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Poetry

	Satish Verma
	PROFILE About me Friends (3) Poetry (3938)

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Satish Verma, 12 august 2021

Engaging In Argument

No more partisanship
with hatchet.
Better if you come like
a scorpion to give a taste.

You can hang the darkness
of space―
daring the sun.

Gone blank. This was
a self-inflicted wound to
attain liberation.

No use to remain deeply
flawed in the jaws
of a croc.

Once, high you sail, for
resurrection, faith
tumbles down very fast.

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Satish Verma, 11 august 2021

What Are Future Games?

Make me wild―
weirdly ethereal. An abstract
pain will unite us―
after the scarring.

It was difficult the body
count, lamenting
for the limbless faith. What
would you do with the
tinned sardines now?

The wasting must stop.
We are not able to catch the―
spring. Cold war was settling
in space. Where were new worlds beyond the stars?

I am still trying to―
write only three words verse.
Man was shrinking
and so was tall god. The
mooned eyes were closing.

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Satish Verma, 10 august 2021

Opening A Window

You floundered.
No god poems.

You don't want to destroy the world.

Doing the things.
Lifting my words from―
the falls.

The implicit enemy
was in between―
the truths.

Nothing belongs to you.
Hence you don't lose the game.

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Satish Verma, 9 august 2021

No Intimidation

A weird solatium
was offered by putting
off the lights.

The animal inside you,
wants to apologise
for remaining pure.

The pastoral grief of―
a wayward priest―
comes to fore to be stared at.

Lessons inspired by
light were waiting
for the dark night.

And a tiger mauls
a hidden lecher
in the deep bush.

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Satish Verma, 8 august 2021

Under The Palm Moon

A broken step―
halts me. I move towards
you at the inner call.

Clockwise, going
sensual, you turn into
a greek fire.

Make me angry and suffer.
Don't carry the legacy
of darkpeers.

Reading my poetry for
a while, you fumbled
tracing your fingers on some beautiful words.

The moon would
shine tonight to share the crocuses.
I may write your name
on scented winds.

Easy lips. Were your trying to say something? Yet
you fall on ancient adage.

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Satish Verma, 7 august 2021

The Nightmare

Had wanted it to happen,
without me.

Remorse was turning against
the self. It was growing very large.
You could feel the enormity of a
suicidal microcosm, enveloping you in its borrowed light―
and rugged terrain.

The peace― it was absolutely absent
in the myriad stars, earthen lamps,
the ethereal beauties of unspoilt hymns.

The spirit was gone. It was all
a floating skeleton of man searching
for the real legs, natural eyes, and
a roving heart.

I wanted to pause, in the penultimate
explosions, when the tornado
dies and I would wake up.

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Satish Verma, 5 august 2021

Pangs Of Truth

There was nothing to hide.
No jewels, no gold. I
wanted, to get the replica of afterlife.

Meet me in some moonless night.
I will show you a slice
of my bruises, offering it as
my panacea.

You were hurting yourself
invoking the baby god
on the night of lights.

It was hallucinating,
stabbing yourself in a
virtual suicide.

As the last rites started,
you got up from the funeral pyre
and walked away.

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Satish Verma, 4 august 2021

There Was No Answer

I cannot understand you.
You walk straight
into enemy's den.

The skin peels off. A naked
boom. Silver domes
turn black. Ethanol drips
from eyes.

Praise the God. Tears
become poetry. Moon dances.
No door opens in bleeding night.

I ask for the lips. It
is for death of the priest,
who would not accept the streak of sin.

Until you become hot.
Flashes of fireflies have
become longer. Tail to
tail the message will betray the address.

Buddha takes his own time. There was
no light between the dark hills.

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Satish Verma, 3 august 2021

There Was No Prelude

Clubfoot.
A poet's dilemma.
You cannot think straight,
cannot walk straight―
unaided.

In grimaced face, one
eye patched, there stood a deliverer
with raised hands―
bringing down the empire of
a baby king.

You walk out of the painting
mutely. The king was
ready to be laid down for the
poisoning effect.

Was there anybody to
explain that why the dynasty
falls one day and the
poet wins the broken fort?

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Satish Verma, 2 august 2021

When The Attack Comes

Like a tantric I will
gather you and make you sleep
in my eyes.

In lantern festival, I
will be fighting dark
with hundred wicks.

The dead will come
back to talk about their
amputated thumbs.

You had no bona fides
to tell me how blue were
my aches.

I don't find any metaphor
in this qualified decay,
wiping my glasses to see clearly.