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poetry

Satish Verma, 16 september 2014

NINTH SYMPHONY

A scented moon caves in
on a tree top
and solitude withers up in a seminal cloud,

It is good to be friendless sometimes.
Me and homecoming become synonymous.

We are ruined by familiar paths.
The mist deepens.
Not reaching anywhere.
I come out in dark to find the stars.
What will you do if the soul sneaks out of a body?

The wind starts a dirty dance.
A tall cedar scowls.
It starts raining,
fabulous as tears on an immaculate face.

Pull up the veil.
It separates the truth.
Do not filter the pain.
We may find a god.

Satish Verma

number of comments: 0 | rating: 0 | detail

raj thampi, 15 september 2014

rain outside, rain inside

like a mad fire,
through rain drenched skin
spreading with thousands hands
feeling, absorbing, caressing
heights and shallows
mounds and valleys
the eternity pouring within
the pinnacle of thirst
longing to taste
longing to feel
the dark secrets
moulding...
A book open
lazy eyes reading
pages after pages
layers of clothes
waking up wisdom
enthralling suspense
fingers hurrying to
turn them rapidly
story untold
maintained technique
dry mouth and throat
shimmer of eyes
Hunger of a fugitive
given up table manners
his teeth everywhere
marking their trails
his fingers in motion
torn table cloths
visible white skin
he bury his face
against the secret flow
He shivers
touching the place of union
swallowing him, again and again
his stubborn reluctance
failing to accept his lost self
he bury himself
deeper and deeper
one dark nipple held between his lips
he races against her moans
A rain is forming somewhere
outside their windows
Jasmins turn away their faces
embarrassed by the cooing love
she wraps her legs around his neck
inviting him to feast on her tropical flows
she wraps her arms around his neck
her legs dragging him closer
taking his desert rain
pouring deeper inside
rain outside and inside

number of comments: 0 | rating: 3 | detail

raj thampi, 15 september 2014

HaHa

"Can" as in pepsi can

Ha Ha
Is my gift caught inside a
Tin can, a laugher loud
It is what will irk your consciousness
Reminding you how hollow you are
And I will still haha, within my silence
While you struggle between corrections
Ha ha
Move away your covering finger
Let the can echo my laugher
Within your fool’s paradise
Where mirrors lying, most beautiful-
My queen of idiocy
Ha ha
Away from your sword
Within my own castles(construction in progress)
I will shout my laughers as I want
Until then I am visible
Hidden inside a horse of Trojan
Like another snow white mirror
Ha ha

number of comments: 0 | rating: 3 | detail

Gert Strydom, 15 september 2014

I came to you

I came to you
and you were in every thought,
were right next to me through all of the dark nights,
did walk with me when the first roses started flowering.

I came to you
with everything that I am
and there was something more than just knowledge
when I could hide no opinion or desire.

I came to you
and you were loving and full of hope
when you started to walk through my life and dreams
and still are here in my first days of old age.

I came to you
and did trust you,
did cling to you like a drowning person
and although the last days of my life is turning over

I do know how deep your love is.

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Gert Strydom, 15 september 2014

The days that are past

The days that are past
are like leaves in the wind
that is blown away
never again to be found

and the events, feelings
and time that is past
circle out like ripples
that goes wider on the summer sea
and that which stays unsaid
has got a expectation
that someone will understand.

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Satish Verma, 15 september 2014

BODHISATTAVA

For the sake of lake, I climbed
on the weeping hills
to see the other side of moon.
The precipice of hunger weighs heavily
on shoulders.

Capricious time moves inwardly,
Strikes at the chest.
I set free the love-birds.

Conflict of trees tramples the grass
All summer the smell of dry winds
was scorching tear drops.
Every word was crying.

Dark in my city
I am wandering alone in alleys
of hostile homes.
The collective guilt of the flesh
blazes the mind.

Satish Verma

number of comments: 0 | rating: 0 | detail

Satish Verma, 14 september 2014

SONG OF THE LAST SIREN

Somewhere in between slumber and arousal
the twilight zone scoops a fistful of memories.
Atrophied limbs. Mottled skin. A cancerous face haunts.
Not afraid but I am anxious. Life has not yet ebbed away.
I scramble for sparks, my hands burn.
Very disquietening!
The severed bones in a heap.
They wanted to appease the goddess,
the gnomes were dancing in a circle.

The land, the country is breaking, sky is falling.
Run, run for cover.
I scream in a dream.
Are we disintegrating? Disappearing?
A black hole is calling?
The mega truth has been broken into myriad fragments,
We are now thinking in chips, holding our own mirror.
Show your mirror to your truth. Future is fogging the past.

Come hither my child of sorrow.
We are old tribe. We will keep our pledge
to maintain fidelity towards verses of sadness, evening, night,
stars and dust. The sparkles will die one day. Only the moon
will rise on the dead bodies. Where will you like to go?

Amongst the ruins, walking straight back to the treasure-trove
of ancient wisdom.
Wake up
Bells are chiming.

Satish Verma

number of comments: 0 | rating: 0 | detail

Satish Verma, 13 september 2014

HOME COMING... HYPOTHETICS

I will make amends with me today,
stop fighting with myself.

Unthinkable to live without pain,
in war with suffering.

Quietly cries the flame without sound.
While night lingers on.

Nothing was easy for a quick resignation
of ephemeral tears.

Again love opens like a senile gash,
a chandelier suddenly crashing.

Going back to old city, blowing the limbs off
I will find my house.

Trying to search a clue to the colour of wound?
Catch my style.

I will remain in your thoughts for eternity.
Was not I your hoary past?

Satish Verma

number of comments: 0 | rating: 0 | detail

Bipurna Tara, 12 september 2014

In search of hope

I was writing a poem
I don’t know, what am I going to write?

Feeling tired.
But a poem was to write.

I looked at the window with weary eyes;
The curtain
was blocking to lighten to the room.

I saw the rays coming to me from the curtain’s tiny hole,
'This is my hope' and I wrote a poem.

number of comments: 0 | rating: 3 | detail

Gert Strydom, 12 september 2014

I remember a home (cavatina)

I remember a home that smelled somewhat
of sandalwood,
a happy place where each longing, each wish,
was understood,
where the family kinship made you feel
welcome and good
but destiny makes life a fading thing,
like a flower that withers after spring.

number of comments: 0 | rating: 0 | detail

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Latest items:

poetry

NINTH SYMPHONY

rain outside, rain inside

HaHa

I came to you

The days that are past

BODHISATTAVA

SONG OF THE LAST SIREN

HOME COMING... HYPOTHETICS

In search of hope

I remember a home (cavatina)

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