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Satish Verma, 12 july 2015
A Handful Of Victories
Where death
and exotica meet,
life stands naked
in midst of our sacred hymns,
Shadow fighting is not actuality.
An essay on truth fades.
Someday I will pull down the curtain.
At the end of the road, death waits,
apologizing for coming unannounced.
A white cloud drifts in our arms.
The deep sorrow walks with us
and the empty home,
now belongs to moonlight.
In nothingness our achievement claims.
A handful of victories,
tossing here and there.
The empty words transport
the dark lies.
The truth lies bleeding,
and we flee,
from our predictions.
Satish Verma, 11 july 2015
Deserted Wasteland
Life invades the truth.
Who cares?
The night was thin,
my eyes will search for stars.
Now pain travels,
backward from a smile?
A myth unfolds the terror,
of infinite tomorrows,
an escape from the eternity?
We will die,
only in our separate truths,
united by untruths.
Picking our poisonous arrows,
worshipping our griefs,
an invisible hand unclothes our past.
I ask myself was it the spectre,
fear of extinction?
Death will not shout,
it comes quietly.
Death by cancer or cirrhosis,
it comes sailing.
We were already dying,
without our clones
like a deserted wasteland,
with lethal seeds.
Satish Verma, 10 july 2015
Chaste Words
How to begin
the journey of truth?
it was moving away from all paths.
No concrete answers were there,
questions loomed large,
a moaning confusion reigned.
I moved inward,
to open the door,
I had to talk to my poems.
A beautiful truth,
hangs on my thoughts disempowering.
Engaging the years, of twisted happenings.
It cannot be rude, must be palpable,
must be soft, like cactus bloom.
Never turning,
away from heat.
This repetition of reality,
always helps,
I may not listen to the voice,
of the other side of faith.
But the chaste words,
surround me with dignity.
Satish Verma, 9 july 2015
Holding My Toes
An evening primrose glides,
on my rough hands.
I pluck a laugh from the lips,
of a parched face.
It knows the meaning of death,
kissing the pink eyes.
Of the lost fidelity
and the innocence of the dying sun.
How to tell myself,
you are not coming.
Gradually the house,
will go back to its still air.
The white ants,
will draw a pattern
on the stale books.
The traffic of private tears,
will begin to move.
The truth is a happening,
with all the little gods.
I demand nothing,
only pink rose buds, of early winter.
There is no one to know,
that weeping grass,
keeps me touching,
holding my toes.
Satish Verma, 8 july 2015
Holding My Toes
An evening primrose glides,
on my rough hands.
I pluck a laugh from the lips,
of a parched face.
It knows the meaning of death,
kissing the pink eyes.
Of the lost fidelity
and the innocence of the dying sun.
How to tell myself,
you are not coming.
Gradually the house,
will go back to its still air.
The white ants,
will draw a pattern
on the stale books.
The traffic of private tears,
will begin to move.
The truth is a happening,
with all the little gods.
I demand nothing,
only pink rose buds, of early winter.
There is no one to know,
that weeping grass,
keeps me touching,
holding my toes.
Satish Verma, 8 july 2015
A Hermit
Over the lake
moon was hounded out
from the dark clouds
into the defying blues.
The thick orbit hauled up the debris
of falling stars.
I was watching the crowd of centuries
piling up in history.
Global heat was settling
on the flutings
to start a black magic
of secret fear.
A hermit sitting on a glacier
melts into a cave.
God knows how the stunned
colossus will stand up.
Satish Verma, 5 july 2015
Smashing The Road Signs
My garden cries for no reason.
Kindness melts into a rain
of twisted petals. And that is it.
Alone I whisper the translucent words,
watching the death of dreams, living fossils.
The sun bakes the seeds.
The essence will not heal,
this bandaged soul,
the conceptual death of a thought.
This fear is like a curled snake.
Must I abandon the path? I know,
I will not forgive me, at this dim joint.
I must move.
I do not know, what to think,
how to catch, the poetry of night.
The light blinks on my eyes.
I walk in the shadows of sounds,
smashing the road signs.
Satish Verma, 4 july 2015
Smashing The Road Signs
My garden cries for no reason.
Kindness melts into a rain
of twisted petals. And that is it.
Alone I whisper the translucent words,
watching the death of dreams, living fossils.
The sun bakes the seeds.
The essence will not heal,
this bandaged soul,
the conceptual death of a thought.
This fear is like a curled snake.
Must I abandon the path? I know,
I will not forgive me, at this dim joint.
I must move.
I do not know, what to think,
how to catch, the poetry of night.
The light blinks on my eyes.
I walk in the shadows of sounds,
smashing the road signs.
Satish Verma, 3 july 2015
Smashing The Road Signs
My garden cries for no reason.
Kindness melts into a rain
of twisted petals. And that is it.
Alone I whisper the translucent words,
watching the death of dreams, living fossils.
The sun bakes the seeds.
The essence will not heal,
this bandaged soul,
the conceptual death of a thought.
This fear is like a curled snake.
Must I abandon the path? I know,
I will not forgive me, at this dim joint.
I must move.
I do not know, what to think,
how to catch, the poetry of night.
The light blinks on my eyes.
I walk in the shadows of sounds,
smashing the road signs.
Satish Verma, 2 july 2015
Intense Poetry
Breaking the path
by random steps, you move,
and thoughts make a ritual dance.
In a wingless flight,
a cosmic gloom envelops you.
You try to stop the dark tremors,
Yet you don’t feel safe in a crowd.
Life has changed
it does not touch the younder.
The brain does not work,
and memory is not authentic.
Emotions are bruised,
and time is becoming ruthless.
Knowledge explodes the myths,
and hurls the naked truths.
In a corner of my heart, a song dies
I refuse to listen, I decline to see,
a world crumbling before my eyes.
My unbeliefs engage,
the intense poetry,
of my turbulent mind,
to understand the virulent pain.
Latest comments:
28 july 2025
Łukasz Radwaniak
Temat stary, ale jary i dorze potraktowany:)
27 july 2025
Jaga
Dla mnie trwa w każdym aspekcie. A deszcz i
27 july 2025
Wrona siwa :)
25 july 2025
sam53
bez początku bez końca...brzmi bardziej tajemniczo
25 july 2025
może w sierpniu będzie lato.... :)
25 july 2025
kiedyś to był błękit, teraz jakieś to niebo
25 july 2025
violetta
Piękny nastrój:)
25 july 2025
Ach:)
25 july 2025
AS
w życiu nie widziałem tak genialnej miniatury;
25 july 2025
Gdy z naturą w zgodzie/ płynie czas i deszcz
25 july 2025
Gdy z naturą w zgodzie/ płynie czas i deszcz
25 july 2025
Już po dwunastej...
28 july 2025
Jaga
28 july 2025
wiesiek
28 july 2025
absynt
28 july 2025
absynt
28 july 2025
absynt
28 july 2025
absynt
28 july 2025
absynt
27 july 2025
wiesiek
26 july 2025
wiesiek
21 july 2025
ajw