Latest items:

poetry

Satish Verma, 20 january 2015

BALD SKY

The fall
was imminent
on the moment of complete truth.
I was talking of annihilation
standing on scaffolding of fear.

Walking on burning coals
was a sacred commitment,
a spiritual solidarity,
with lake salt –
to lift the spirit
of sagging trees.

Of freedom of body
in camps of violence.
Without sound, I wanted to see
the creation in nothing.

Anything was happening
under the bald sky.

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Satish Verma, 18 january 2015

CHASTE TREE

A poem writes my name.
I am trembling
on paper like salt.

Flowing like moon
on the black wound.
The lamb and the skull.

I know the saint
invented by masses.
You need a fresh awakening.

A vastness from nothing to nothing.
Later the pebbles will dance
on the bay of death.

Sometimes the scales were jinxed,
sometimes the weight was light.
I was sitting under a chaste tree.

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B.Z. Niditch, 18 january 2015

ANDRZEJ WAJDA, DIRECTOR

Your Polish films
in black and white
under fascism's history
gave us deeper insight
into hunger, tyranny and misery,
knowing the thunder of war
from our lack and poverty,
that only in such dialogue
have we a brilliant diary,
with a wish again
to be in laughter.

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Satish Verma, 17 january 2015

DIGNITY

There was existence,
without space.
I was afraid of my unborn child.

Inheriting the stammer
of history
I could not think of any brand abuse.

On the contrary, fumes
throw you off the road.
Full moon rising on the cleft.

I was, as I am, never being
to any threat of drowning
in contradictions.

A dignity in withdrawl
and coming back after sunset –
to walk in night, alone.

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Joe Breunig, 16 january 2015

Poem: Continue to Be Still

O Lord, it’s morning; I’m here,
seeking Your face and guidance;
hear the echoing words of my heart;
they’re not some human contrivance

to guilt You into honoring Your Word;
I know that you’re not a lying Man,
with false, hollow promises that tease.
Living my life with these empty hands

raised unto You alone, I ache and yearn
for the sound, of Your quiet voice-
that gently soothes my Christian soul.
Despite today’s harshness, I rejoice…

knowing that the battle belongs to You.
Therefore, I continue to be still-
basking in Your Presence once more,
waiting for You to reveal Your Will…

that’s been individually crafted for me.

Author Notes

Inspired by:
Psa 46; Exo 14:14

Learn more about me and my poetry at:
http://amzn.to/1ffo9YZ

By Joseph J. Breunig 3rd, © 2015, All rights reserved.

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Satish Verma, 16 january 2015

BLAZING TRAIL

They swim like tadpoles.
Thoughts!
I was waiting at the far end of pond.

Heartburn increases at dusk,
fierce battle of blazing stripes
on blankets.

On the scarlet face
a bridge was burning
in wide open eyes.

Somebody takes an aim
hauling a runaway bruise.
Blood comes out roaring.

Weep, my stars,
ice was thin –
drowning the lake.

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Satish Verma, 15 january 2015

DOVES HAD STOPPED FLYING

Somebody had put the feet
against the flame,
the street had become a wall.

Commitment had failed,
the doors were locked.
Collective guilt was seeking favour.

Repeating the same story
blurs the sky.
Sun will not come out.

You are speaking.
He was speaking.
Truth was speaking.

Solitude and silence
come before the summary.
I was responsible for myself.

Earth refuses to conceive –
fire in veins.
Doves had stopped flying.

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Satish Verma, 14 january 2015

KUPFERNICKLED

Looked downward –
the granite face,
to see imprinted kupfernickeled
god, lying in dust.

From where to where
we have come sleepwalking?
In freezing winds, like brown angels
with swollen lids.

White moon-poised to commit suicide?
Blindfolded heavy as lead
in the trade of spared lies?
Back pain will carry us not very far.

Green stems have yellow leaves now.
We start blaming ourselves
to keep the winter away,
in torn shirts.

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Satish Verma, 13 january 2015

DOWNPOUR

Your lips were me.
I wanted a kiss
which never came.

Insertion of a word, was committed
my wings took a flight
for anonymity.

To keep suffering alive
truth was accepting the hurts.
I was not speaking for myself.

Who was me to want a praise
for the custodian of morality?
Something for my name?

I must salute the fallen fingers,
who did not write death –
for my hugging blankness.

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Satish Verma, 12 january 2015

I WAS CLOSING THE WEEPING CHAPTER

When terror strikes,
fear inside you
makes a hissing sound,
breaks the vessel.
Pain spurts out.

Your limbs swell like sapphires
in a naked suffering.
You were searching the face
of your dead brother on burning ghat.

And then on, it pours.
Babies were burning in incubators.
Blasts devouring the eyes,
ears and noses.

But the dredging will continue.
Irrespective of ocean of death
leaping to fragile shores
till the waves send back the relics.

Whom shall I call for condolence
in the thick of fog?
I was closing the weeping chapter.

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Latest items:

poetry

BALD SKY

CHASTE TREE

ANDRZEJ WAJDA, DIRECTOR

DIGNITY

Poem: Continue to Be Still

BLAZING TRAIL

DOVES HAD STOPPED FLYING

KUPFERNICKLED

DOWNPOUR

I WAS CLOSING THE WEEPING CHAPTER

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