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poetry
Satish Verma, 16 march 2017
Intimidation
A chilled moon was standing
between the lovers
and night was cruising around
to extract the blood
of a hangman.
You want to go back and talk
to old house for selling the dreams
again. When the body ends,
the hunger lives in another eye. Let
me break the cycle and become
fodder of a thought.
Layer up layer aching in
half-sleep brings the frozen rain
falling from icy peaks. You bring
cherries for moon who wants more.
Give me a window to have
a glimpse of still life.
Satish Verma, 13 march 2017
Throwing Down The Gauntlet
Crossing the burning barriers,
you take a fatal jump.
Brazenly, but giving little away.
Long shadows of ethnic clouds
were eroding the sun. Feeling the
wet lips you rub you sweaty
palms in vain.
Haunted, you would like to
kill the ghosts. You pull a silken
cord. A silver urn upturns the
ashes of your past.
Each truth walks without legs.
You are still incomplete. The
self-portrait will never hang
on the wall.
Satish Verma, 12 march 2017
Irreverent
The show must go on.
Under a sable cloud.
I am on the vast stage
to perform.
Tall cacti and harsh
dunes will not find
a sweet acacia.
When I am hungry
I would like to write something
very personal on a yellow paper.
The potter’s wheel will not
move today.
The potter had turned into clay.
Satish Verma, 11 march 2017
Geography
A gasping confession
of a pubescent fault.
Why did you enter the bed
of a molten lava?
Wisdom was in silent eyes
not on the lips of a blackened rose.
The water was white and cool
the sun was red and hot.
A mirror will never tell the truth.
Bleached was the face of moon.
One night I will be killed
in the hands of a benevolent foe.
Satish Verma, 10 march 2017
In Abeyance
Take my body for sail,
my wings to fly.
I am trying to find out
the meaning of a drop.
The point man was taking aim.
There was no culpability.
I asked, what was the need to
know the verdict of a rape?
The bed always suffers. The secret
of a muse overturns a disaster.
In insane sky a beleaguered moon
was taking a shower.
Unmasked, the desire turns to
fire and ignites the palace.
It was not enough to meet death
with empty hands.
Joe Breunig, 9 march 2017
Poem: Life’s Complacency
If you’re not being stretched,
then could it be that you’re…
suffering an ungodly attitude
of your own Life’s complacency?
When looking around, do you see
the discrimination, intolerance,
injustice, hatred, poverty and
other societal ills affecting us?
Is God’s Love evident in actions
of everyday living, so Salvation
is really sought, by those, you…
hope to spiritually influence?
Can others even tell, that Christ’s
essence, upon your life has been…
sacredly and divinely etched?
Author notes
Inspired by:
Zeph 1:12; Luke 12:15-31 and
The world needs Christians who don't tolerate the complacency of their
own lives. ―Francis Chan
Learn more about me and my poetry at:
http://amzn.to/1ffo9YZ
By Joseph J. Breunig 3rd, © 2017, All rights reserved.
Satish Verma, 9 march 2017
Wrenching
The crisis starts boiling
about the invisible foes.
The contraptions hope to recapture
the moods.
Harsh, arrogant and ritualistic.
In the stark nudity of silence
a wooden Buddha lies on the
floor crying.
“ I am not happy, I am not happy.
Why were you still a virgin? ”
White butterflies will not sit
on jasmines to lose their script.
There was a black moon to chase
the fugitive. There will be no midnight
sun. Between lips and cups
the grey fox had lighted a lamp.
Satish Verma, 8 march 2017
Sculpturing
It does not work;
the manipulation of the fast.
The genomic fugitive
nurtures a home of light, windswept pyre.
Under the prophet
a gloom unloosens the absolute.
Now as you weave
a pattern of lies, the page hits.
The book is thrown into
fire. The words swim, break the grief
of naked sun. There
is flooding of wombs. Who will conceive a god?
Between you and me,
a river flows. I become voiceless.
You cannot build a bridge.
The spinning curve outlines the shore.
Satish Verma, 7 march 2017
Birth Untainted
It in now dark.
Talking of exposed genitalia
I go into a terrible shock.
A compulsive deceit
takes hold of the attention.
The candle burns me inside.
Between eyes
a *chakra uncoils, like a Naja.
Strikes! You are stricken-
with a bulbar palsy.
No haemorrhage. A purple venom
spreads in the whole nativism.
Voices move in half-lit corridor.
The doors do not lead to rooms.
All exits disappear.
A chandelier crashes. You
are awakened from a deep slumber.
A poem is born.
Satish Verma, 6 march 2017
In A Sombre Mood
Are you sure after the sunset
the hunger will find the mouths
in black alley?
I go to my ailing land.
Stand on a mass grave.
No faces, No names.
Brother, I am not bickering
I am listing on my fingers.
Was it possible that we could
count the virgins in the town?
Mudslinging starts. Who was not
corrupt? The prevailing conjugation.
How you will tell your kid who
was your mother?
I become restless, tossing around.
A single word shimmers like a
blood soaked jewel. I pick it up.
A baby poem is born.
Latest comments:
20 november 2025
violetta
Śliczne igiełki:)
20 november 2025
Uwielbiam takie cuda:)
20 november 2025
sam53
wtedy radość podwójna :))
20 november 2025
z podziękowaniem i pozdrowieniem :)
20 november 2025
Belamonte/Senograsta
dość niepokojów, lepiej napić się kawy i
20 november 2025
możliwe
20 november 2025
ajw
Była blisko. Raz rąbnęło w okolicy, potem
20 november 2025
Na szczęście nie była taka straszna :)
20 november 2025
Jaga
Dziękuję :))
20 november 2025
Nazwij ofiary i oprawców.
20 november 2025
I docenić :)
19 november 2025
ładnie powiedziane, ciałem i odbiciem
20 november 2025
wiesiek
20 november 2025
Jaga
19 november 2025
wiesiek
19 november 2025
Jaga
19 november 2025
ajw
18 november 2025
wiesiek
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wiesiek
16 november 2025
wiesiek
16 november 2025
ajw
15 november 2025
wiesiek