Satish Verma, 26 september 2019
Move on. O city, you
were not worth of
living any more,
sleeping on your tusks.
I will not assume
any other new name―
when the hurricane
finally arrives.
It will not go. You
can keep scratching
for whole life.
Your psoriatic scalp.
The attempt to
commit suicide was
worthless. Nobody
will write a note.
I will not invite
the white moon to―
break the fast,
after the bloodbath.
George Krokos, 25 september 2019
After a new thing is acquired and repeatedly seen
it will almost seem then as if it has always been.
_______________________
George Krokos, 25 september 2019
Do not tarry too long by the wayside on the road home that you have taken;
get up, move forward, look ahead to the horizon and with the sunrise waken.
If you've got yourself caught in a rut get out as soon as there is an opening,
because this world is a vast place with many paths and doorways beckoning.
________________________________
George Krokos, 25 september 2019
You should never let anyone take away the laughter in your eyes
when they look into them and see the inner blessing is still there;
as they've recognised it being lost in themselves and try to disguise.
For if it is still with you, then you are very blessed indeed
and the other person will only try to steal that very thing
which has been missing from their life out of jealous greed.
It could be anybody you may know or will sometimes meet
in your wanderings, no matter who they appear to be like,
because they have squandered theirs and are now out to cheat.
That person will try just about anything to steal your inner mirth
in a deceitful or unsuspecting way; so you'll have to take care,
as it's rightfully yours and perhaps have even regained since birth.
The laughter in one's eyes is the connection with the bliss and light of the soul
which is inherent in all human beings no matter how cold they seem to be
but can be lost when one acts against their own conscience and neglect its role.
________________________
George Krokos, 25 september 2019
I fell in love and lost my heart
and that was why it tore apart.
The love given wasn't returned
by the one for whom it had yearned.
It all seemed so sad at the time
I often thought it was a crime.
But then I could be so naive
early in life's path to believe.
Nature's hand had dealt me a blow
and recovery was very slow.
Everyone I asked was futile
in answering to make me smile.
I sought for love in wrong places
and all I got was strange faces;
looking back at me with contempt
'cause in their heart love was exempt.
Rejection is a dreadful thing
and everyone has felt its sting.
A love you may feel for someone
is best experienced as fun.
Never force love on another
even if they're a real brother
You'll just draw them further away
and who knows what else is at play.
________________
George Krokos, 25 september 2019
I once had seen a bumble bee
or so I thought it was to me.
In the backyard one sunny day
I saw it flying low and stay
hovering there near a flower
as I walked by like a tower.
It was big and did seem busy
looking at it made me dizzy.
Glowing in an unearthly light
and its colours were also bright.
It almost seemed now I recall
that scene was supernatural.
Because in the blink of an eye
it vanished without telling why.
I looked around hoping to see
where it had gone this bumble bee
But no matter how hard I tried
I never again caught or spied
another glimpse of that creature
with such a radiant feature.
____________________
Satish Verma, 25 september 2019
He used to tread lightly as if
walking on concrete, barefoot―
to capture the apologetic
colours of rainbow in lake.
A spinning top, he wanted
to float on water and touch
the soft contours in depth―
wrestling with waves.
A dark sky was hovering
around. Something was rising
from the black hills, as if
on fire. I had never seen before―
the golden moon, rising. Two
song birds darting to and fro
as if in great agony to save
the nestlings from the lynx.
Satish Verma, 23 september 2019
Coming from the dark―
to deceptive bloodletting.
The light was my father.
That eternal moment
of pine cone―
to become the third eye.
The ancient memory
becomes vandalized. I
still treat it with respect.
The unclaimed truth was
yours. I wanted to retrieve
the spoken word.
Incongruously brazen
was your thrust, exhorting
me to drown.
Satish Verma, 22 september 2019
A young grasshopper lands
on the paper, I was writing upon,
making a chirping sound―
and starts reading the poem.
It was an exceptional treat
for the eyes. Shutting the storm
window, I will watch the rain―
pounding on the frame,
to recall the visitor―
which was behaving like a
celtic Druid, in meditation, to see
the future of mankind.
Not sure, the bent legs, will
ever lift the body and
propel it to move.
The mayhem was thin, but I
declared― the poetry
was not for insects.
Satish Verma, 21 september 2019
Unsung:
how it was, you died
wearing your shoes? The
jesamins will meet you―
in the backyard.
The stains are unwashable;
like pomegranates bursting
open on my chest. The
screams still run after me.
How do I get you midway―
in anonymity. I never wanted
you to go, my make-believer.
It was not homozygosity.
Your face swims like
a dragonfly on the interface
of tears. There was no re-entry
in the frame of life.
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