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poetry
Satish Verma, 5 may 2022
In Burial Home
Not for me,
this politics of living
for sexless alchemy.
You take on―
the pen's broken nib,
writing blood soaked birth
of an illegitimate avatar.
The spin was fatal.
Unfazed a bizarre tone,
announces a miss call. You
are pronounced dead.
You will swim now
in veil. Eyes looking deep
in water where light does not reach.
The mission of salvaging a
heritage fails.
Dog winter.
Sun hides behind the thin survivors.
There was no will,
no suicide pact.
Satish Verma, 4 may 2022
Moment Of Hubris
Discarding―
the past, systematically,
you reach the core,
of undoing.
A curse hangs―
over the empty cup.
Now you can fill it
with tears.
Space shrinks.
Eternal memory of
losing your faith―
brings in the damaged truths.
Stick and carrot―
both survive.
It was not, it was,
the liberation.
Satish Verma, 3 may 2022
Green Fire
When I need something.
I will ask you.
But I was never going― to need anything.
From where this―
armoury comes, trying to
influence the vowels, from
the clenched teeth?
When I hold your hand,
you start trembling.
There was mist and
there were walls.
Are we drifting apart―
in search of moons?
Flesh for flesh, bone for bone? You
swim fast, I track on the land.
Satish Verma, 2 may 2022
Who Answers?
Time
was the great avenger.
It takes you away
into war,
with swan words.
My baby poem
cries. Lost in a crowd of swindlers.
Not finding the home of truth.
Was it a rarified
phenomenon, that it was
a dark nebula,
that gave birth to the sun?
Are you free to
agree with me, with my existence?
The conclusion was
beyond the judgment of insane people.
Are you going to harm yourself
by accepting the fireball questions?
Satish Verma, 1 may 2022
A Window Speaks
Shadows―
were lengthening.
I start mending myself.
Speechless―
you commence telling in signs.
Grass flattened. Glass―
in water. The body floats.
The game was over.
A new chapter opens without a book.
Another spurt of poetry.
I will never forgive me.
Fear becomes my guide.
The sound of decapitation
resonates. I lift the pen
and kill myself.
Satish Verma, 30 april 2022
Inconsistency
Depression―
was deep blue.
In zero-reflux, I was
intimately involved―
with your pride. The conflict
was rising.
Human mind
like shutting off the sex,
was making a bibliography.
Purity of link will
describe a yellow hollyhock,
waiting to be crushed.
It becomes a burden
when I spend on you― my poems.
Chemotherapy had failed.
Jack Strange, 29 april 2022
The Not So Great Gatsby
He, too, saw the promise of a distant light,
but unlike him, he renounced the gold hat,
and unlike her, she did not renounce him.
His parties were simpler, but she was content
with what he could offer: a romantic
readiness, just like his; a gift for hope
for a life together; a capacity
for wonder at the promise of a dream.
Even now he remembered the sad thing
that happened to them -- the deprivation
and the foul dust that floated in their wakes.
But through the smoke he peered into her eyes,
and saw the light there, green as ever,
and knew they’d turn out all right at the end.
Jack Strange, 29 april 2022
Cleaner`
A house is never cleaner
than when unoccupied --
with tables, couches, beds
removed and all inside
accessible to brush,
broom, mop, and vacuum
cleaner.
No resident
had known a cleaner
room.
Jack Strange, 29 april 2022
Witness
Every morning at six-thirty I sit
at that table by the window and drink
my coffee. No, I’m retired. As you see,
I can see that corner, and most days the kids
go there to wait for the bus to take them
to the high school. Usually, it’s two boys
and a girl. No, I don’t know them or their names,
but I’d recognize them. So, they stand there
talking and smoking -- whether cigarettes
or something else I don’t know, but sometimes
they shared it. And I’m thinking the boys shared
the girl too, because one day, one’s kissing her,
the next day, he doesn’t show and she’s kissing
the other. That was yesterday. Then today,
the first boy walks up and bang! bang! -- he shoots
them both, the girl and the boy, point blank
in the head, like Pacino in Scarface. Yes,
I’ll testify. But please catch the little
bastard before he finds out I’m a witness
and pops me too.
Jack Strange, 29 april 2022
I Breathe You
To say “I love you” is equivalent
to saying I breathe air.
Such sustenance
as I derive from oxygen devolves
so liberally, so reflexively upon me,
yet were I deprived of atmosphere,
the words “I breathe” would not avail to fill
my lungs with what they need, nor would the words
“I am a fish” convert my lungs to gills.
Ethereal by nature, not by choice,
I’m bound to love you notwithstanding my voice.
Latest comments:
27 november 2024
violetta
Taki kamuflaż:)
27 november 2024
Niesamowite zdjęcie
27 november 2024
Eva T.
Pieknie swiatek w kropli wyglada :)
27 november 2024
"figowe" jeszcze sie trzymaja ;)
27 november 2024
A tak, tak :))
27 november 2024
:))
27 november 2024
:))
27 november 2024
Jaga
Komu, Evie, czy czapli? ;)) Myślę że same
27 november 2024
:))
27 november 2024
Marian Banaszak
nie wolno podpowiadać
27 november 2024
jeśli tylko
zostaną tylko listki "figowe" ;)
27 november 2024
aleś łapnięła!!! ;)
27 november 2024
wiesiek
27 november 2024
absynt
27 november 2024
absynt
27 november 2024
Eva T.
27 november 2024
Jaga
27 november 2024
Eva T.
26 november 2024
wiesiek
26 november 2024
absynt
26 november 2024
Jaga
25 november 2024
Teresa Tomys