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poetry

Satish Verma, 22 november 2015

Alone In The Heat

The insult to sober conviction
unsettles the saints.
Give me your hand,
to solve this problem.
An abstract idea joins
the postures of different conflicts,
the worship of crumpled illusions.
After great sufferings
only proverbs give a soothing effect.

Images blur, misspent energy
distorts the palisade of love.
Perhaps history repeats itself.
Moon cries at midnight
looking beneath the soft clouds,
to follow eternity.
Past & present are losers.
The trustworthy future
does not hold any promise.

Again questioning brings
the numbness on surface.
The agony of realization,
moves away from just mistakes.
It is hard to smash
the strong beliefs.
A self-denial brings
the death of truth.
I am alone in the heat
of an argument, pathless, rising, sinking.

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Satish Verma, 21 november 2015

Dares The Storm

The pain out-thinks every moment,
all over the body
I wander in a solitary walkway.
There is nothing between mind
and brain. Whole prosperity of thoughts
curves easily. The body
spends all the internal wealth
to gain a humble peace.
The rambling melancholia
pales into white lava.

The fatal fear follows you
like a hot light. The pursuit
of incense, the chase of
beautiful icon’s cleavage brings
the charm. Speaking about the ecstasy,
about the shapeless pleasure,
the ultimate opposite of
sacredness becomes instant
liberation, from any symbol.

The contents of the dumb
days are burning. Peace
never returns. Prayer
and worship wakes the child
inside you. Flesh denies
the natural desire. You
cannot accept the corrupt barometer
of obedience. It dares the storm,
gathers the momentum
and kisses the slayer.

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Satish Verma, 20 november 2015

Lips Will Measure

A perfect solution
was never found. The question
remained unanswered beyond
the skin. Stripped to the bone.
afraid of future,
you cannot invite the ending
and present will not continue
indefinetly. Unabated,
over and over again,
you hit the trail to drink the sun.

Pain and sorrow, hurts and grief,
is prescribed fear of unknown.
In the dark tunnel,
your numb limbs
search for an explanation.
The dialogues with stones
do not bring comparison.
You should remember your name.
The lips will measure the time.

Movement of fear begging
for unbuckling the dark
was like a calculated risk to alalyze
the wolf’s intentions.
They are hovering like inhuman
crimes. A potent hunger
walks out of the kitchen,
gouges out the peacock’s eyes.
Now rains will not come.

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Satish Verma, 17 november 2015

Wailing Windows

Face of terror was
chasing you in the dreams and
voilence made you sick of the
evil designs.
We must unpack our grief.
Hurts were huddled under the smiles;
times were stypefying.

I grieve for the dead
prophet, spread – eagled on road.
It had been a memorial death
fighting the ugly machinations
the days had planted.
A calculated murder of mighty truth
had taken place.

Again a flaming head
seeks revenge
violence does not cease.
The greed was the essence.
The town was full of howling.
There was civil war amongst
the wailing windows.
My heart aches,
I did’t belong to this
profile of naked wolves.

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Gert Strydom, 16 november 2015

Child

At a time I was to you like a god,
could do nothing wrong in your eyes
and my car was far better than any other
but somehow somewhere something did change
and you did become distant as if I am a stranger,
as if you do not want to know me anymore
but at times you do still look at me,
want me to help you with your problems
and sometimes you do turn up the volume
of your music system to the very limit
and people have to avoid your room
but just when I thought that our relationship was coming to an end
I heard you say to your friends at the swimming pool
that I am the greatest dad in the entire world.

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Satish Verma, 16 november 2015

To Laugh Or To Weep

When the night was swamping him
with epileptic frame
he was walking without limbs.

The awakening was painful.
Drinking his own blood
breaking his own bones.

This largesse was tempting.
No guaranteed death,
you will live with grenades.

Grief was priceless.
Only nightingale will exercise
for the fallen miracles.

He declared at incendiary pyre
to become a phoenix
which never was.

It was an ethical question
to laugh or to weep.
Man was made unmade.

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Irena, 15 november 2015

In the middle of winter

When spring comes
in the middle of winter
And it strikes you,
with all its colour,warmth and scent
And all the rains fall upon you
The moon and the sun and the stars
And the wind
Gather all around you
And the rivers and the streams
And the birds and the sheep
And every single stone
from the beginning till the end
of your journey
They all come with spring
In the middle of winter

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Satish Verma, 15 november 2015

Seasonal Priorities

Effortlessly a desire erects
a monument. One flaw
demolishes the image. Stones,
ugly grass & a solitary tree
make the landscape.
Hundreds of seeds go back
to the earth’s womb, never
to sprout. Heartbroken
I stand in the middle
of life, crumbling alone.

How can we change?
A splash of green
ingests a scissor,
that is not enough. A parallel tragedy
strikes. Sun and flowers
are gone, seeking a truth,
not yet conceived. A timeless
fire burns in the temple,
uncovering the heat,
edging towards us.

Freedom from long falls comes,
bit by bit in degrees.
Suffering remains the same.
We immortalize our smears.
The absolute truth
suddenly becomes a lie.
A myth which balooned
our minds. But brutal
sunlight has seasonal priorities.

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Satish Verma, 14 november 2015

Stared Blankly

We don’t want to
see each other naked.
with our barbs.
Seeking the truth outside
our body was painful
we don’t want to change
the clouded mirror of water.
The desires were unlimited
and restoring the metaphor needed time.

For contributing for the unbroken becoming.
I held the water in my palm.
It dropped like ciphers
on the hot earth subtracting the charm.
We knew each other,
still falling ego was always revengeful.
My empty hands would seek another title.

A solitary ingredient made the old song.
Few will remember the wings and sky.
The anger’s haste had mauled the body.
Day after day false claims
were made to regain the soul.
The search for the sacred
will remain futile
I stared blankly.

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Joe Breunig, 13 november 2015

Poem: A Privilege of Prayer

After I’ve accomplished
my duties of this day,
I still don’t deserve
Your goodness and sway

of Your Spirit in me.
Quiet peace in my heart,
reminds me that I’m…
your servant, imparted

with the grace of being
cherished as Your child;
with Your Presence, I’m
spiritually beguiled.

To speak with You daily,
is a privilege of prayer;
our conversations show me
the depths… of Your care.

Author notes

Inspired by:
Luke 17:7-10

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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Latest items:

poetry

Alone In The Heat

Dares The Storm

Lips Will Measure

Wailing Windows

Child

To Laugh Or To Weep

In the middle of winter

Seasonal Priorities

Stared Blankly

Poem: A Privilege of Prayer

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