy future starts hating
you and your financial motives.

The September light falls on leaves
ready to go, yellow-brown-red.

You are still warm, still receptive
of the hollyhocks to welcome you.

A guiltless flight with singing birds―
homing to their mating abodes.

You want to arrive
without qualms, without fainting.

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Satish Verma, 3 may 2021

Unending Rope

How will you be defining
a war, when you
meet without machetes?

Between real and fiction
lies a deficient bridge.
We will go for a walk to find―
the weak spots.

A dead city moves in its
entirety. You prepare yourself
to read the tea leaves.

The dregs were in power.
Why you were becoming schizophrenic?
Do not blow at the dead sparks.

How long the shadow now
you want to throw?

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RENATA, 2 may 2021

zdziwienie ma gorzki smak

kochałem Cię mocno tak
bez Ciebie mój nie istniał świat
a potem wspólne dzieci i dom
szczęście u naszych stóp dyndało

a może to -fatamorgana
od rana do rana
w mojej głowie jest dobrze

wyruszyłaś raz w delegację
do miasta A jak zawsze
ja na powrót Twój czekałem z kolacją
winem dziećmi i psem i wiem

spóżniłaś się lecz strach oczy wielkie ma
a może to -fatamorgana

A tam daleko gdzieś w mieście B
pędząc od kochanka rozbiłaś się
pijany tir drogę blokował
teraz Ty w śpiączce mnie łeb rozbolał

drżę w szoku czekając na przebudzenie twe
wybaczyć chce serce me
nie dzieje się nic bez przyczyny
przyznajmy się do błędów i winy
wszak nuda i rutyna
od miłości odpycha

fatamorgana w głowie trwa
obudz się ty wybaczę ja

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RENATA, 2 may 2021

cytryna

w gardło się lało
w głowie szumiało
i ciągle się chciało
na bani być

kołysze się pokój
a może żyrandole
dajcie wy mi spokój
bo wam przypierdolę

język się zaplątał
aż stąd do kolan
zahaczył o pięty
chyba pierdolnięty

zwinął się w supełek
gdy tak właśnie już
chciał dojebać komuś
a tu ani rusz

oj biada będzie z ciebie marmolada
na cóż jest dziś maskarada
ręce rozkłada i zaciska
ależ ty jesteś brzydka
jak cała łażnia publiczna

tylko jeden jest ideał
który innych poniewierał
ten co w lustrze się ogląda
i najładniej zawsze wygląda

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Satish Verma, 1 may 2021

Come Again

Intercepting the random
poems, pick not
the holy water, in your palm.
I cannot lift the words.

Dark bellies, in moon's
autumn, will play with flutes.
You will swoon on the
sight of blood at the hands.

It was not the first time, a
lamb in the midair―
falls on the golden spear of
new theme, to bluff the naiveness.

Somebody takes a turn, to
find the bell, which will not send
any sound, on the death of
the poppies.

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Satish Verma, 30 april 2021

Contradiction

A textual study
of pain and bliss.
I was coming for a reprisal
from a temporal crisis
of intimacy.

Always gnawing at me,
the roll down from
love to hate. Which was
impersonating what, like
a talking parrot?

Soft murder. You will
half-die, poker-faced in
grey night under the full moon,
holding a poem
written for a black sun.

I shall never get
over my dilemma.

number of comments: 0 | rating: 0 | detail

10 - 30 - 100

Latest items:

poetry

Eternal Verities

Many Blues

Uncensored

Thinking Off

What You Were

Unending Rope

zdziwienie ma gorzki smak

cytryna

Come Again

Contradiction

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