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Satish Verma, 22 december 2014
ONE HUNDRED MOONS
On the battle turfs of a vernacular
hunger, the hikes were killing
the uncertain values. Committing suicide
was a regular feature.
To pay off the debts of a flag.
By using pesticides on unsuspecting
guests of tomorrow.
The clocks were set one century back.
What could be done of an anonymous
terror bomb placed in a lunchbox?
Do we wait for an accident?
Who will open it?
All summer, one hundred moons
I will wash your face
to read the command.
Who had put the stiletto in your hand?
Satish Verma, 21 december 2014
ACOUSTICS ARE NOT WORKING
Maimed, tortured for love of resistance
this night appears to be
without an end.
There was nothing to lose,
it was looking for some reason
to die on the side of a cloud
when the sickle moon was sailing.
Tomorrow a new lie will be born.
Even a suicide bomber
will be tossed around,
like a new coin.
Weaving a dress of skin and bones
in the little sky of so many
purple birds.
Acoustics are not working
walls have no doors.
By night only a torch will be moving.
Satish Verma, 20 december 2014
BONES OF WINDS
Inside, the battle wages.
One step down,
I drown myself in the frowns
of a thought. Night sucks at my fear.
The rhyme of the fading moon
intends to fix me up.
I refuse to smell the breath
of the catch.
I bloom on the pain,
sweetened kill of the day. An empty jump
in void of a portrait;
shaking wall.
Watercolors were ruined
by smudging the reasons.
Clutching the bones of winds, falling
from the sky.
Satish Verma, 19 december 2014
CROWD AT THE MORGUE
A new planet was taking birth.
Stem cells were coming out of
obedience to carnality.
For resuscitation from kiss of death
faith was at its best in its witchcraft.
Complete blood count failed,
to diagnose the strange madness.
It was a whirling chemistry.
The transmitters merely took in
the sin, the insanity.
A huge crowd collected at the morgue
to collect the severed limbs,
after the death of a sun.
Picking the scars of dark
and slaughtered tomorrow.
The rage of sunrise will come back.
One day the clouds will burst open. Yes
the death will come as a bride.
Satish Verma, 18 december 2014
BABY GOD
Carrying my words in a small jewel box
I was listening to silence
of falling rain,
to heal my truth.
A blueberry moon
was peeking from behind the hills.
Crazy clouds
started a celebration.
Sometimes you want to stop
in your tracks and look back
with doleful eyes. Was it important to collect red roses,
suicide notes, purple robes for seeking liberation?
The baby god I wanted to laugh with,
does not smile anymore.
His tinkles lie buried in heap of dust
in your skinny heart.
Satish Verma, 17 december 2014
OF PERSONAL GOD
Ready to dismember the red geraniums
rains had no mercy.
Thunder did not show any preference
and hails had felled the pride
of tall grass.
Denuded, the hungry man
walked towards liberty.
Moral tapestry in scape after scape
cried,
the mystery endured the cradle –
Of personal god.
But I bled my truth in wilderness
to impose the religion,
of a non-believer,
for obedience to natural laws.
Talking to divine
brings relief. The direct, face to face
confrontation, for a twig of faith.
I pick up the seeds
for the sake of eternity.
Satish Verma, 16 december 2014
BREAD OF A MOON
For little grains of truth,
listening to intuition
he disrobed – and walked into river
to die.
In the footsteps of silence
to eat bread of a moon
facing the onslaughts of life.
Death walks in stealthily,
pays the price of hunger
to the ruins of a fortress.
Satish Verma, 15 december 2014
INWARD JOURNEY
And the lineage of existence
does not fade.
I try to wipe off, the heavy showers of
death, daily.
The pains were rising, in every word,
in every talk.
As part of nothingness, I was trying to find
happiness.
Put the shadows down, touch the questions
again.
The mentor wants blood, truth was in body,
small seeds of life.
Wrapped up, dry, cryptic, to suck at the
fears of birth.
You are becoming a tree, roots, branches, leaves
against a serial killer.
Satish Verma, 14 december 2014
AN ACID RAIN
This is it, I want to say.
An acid rain falling each evening
and you, reading a poem
surrounded by flame – attendants.
Nothing moves farther than activism.
Conversation centers around the flares
on the surface of an orange sun,
a big hole coming up in the ozone layer.
You are an ocean, needs penetration
of inquiry. Running a relay race in
a big cage to keep the torch
burning. Clouds in the sky
objecting to full moon, coming up,
nonchalantly. Landscape rips – off
the ideas from the thorn
in the heart.
Satish Verma, 13 december 2014
PACEMAKER
Hunger comes back like a dagger
on face. With iris and fingerprints.
Live, fluttering butterflies, stuck
on lampshades. Wrecked, frozen, the ending
of seeming. Men in cages.
They were diluting the culture.
Chlorophyll siphoned off. No color,
no sprouts. The roads were dirty
with the ultimate truth, quarreling with the
water, insanity and vertebrae.
The creamy stuff, shouts and pants,
shunting the definitions. People come
and go from the paintings. There is no age bar.
Spring will be released from the impulses
of flesh in naked zones.
Ideas become pacemaker, for the ailing
heart of polity.
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
2 august 2025
Jaga
31 july 2025
absynt
31 july 2025
absynt
30 july 2025
absynt
28 july 2025
Jaga
28 july 2025
absynt
21 july 2025
ajw
19 july 2025
wiesiek