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Satish Verma, 19 february 2015
LIPS OF MOON WERE HOT
Eggs went freezing in the sap.
Lips of moon were hot.
In the flare up, the
rebel had cast doubt
on cartridge.
Missiles were unique
but, hands trembled -
concept of sky was a lie.
Saturn and moon were coming closer.
Two way mirror of sun
was watching.
The fallen leaves on grass
refuse to be blown away.
They were waiting for the fruits.
Once in a blue lake
you had cheated the boat,
you may not be lucky this time.
Satish Verma, 18 february 2015
STILL BIRTH
Roses had gone wilting
after surgery.
Biovision
of acrylic lenses
was projecting a corrupt green mount.
The rubber king had a papery laugh.
How you deal with a maverick –
matter – of – factly?
Pall bearers of a tall legend
were carrying nitroglycerine sticks
unfazed.
Saboteurs of moon night were scheming.
I was sick of pretentions.
Brown and black scars
become a honeycomb
hiding the agenda.
Stigmatized devotion gets back at you
after still birth of truth.
I will wait sine die for the verdict
of hope.
Satish Verma, 17 february 2015
ALL THE EMPTY HANDS
To catch himself
he jumped into fishpond
becoming opaque
between silk and lethal crotch.
Milk of silence started flowing
from earth’s breast.
His name was a flower
who was a blind witness
of the love-
for a moon
which plunged into a lake without a bottom.
Pain is spilled since then
on the charred lips.
Marigold–
waits for the sun
to rise only once.
All the empty hands
carry one eye
of the seeds,
to sprout in jungle of smiles.
Satish Verma, 16 february 2015
GIVE ME SOME POISON TO LIVE
Give me,
some poison to live
I had been dead
for many years.
I burn my hands on a flame,
blank space has started talking.
I am ill at ease –
My lips are not moving.
The pellets, the bullets, the steel –
nothing matters now.
Dirty games can go on,
I am going on bromides
to ejaculate the pain.
Sleep will not come in dark
nor the relief in white robes.
I will remain awake till eternity.
Give me,
some thorns to bleed.
Rose petals
are hurting now.
Satish Verma, 15 february 2015
FLY-TRAP
You are not me.
It was not gentle,
it was not sweet.
It was fire in the glass.
One yellow rose was opening up
in a very bright night.
I was shivering
under the leafless shade of hawthorn.
One surrogate mother
picks up the wormholes.
One tendril oscillates
to entwine the lover.
Stealthily, the sad moon slides
into the big bosom of clouds.
My eyes now search,
the bared, Venus fly-trap.
Satish Verma, 14 february 2015
DEBTS OF GRATITUDE`
Wanted to pay
debts of gratitude.
There was a call from evergreens,
he was not ready to go.
Standing in pit of snakes
he was preparing himself for a random fang,
throat like a blue-bird
waiting for a song.
The solid waste of numerals
across the thinking,
developed plaques, while philosophy
was accepting innovation.
The authority had started
reading the couplets.
Glory came earlier
sea cracked into shells.
Satish Verma, 13 february 2015
DEATH ON GRASS
Sometime, somewhere I will break
into many moons -
an oblique answer to a terrestrial question
of a pale river.
The heat is on, because of the
fatal mistakes. Violence has pregnancy.
Walls stand alone without a roof
hauling the suicidal balloons.
Blue berries are becoming scarce.
Vision short, we cannot see in the night.
Crystals in candlelight become green,
images creeping tall under the trees.
Of total failure, the chemistry of love
patches up with arithmetic of aristocracy.
Spoils the show of neutrality
in sky, hurting the gods.
I am stuck with autistic heroes
in poor desert of a waking sun.
Death on grass will never show
the second birth of the pain.
Satish Verma, 12 february 2015
IN INWARD ALONENESS
One by one
leaves had gone,
several and many times.
Lone tree, standing naked in dry wind
was ready to walk.
In inward aloneness
to know the roots.
You look straight into the eyes of primeval
suffering. Under a cramped disguise of happiness,
behind the glassed life.
For the clawed, weeping silences
who had turned away from the shrill voices.
Night of burns,
and promised beach of immortality
shoulder to shoulder.
Satish Verma, 11 february 2015
FLOWERING OF THE THOUGHT
Belonging
to unbelonging
was becoming a method
exploring the path.
In the backyard unpleasant fumes
were rising.
Nocturnal swoop of enlightment,
clearly becomes a festival
of yellow death.
Who was hiding the truth?
Flowering of the thought in sky
ripens cessation of grief.
Slopes and summits,
bring tears in eyes.
Solace of ancestral home
was gone. Bold ceilings were hung by ungodly fears.
Wet hands lift the body of past,
classical future was gleaming slowly.
Satish Verma, 10 february 2015
OF A VIRGIN GOD
Partly clad
full moon
was taking a bath on hills.
Trees were waiting
for the curtains to rise.
Scented stars would make
giant scars on the clouds,
I would make peace with the sky.
Lids of human greed were laden
with golden dust, I was hoisting the skull.
Of a virgin god who did not
want to live for the blotched up creation.
The decline was obvious. Truth
had refused to climb
on the sky-blue, salted peaks of springs.
Body had arrived,
mourners quietly wailing.
Gouged eyes could not decipher
the script on the halved pyramid.
Sun was sucking the clay.
Latest comments:
3 august 2025
sam53
podoba mi się ujęcie... można byłoby bardziej
3 august 2025
podoba mi się ten biskupi kolor :)
3 august 2025
dziękuję za miłą lekturę :)))
2 august 2025
violetta
Ładne
2 august 2025
Jakie piękne
2 august 2025
Weronika
Jednia.
1 august 2025
Mech bardzo powoli rośnie:)
1 august 2025
Życie pochłania. Piękny wiersz.
1 august 2025
grzyby porastają wszystko, mech to już wyższa
31 july 2025
Bezka
Cudny klimat
31 july 2025
Ewa, aż zabrakło mi słów
30 july 2025
AS
mistrzostwo...
3 august 2025
wiesiek
3 august 2025
absynt
3 august 2025
absynt
3 august 2025
absynt
3 august 2025
absynt
3 august 2025
absynt
2 august 2025
wiesiek
2 august 2025
Jaga
31 july 2025
absynt
31 july 2025
absynt