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poetry
Satish Verma, 4 february 2018
Logistics
Midnight encounter.
In moon, on sand.
Why you were igniting a sheltered home
of wounded pride?
The blood spills
over the sea, in boat.
You were unrelenting, against traction
violence of unhappenings.
The blackness blooms.
A man will cross midstream,
writing on water the name of a lamb
who refuses to surrender.
I sit between the
kisses of dragonflies.
An empty paper nest waits for the wandering
wasps to come back with stings.
Satish Verma, 3 february 2018
Ascendancy
Seizing a chance in
a trice, in one dark September
night of apotheoses-
a bird crashed in my
lap. I would not know
the virginity of the strange surrender.
The windows were tall,
with the black laces violating
the sovereignty of light.
I will not know you, will
not call the black magic,
will not transcend the body.
The white lilies were
staring down at water.
Was the dawn nearby?
Satish Verma, 2 february 2018
The Judgement
You had the numbers.
The reverse trends begins-
with uneasy and dark ambush.
A fatal miscue. You
will get the message.
The fingerprints will stay on the wall.
Enduring the onslaughts.
Remaining sky-clad I
will wander in your arms.
Fighting with the curves,
on sleepy islands, will
you hail my outstanding landing?
The revelation has a price.
You will not open the envelope
till I am dead.
Satish Verma, 1 february 2018
A Perilous Journey
For a moonshine,
there was no moon.
There was no moon
for a moonshine.
It starts a tenuous
soliloquy, raising a –
slew of questions.
Slew of questions will
evoke a mixed response.
Were you ready for
a sleepover at the shrine
to watch the St. Vitus’s dance.
It was leaking at night
from the corner of eyes.
Unaging was the secret
of polity. Are you in?
Satish Verma, 31 january 2018
An Opusculum
No stitches will work.
You have to navigate-
in mendacities.
You have to navigate-
in mendacities to find
the truth, the truth.
A papyrus write may
know the future, the destiny,
the future, the destiny.
You always run to piss
at the tree, to draw
the borders. The animal.
The animal within you, becomes
salmonella, dones a cap,
enters the dome.
Enters the dome.
Satish Verma, 30 january 2018
Laissez-Faire
The smile conceals, something.
Does not offer any cue.
You were still traveling
within.
You wanted to leave the world,
as it was, without cleaving
the wood, not accepting the veneer.
It rang an alarm bell.
To evolve their own persona;
good to take their own path.
The fallout was widening.This
was an insider’s story.
What an audacious withdrawl;
and you were in a silent mode like a Buddha
to uptake the film of dust
settling on the innocent rape of book.
Satish Verma, 28 january 2018
End Thinking
First encounter was skimpy
unleashing a terror
of tales. I will not find the
perfect body of a poem.
Remember,
the salt lake, where you were
drowned one day in the eyes
of the needle.
It was an ode for the failed
prophecy which predicted
the fall of an author
in the ravines of jealousy.
A trampled butterfly exudes
the yellow fumes. Meanwhile
you can draw a nude on
the road for bystanders.
Satish Verma, 27 january 2018
In Search Of Peace
The tiny thrusts
and a blunt fuel
scrambled over the wet contours.
There was an ephimerality
in overdue kisses
of death.
The interplay of sex
and spirituality starts,
bites the bullet and pushes the boat.
The pungency of an elegy
was a secondhand divorce
with death.
Jealousy: sand was
under the nails. Now
I will find the remains of an ocean
in your eyes. There was nothing
else to be done than taking off
the bikini top like a death.
Satish Verma, 26 january 2018
Forgetting The Hymn
Spherules start a pincer attack
on the modesty of an epiphany.
The manifestation was incomplete.
The windows were very small in-
the wind-palace. Only ringdoves
were sitting on the sills, cooing all day.
They were sitting in a row; cross-
legged, the naked monks. As a penance
they were getting the scalp hair pinched off.
Swearing will not help. You need to
suffer like a forgotten language,
like grass blades who bend again & again.
Joe Breunig, 25 january 2018
Poem: For the Birds
To some people, birds are
nothing more than eye candy;
to others, a vital part of
Earth’s ecosystem; how far
should one go to study them
in detail? Between exotic
mating rituals and building
skills, what unseen gems
can we observe? The Father
feeds and cares for all fowl,
even though they don’t sow,
reap or gather; why bother
trying to interpret His plan,
when His methodologies rise
up, beyond our ability to see?
Does He reveal Himself to Man
with genius, creativity and by
the majesty of the Heavens?
Of course, He does! Why else
do we raise our hands, sigh…
and purpose to praise Him?
Author notes
Inspired by:
Matt 6:26, 10:29-31; Psa 8:4
Learn more about me and my poetry at:
http://amzn.to/1ffo9YZ
By Joseph J. Breunig 3rd, © 2017, All rights reserved.
Latest comments:
28 august 2025
Jaga
Uroki późnego lata :)
26 august 2025
smokjerzy
sztuczki czasu i światła...
26 august 2025
Weronika
Świetlana przeszłość.
25 august 2025
Dobre porównanie :)
25 august 2025
:))) Dobrze, że choć czasem powracasz tutaj
25 august 2025
Bardzo. Mimo to nie widzą Jej i nie słyszą,
25 august 2025
supełek.z.mgnień
Jaga, tak, to prawda. I w odniesieniu do długowieczności,
25 august 2025
Dziękuję.
25 august 2025
ajw
Dolina rzeki Azat (Armenia)
25 august 2025
Wiersz poszukujący sensu w naturze. Napisałeś
24 august 2025
z pewnością chodzi Ci o to, że żurawie, z
24 august 2025
gadatliwa z niej dziewczyna...:))
27 august 2025
wiesiek
27 august 2025
absynt
26 august 2025
wiesiek
25 august 2025
wiesiek
24 august 2025
wiesiek
24 august 2025
absynt
24 august 2025
absynt
23 august 2025
wiesiek
18 august 2025
Jaga
16 august 2025
wiesiek