Latest items:
Satish Verma, 6 february 2021
Sparklers
Life, sex and pain were
of mundane existence.
From where to where, we
have arrived.
*
From a bridge to bridge
you cross the river
without touching the water.
*
When a nameless projectile
downs your flight
you fall like rags
from the sky.
*
A spider runs
on tiptoes
you wilt like mimosa.
*
The ink spills
an the sheet
hiding the code.
Satish Verma, 4 february 2021
In Exasperation
Open the news paper
and find out that war has a set sequence
of going daily,
and has a negativity.
The physical shock, when
the earth trembles. Your body
becomes stone, hairs stand.
Light breaks through the twisted limbs.
I don't love the ritualism.
Time will not stay for you. My life
becomes your life. Sod
will receive the ashes of rage.
And you will delete the
presence, the touch, the dust
of departed fragrance. Once upon
a time, death used to be a song.
Satish Verma, 3 february 2021
Undraped Souls
Inexplicable.
I run my own life, when
epicenter moves to periphery.
A drink of hemlock
from your purple― spotted eyes.
You want to squeeze the blue sky
in your chest.
Was I violating your
sanctum sanctorum, hidden
deep in crevices of ancient love?
Your voice was cracking up
hoarse, as I listened
in silence, concealing my
poem not to explode.
Wings become the tongue
flying off, like possessed
celebration of loosing
the glaze and becoming a naked mammal.
A cold-blooded laugh!
Satish Verma, 2 february 2021
Femina
It was the frontal assault
of brutal summer.
I waited for the rain
to come and fall on my neck.
There was no grief
between the aches.
In starlight, flitting
around in bushes,
fireflies,
you take me in twilight.
The vernacular nirvana
begins, till my moons squeeze.
It was not a stabbing
wound, to be picked up
by a poem in distress. Light
on light will speak
of femineity in dark.
Satish Verma, 1 february 2021
Afloat In Words
Would not move the things.
They had moved me.
I will never be the same.
Probably a time to learn,
listening to yourself. The
sensors didn't go wrong.
More often I will unroll
my candles and burn
them with my life.
Ripening old, in dry
fountains- waiting for
rains in songs of sorrow.
History does not repeat.
I am preparing myself
to start again writing my book.
Will not commit anything.
Standing in morgue
searching for my unclaimed face.
Satish Verma, 31 january 2021
Afloat In Words
Would not move the things.
They had moved me.
I will never be the same.
Probably a time to learn,
listening to yourself. The
sensors didn't go wrong.
More often I will unroll
my candles and burn
them with my life.
Ripening old, in dry
fountains― waiting for
rains in songs of sorrow.
History does not repeat.
I am preparing myself
to start again writing my book.
Will not commit anything.
Standing in morgue
searching for my unclaimed face.
Satish Verma, 30 january 2021
Taking A Form
Like a falcon
you dive with a notched nose.
There was an element
of absurd in your style.
Crushed under snow,
I would search my lost
shoes. The spirit to move on
wakes me up again.
The pursuit of perfect
truth in jungle of fake
excuses. I was wary
of animal grins.
Thugs, they have become
the stewards. Life was mystery.
Death sorts out the secret
of undying passions.
Satish Verma, 28 january 2021
Autodidact
Will not donate
my bloodstained shirt.
It divides the cuffs.
The alphabet turns
around to watch the fall
of syntax.
Everynight I wait
for the moon to rise
from the crescent of golden eyes―
for another encounter
with a god, who
would not listen to soliloquy
of a rich begger―
sitting in the ruins of a temple,
he built of dreams.
Satish Verma, 27 january 2021
Color And Shades Of Punta Cana
1.
Memories on edge
one after the other―
salted, dried and smoked.
On green sea―
in a sail boat.
You do not know, where to go.
Hot and humid night.
Half moon, sitting
on a royal palm.
2.
A violent sun
was rising. Knocking down
the unending music of night.
The purple flight
of fish, clams and crabs,
overrides. Tomorrow they would be
on table and white sand in your eyes.
The waves, come one by one.
To die on the receding shore.
Your hands tremble, holding the sea.
3.
China rose. Evergreen.
You will find its glory
petal by petal
at every step.
On a tropical beach―
at sensual dawn.
You come out
to pick up the poems.
Love is the arrival of carnations.
Do you mind the nameless pain,
When you walk Matilda?
4.
Earth breaks here
into palms, like spread hands
and hibiscus blooms.
I find the red lips
on burning globes.
of honeysuckle shades―
the sand, sky and moon.
They will meet tonight
at beach for parting kisses.
5.
Something climbs your bones
like an invisible wave
of primeval lust.
A blood feel―
from the pricks of Duranta,
the secret of land's native instinct.
6.
It falls like a quivering leaf:
the sultry night.
A salty wind slaps and tickles.
Walking under the royal
palms, escorted by
lined cycads.
Full moon hangs
overhead, watching the sensual
dance of light and shadows.
7.
The absolute stillness,
hisses. A vicious assault.
Your hands fly to ward off the evil.
A savage storm
of whirling thoughts―
uprooting the dream of wholeness.
8.
I spread rose petals
on your frame.
You smell―
like a garden.
Around the moons
I will draw the Caribbean sea
with a roving eye.
The lush green, your body
of domes and hairless seeds.
Skin starts burning like a peach.
9.
The flames
now leap. Sabotaging the surging blood.
A subtle and delicate presence begins.
The ism has a silent
fall. You can hear the turbulence
before the poem is born.
10.
The age
unwraps you.
Listening to the sounds of sea.
You are ready to face the ageless.
Time takes its
pound of flesh.
You bleed in grass.
Wind smears the pages with dust.
You were writing―
in praise of absence.
And when the full moon
gives a call, you
become speechless.
I have lost my home
again.
Satish Verma, 26 january 2021
The Thick Skins
Anointed truth
had no path. Path
was the truth.
Not a play of
emotions. I am talking
about the transparent
leaves pressed in the books
of fake religions.
When there were
fireflies, you deleted the rains
and sapwood saved
the lip's blues.
You rolled around
the burning pyre. Flames were
embracing the dark lies,
about the brailled poems.
Perfectly in harmony,
Bach was being played by
a blind artist. Did you know it?
ShareShare The Thick Skins
Latest comments:
7 october 2024
violetta
Wątek mi się wyczerpał:)
7 october 2024
Belamonte/Senograsta
Jestem przekonany że ludzie bez polityków by
7 october 2024
właśnie . niech władcy bija się w naszym
7 october 2024
ma klimat, a myślę że takie wychodzenie z
7 october 2024
czemu tak krótko?
5 october 2024
sam53
dziękuję też wypadałoby... choć ta dzisiejsza
5 october 2024
ekwiwokacja słowa wielkość
4 october 2024
Eva T.
I tak chyba pozostanie :)
4 october 2024
:)
4 october 2024
Z przedpokoju :)
4 october 2024
Weronika
Wszelkie poznanie jest aspektowe, więc do końca
4 october 2024
Można to zmienić:)
7 october 2024
Satish Verma
6 october 2024
wiesiek
5 october 2024
wiesiek
5 october 2024
Eva T.
5 october 2024
Satish Verma
4 october 2024
Eva T.
4 october 2024
Satish Verma
3 october 2024
Eva T.
3 october 2024
Jaga
3 october 2024
Eva T.