Latest items:

poetry

Satish Verma, 19 march 2020

Wearing Out

Are you there to listen
my voice,
in the wilderness of violence
and other atrocities?

My toes were hurt
in uncharting the path
of arms and rams in avenging
the dead silence.

You will get back
what I did not give you
in the aftermath of tragiccomedies.

Life walks by pink
pythons to trade the peace
on the name of gods.

The calamity of the angels
to become hard warriors.

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Satish Verma, 17 march 2020

Pained Reproaches

The shadows sit,
under the words, to torture,
to bring,
perse memories.

A downfall,
precedes,
before the crash of
existence.

Ah, you know,
what makes your saints
blue? The sematic shooting
stars?

The anxiety was,
how to stop thinking
of becoming,
a vigilante.

The mid-night raid
was most unsuccessful attempt
to rape.

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Satish Verma, 16 march 2020

The Daily Ritual

The cells,
climb the fame,
unperceived.

A bit of nose, blue eyes,
jugglery of stances.
You catch the body art.

The eagle
dives, for a legal kill.
Hail, the beautiful
execution.

To shut the voice,
you bring in, snow,
white blanket for every
one deprived.

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Satish Verma, 15 march 2020

When The Ghosts Walk

A mystical dialogue
in swirls-
to drown you.

Blank pages draw you
for a suicide, without
moving your bones.

A thin worded threat
to conceive a sculpted
dream, deranging
your sea of
cadavers.

No dissecting table
you need to solve the death.
All the arguments are tilted.
You will rig the answers.

They will come
in bunches, to beat you.
You will not hear or see anything.

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Satish Verma, 14 march 2020

Darkness Singing

Like today.
I walk myself, in my footprints
tasting grassiness
sending the runners,
on the anniversary, of the brain's death,
when no deliverer was in sight.

The empty chairs in black rain
wait for the parted windows
to let in the screaming light
for a reunion, with the children
of tongue, who were lost
in wilderness of vows.

Looking at the world
from a keyhole, at an unearthly hour
you viusalize a miracle,
to heal the blood apart, wounded
grains of golden dawn, a mother
thrashing for charred hunger.

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RENATA, 13 march 2020

2020-w pierwszej odsłonie wirus w koronie

wypuścili puszkę Pandory
niby niechcący
w małych światach ktoś ujrzał
zagrożenie

myj ręce
w rytm muzyki
bo wokół zakątek dziki
dość już dowcipów
histerycznych radiowców
gdy ryzyka bez liku
chcę zostać w domu
njlepiej pod poduszką
z pełną lodówką

Każde państwo
próbuje rozłożyć parasol
państwo Kowalscy zaczęli kaszleć
słyszą to wszyscy w poczekalni
-Do domu!-Nie ma masek!
leczcie się sami lub umierajcie

Kładą nam do głowy sztukę higieny
zainfekowanych
oddzielić wyeliminować wymienić

Teraz mamy kłopot
żeby nie umrzeć śmiercią głodową
ostatecznie biegniemy
z wielką paniką
bo te makarony sosy i ryże
pozwolą na przeżycie

zakryć się płaszczem czterech ścian
i czekać czekać czekać ..............

number of comments: 0 | rating: 2 | detail

Satish Verma, 13 march 2020

An Angst

Was it kosher to wake
up a sleeping poem, when
someone has burned the book?
A rite of passage
between the poppies?

The soaked swans
were not ready to accept
the challenge of the defining moment.

A smart moon walks
behind me, snooping around the pines,
to drink the brazen lips.

Why small girl walks on the snow
to get the blessing
of the bells?

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Satish Verma, 12 march 2020

Innovational

You were shrinking
like microcephaly,
the mankind's evolution
in expanding universe.

The new thoughts-
do you think we were
always talking nonsense.

The real tragedy was
here, in your hands
when you held the
gun.

The lead in water,
and arsenic in earth.
Like celebrating the man's
victory on space and time.

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Satish Verma, 11 march 2020

Strange Journey

In-between the spaces
body moves
untouching you.

A poem crashes
on the tongue. You
will not confess.

The wordless thoughts
swim like swans
noiselessly.

Unreaching the abode,
you will invent a god
for a knifed boat.

The sea is turbulent,
you will still sail,
not to reach anywhere.

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Satish Verma, 10 march 2020

Snow Storm Rolls In

Poised to confront
the improvised explosive device
of winds,

good moonday
stands
in melting snow.

Church was
unselling the sex.

number of comments: 0 | rating: 0 | detail

10 - 30 - 100

Latest items:

poetry

Wearing Out

Pained Reproaches

The Daily Ritual

When The Ghosts Walk

Darkness Singing

2020-w pierwszej odsłonie wirus w koronie

An Angst

Innovational

Strange Journey

Snow Storm Rolls In

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