Latest items:

poetry

Satish Verma, 23 february 2020

Blackest Mood

Indicted,
the firm grass―
will start a fire. I was trying
to find my path in smoke.

On fingertips, was at stake,
the creek's departure.
I would wear a mask
hiding my emotions.

We will wait for the spring.
There was still a mound of snow
at the door.

The rape of the moon
was not in cards. We were ready
to sit in moonlight, reading
our hands.

Philosophy of death
has many questions. Religion
of birth has many answers.

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Satish Verma, 22 february 2020

Say Cheese

Vespa,
the live wasp
of paper house,
feeding the insects
to little ones.

Silicon valley.
The oranges were very sweet
and carpet beetles
eating away the fabric.
I have come from a faraway place
to taste the blood-stained raisins.

Do you know why we bury
our truths? The ancient gods
were very pleased to eat them.

The hymns don't tell the lie.

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Satish Verma, 20 february 2020

Show Me Your Jewel Box

Not reaching somewhere,
I was not today,
what I was.

You seek a hand
for a handshake, and I watch
the dirt gathering
on the nails.

Sky does not give you
an award.The soot
collects on the windows.

The blue skulls dance
to defy the earth.No forehead
was formed.How would you
read the destiny?

I swear, I did not fathered
the deity in a-
monotheist gathering.
A black hijab covers
the moon.

number of comments: 2 | rating: 1 | detail

Satish Verma, 19 february 2020

Watching The Lethality

I

The blend of gene and name.
How you carry the
legacy?

II

We are losing the war.
You are winning
the birds.

III

The sparrows have left
the nest of man,
in search of moving homes.

IV

How do you spell the ruins?
I have never seen
a perfect shape.

V

Chicken-livered.
Why did you try to
confront the wall?

number of comments: 1 | rating: 1 | detail

Satish Verma, 18 february 2020

Blending

Lion's tooth, dandelion
in dead winter,
holds on to your dress.

*

for warmth. The oranges
are not meant
for sale.

*

The obituary was short
and sweet.
When would you die for me?

*

Wolves in white,
were very smart. A rose,
red rose for every martyr.

*

Behind the bars
you try to catch the sky
for the lilies.

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Tim Kitchen, 17 february 2020

A Day In The Life Of Jacob

Even though it rises every day
somewhere, someplace in time.
On a day in the life of Jacob
the sun doesn’t often shine.

A shopping centre is bright and loud
and Jacob is sitting on the ground.
With his head buried in his hands
sensory overload of sight and sound.

People notice as he begins to shout
his Mother scared he’ll run away.
Some think he’s badly behaved
but for him it’s just an Autism day.

Later he escapes to his room
stressed and needing time alone.
A meltdown at dinner hasn’t helped
but he’s calmer now, on his own.

Playing at length on his old guitar
takes his mind to another place.
Where the demons in his head
for a while are not in his face.

Eventually he takes to his bed
and will rise, as soon as it’s light.
Probably won’t have much to eat
appetite dulled by a restless night.

People around him struggle to help
he tries to cope in his own way.
On a day in the life of Jacob
it’s always an Autism day.

But he deserves a chance in life
and we must strive to find a way.
For children like him, with future fears
to be able to seize the day.

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Satish Verma, 16 february 2020

Unworthy Of Book

Handcuffed, you digress
from the vacuity. A bucket
full of hymns, will not―
erode, the fog of winter.

Let us start telling the
unsaid things of monstrous life.
The milk bath, the roaring and
the panther in the dry well.

The cortical pain, seeps into
the medulla. You will not find
a single soul, who will talk
about the fall.

The clocks are being moved
to save the light―
which splinters into myriad
faces, when you scream.

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Satish Verma, 15 february 2020

Water Was Transparent

A firefly in a jar
will not fly.

Presiding over the genocide
how can you count the dead
children of god, on the street,
by your forked tongue?

The roving eyes. Chameleons.
With folded hands, they
throw the snow on your
disheveled hair.

The morals are marketed
daily on the dais. I deny myself,
something which I can give
you. O hunger, don't go back.

number of comments: 0 | rating: 0 | detail

Satish Verma, 13 february 2020

The Parable

Fear of staying in sidelines,
as a waning voice,
and falling in a drain.

You stand at the door of light,
and see the truth― boundaries
crumpling.

Afraid of transmission of lies,
interfacing long threads
of darkness.

It was extraneous, A
lot of heat generated by the
conversions. The doorkeeper remains the same.

The wisdom goes with
a begging bowl. Spirit was to
become an incomplete text.

number of comments: 0 | rating: 0 | detail

Satish Verma, 11 february 2020

Au Revoir

Skin deep, the moon
goes with me,
to bid goodbye to old year.

I have moved nearer
to the door knob,
of the unopened crypt.
The stale air leaks from the crumbling door.

The unfinished books
are under the frost. I cannot
shovel the walk. A grainy
picture emerges, of despair.

Going to dig up the ruins
to find the script.
Ink spills on the paper,
words depart.

number of comments: 0 | rating: 0 | detail

10 - 30 - 100

Latest items:

poetry

Blackest Mood

Say Cheese

Show Me Your Jewel Box

Watching The Lethality

Blending

A Day In The Life Of Jacob

Unworthy Of Book

Water Was Transparent

The Parable

Au Revoir

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