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Poetry

	Satish Verma
	PROFILE About me Friends (3) Poetry (3945)

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Satish Verma, 14 january 2019

Rudimentary Thoughts

So near and so far
you live together
sorting through the detritus of life.

*

The erosion
sends back the gravel,
the sand and silt of human script.

*

The violence,
will it end someday? Asks
a child playing with a time bomb.

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Satish Verma, 13 january 2019

Receive Your Children

Law of causality was
seeking answers from the
rites of flowers. Why do a black powder
and glass sharpnels interrupt
the turnover of bliss,
when I held the sacred
lotus in my hand?

Somebody brings moon
at halt. A loud explosion prepares
the earth for penance, where
we have come raising the bar.
Apparently, a carnage
will deluge the street
with the blood of bystanders.

The planet is dead today
in the belly of violence.
You catch me off the guard.
All night I will go for vigil.

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Satish Verma, 12 january 2019

The Abeyance

Running without legs.
A perfect apparition
of sandhills.

I cannot see far, but
hear the synchronized call,
of peacocks at midnight.

Cannot sleep. The solemn
mystery of dark is broken.
In the cracks, I am
discovering myself.

Was it not an enough reason
to abandon the search
of peace and return to killing―

the gods of clay and find
the sanctity of emptiness,
stripped to gravity?

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Satish Verma, 11 january 2019

Economics

Revisiting my lust, in
beyond borders;
I want to write your
name in cursive script.

Forked, when I pick up
the undiluted hemlock
from your eyes. How would
you like to become a game changer?

A shirtless moon walks
with me on empty stomach
to scrap the night from
the exuberant trees.

Conversion factor comes
into force, unusing the nector.
I will still say my prayers
to seek nothing.

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Satish Verma, 9 january 2019

Obligatory

Moving between the spaces,
you fell short of a small―
sky and you give up the grid,
your secrets.

A sense is lost of direction,
and place. The opaque mind
will not tell even once, where
you are.

Wrestling with your conscience,
and demons, underside of
the palette, you become ready for
a self-potrait.

A drinking spree of moon
after a cease; where were you
going. I ask? Shell-shocked, you
pretend, what you have been.

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Satish Verma, 8 january 2019

New Features

Eating each other,
the survival instinct takes you
to the coal-pit.

*

Seeking the closure
of gold mine. The jellyfish
has lost the stinging tentacles.

*

The beehive was in
turbulence. Golden honey was
going up for sale in famine.

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Satish Verma, 7 january 2019

Unending Marathon

Like a large, black,
stag beetle, you give a sermon
on living. You don’t believe
in death.

Ready to jump from the
cliff, how did you reach there?
Slipping through the
cracks of a marathon!

Amid fear and anxiety
hitting the raw line of finish
with tranced frenzy.

After glass and long kisses,
did you eat the prickly pears ?
On the way to salvation, you
were giving very―
uncharitable commentary
at the terminus.

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Satish Verma, 5 january 2019

Bareland

It plays tricks.
Rattles the animal, inside you.
Back to back, you start giving names.
It had happened―

under his watch. Opuntia.
It spreads like a cobra head.

Prickly fruits. Represents death and bones.

How the people believe you,
when I am thirsty,
I wanted blood.

The skin becomes black. Stones
shine in sun. You extend
the hand to touch the mirage.

No water. The black bucks
turn around. Somebody shoots
them between the eyes.

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Satish Verma, 4 january 2019

Disturbed Age

The odor brings the
neo-violence, along the fault line.

Standing on the road.

You,
do not want to go right, or left.

Chemoreceptors will warn about
the incoming quake.
They will crush the blooms, the
corrupt winds.

The landscape was changing.
The unlikeness, when you come
back from woods.

You do not mean anything.
Words don’t convey the full meaning.
The thoughts will find a poem.

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Satish Verma, 3 january 2019

Thinking Off •••

I walk through the slush
of moral grief.
Here lies my mortal poem.

A prodigal menace.
You will not breathe in, the
golden grass, once more.
Lingering beside the past, the
savage today. I pick up
the silence of the tomb.

Lateral conjugation. You
come from the otherside to
breach the wall, bear the
pluralism-

and become none. The under-
belly, the yellow blood?
Will you hold my hand
to cross the meaning?