Satish Verma, 15 march 2022
Trending like a
dog walker, the disheveled
moon, comes out
from the cocoon, to welcome
the new year.
This was a flash point
of pure sulphur,
to steal the kisses in rose valley
of violence.
And you stand at crossbones
to kill, or get killed.
The leader climbs down
to sin, to predate
the celebration of womb's disaster.
Earth trembles
in anticipation. A merciless
shreak comes out from the
man-of-war.
Satish Verma, 14 march 2022
Something― you wanted to
say, which you would not.
Planet breaks― disheveled, weeping
being― unbeing.
Sometimes you play a game
of trembling legs―
waiting to run away
from your anguished inside.
The last hour of night
blinks. A baby sun about
to be born, and you find yourself
unprepared.
The black letters, on yellow
pages, under the streetlight
dance. A fat dream burns.
A book bleeds.
Satish Verma, 12 march 2022
Not finding a path
to truth,
going beyond the gods. You
will not listen to my pleas―
still frozen in unthruths.
Death opens the―
holy darkness. I am aware of
the bluffs and black voodoos,
insertion of pins.
Moon-bitten, chasing
the blood cherries, you reach
for the yogi cult in trance.
Every night becomes green.
The sacred knife, cuts
the knot, sort of a hinge.
A celebration starts
throwing stones
on each other.
Satish Verma, 11 march 2022
A lengthy day
to count an arch of colored dreams
in a long queue.
You start sinking
inch by inch, in a deep
obsession of vengeance.
Afraid to leave
the darkness. Cannot see
in the bright glare of sun.
The fall of liberty.
To tell the name of venoms.
How the man has become
a poisonous creep.
An insult to the poet,
singer and artist. Who was
responsible for changing the guards?
Tomorrow was far off.
I am still struggling with today.
Satish Verma, 10 march 2022
I have become disconnected.
Talking of pose, while shooting
in back, several questions
arise of a staged drama―
missing the lethal word,
releasing the venom.
Poetry of politics becomes evident.
You may spurn the actors,
but the pretence overwhelms.
For testing the secret of depth,
you go down in water
unarmed.
You pull a stretcher, now―
unwrapped. The cremains sink
in the sea― of tears,
unsettling the designed pebbles,
the needles. The tapestry starts burning.
Satish Verma, 9 march 2022
Barebones, they come
in droves, to drink blood moon
praying in catacombs.
A summer night sets
over the hills with black eyes. The
cleavers have some jobs to be done.
In perfection, the bodies
should be laid― along with red woods.
The autistic moon will find its lover.
Aborted dawn, the clouds
had covered the womb. The
terrible sun had been roped in.
Earth weeps. There was
no peace.A ghost town rumbles
on. I cannot crack the code.
Satish Verma, 8 march 2022
I had not asked for
all of you,
walking your path
above the clouds.
Do you think, it was
end of beginning?
The republic of sagebrushes has
nothing to say. Incense stops drifting
in desert of crumbs.
You start talking
to your esteem self for the rigged factuality.
I don't want back,
your virginity of first tears.
Underneath lies the stunned poetry
of the bruises.
There were ruthless secrets
inside your lids.
I will not wait for the moon
to go red.
The swastika wants to justify
the chimneys?
Satish Verma, 7 march 2022
Dismantling―
my temple, brick by brick―
skin to skin,
eye to eye,
before the ascension.
The living legend is
dead. I cannot hear the burial
rites. Walls are rising.
The ashes are strewn
on the eyes of moon. Ages ago I
used to smile. Not now.
Accept me, with all
my non-gifts, dead songs and
wailing prayers.
My hands lift the terror
from the sand, palm leaves
crafting a virgin peace.
Satish Verma, 5 march 2022
Kiss me hard―
defending your poverty.
It was a flawless depression.
Do not need any sand-storm
to cover the jutting bones.
Time was full of tragedies.
Did you ever hear of―
the fences in a divided house?
The prayers without words?
Drunk in a moonless―
night, of the unheard voices,
you stumble on Ars Poetics.
More wreaths for the
forgotten lover of letters.
Life moves on.
Satish Verma, 4 march 2022
I paint the day
for you, for the last rites
of sun.
Embracing the dark
to dissolve the boundaries.
I will question, something
else, not about the stoned moon.
The other side of the
thin hijab, was a humiliated truth.
Facts were always knifed.
Something moves
harshly to break the silence.
A pink self betrays the denial.
How mandatory it
was to keep on gooding
the blue flames!
There is no family
of the bohemian.
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