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Satish Verma, 6 maja 2015
Moment
To go beyond global suffering,
find death in blue glacier
of frozen physicals.
Greed of elements, and attached commentary
on the burning, anonymously,
when you were in dock.
The unfolding of the negation starts
softly down the blissful oblivion.
False pretensions keep you alive amidst
the crowd, the only art of rebellion
in the depths of despair.
The arguments were rising every morning,
when all the doors were shut
and sun was hiding behind the hills.
A procession of self-styled prophets
marched in the wrap of chosen blessed
to find the antique
non-movement of the moment!
Satish Verma, 5 maja 2015
Another Tomorrow
You forgot the lines
and lineage. Getting all
or nothing, pulling away at the umbilical cord,
seeking liberty to commit a sin
or feeling liberated after committing the sin.
The tone embodies the elopement, unbound,
to invent the disorder
and divide the provocation.
Night was approaching with few stars,
flowing like the squealing of a dark saint,
blameless, under the thin breath
of the dying sun.
Into the orphanage enters the day
riding on the dust of history.
My journey begins into time
to change into another tomorrow.
Satish Verma, 4 maja 2015
Future Hides
It should not have come early;
the death, had insulted the terrible suffering.
Shadows were lengthening.
I wanted to live
in infinite nothingness
of the wrong time.
Hope was not
a perforated dimension,
it was my religion.
When nobody was there
truth was walking with me.
A strange tragedy
was visible only to me.
The future hides in my face.
The terror is too much
with us. No frown of earth
defies the questions of past.
Satish Verma, 3 maja 2015
Forgives The Past
Going back foot
he looked inside himself and felt a breeze
on empty stomach.
Mother-of-pearl,
he was a sand grain in the eye
of a storm.
He wanted to shut off all beliefs
to further the search of truth,
be happened,
and walked alone on the sand dunes
to meet the sun,
and smell the salt of tears,
aloft in sky.
In the stillness of a shadow
he forgives the past
and prepares himself
for the negation to create
a pause.
Satish Verma, 2 maja 2015
Exiled
I threw myself in deep slumber
pledging not to play the game
for others and exiled myself within me
after the rebellion.
A realized being, suffers
at the hand of a thorn skull,
learns to be silent, choking on words
across the pages which are blank.
Immeasurable limits of space and senses
start a hierarchy which will breed contempt.
There was a memory, a suffering of absurdism
I am still caged in.
The kingdom collapses in brilliance of sun,
the man starts another version of hate.
Acquires the blood of royal vein
and promises to become a beautiful cadaver.
Satish Verma, 1 maja 2015
Let Us Take Another Road
Let us take another road.
The boundary was not clear
between crime and pardon
between disease and murder.
The cleft in the ravines
had hidden the rifles and landmines
when we were busy in worshipping
the rock face with folded hands
to deliver us from fear and future.
There was no ending, no beginning
of disturbing the beehive
to drink the moon in night,
hear the blues of stars
and swim in dark light.
Where was the heaven?
Enough of nothing was not something?
The cure of curse was not in any hands,
polity of clouds was decaying very fast
they were raining fire on the grass.
Satish Verma, 30 kwietnia 2015
Between The Names
To delegate death,
a mirror condenses the human sorrow
with an unclouded
penury.
The suffering competes
with debt and pain,
to find the difference between
just and unjust.
Prayer was not the full answer
to cross the beyond
of starvation.
A parasitic twin always rides
on your shoulder.
That infant of sun lied on earth
in the afterwords.
I heard someone crying
between the names.
Satish Verma, 29 kwietnia 2015
Incarnation
Trampling the borders, he started
losing his vibrations.
He was asking for the perpetual forgiveness
for his bandaged ego.
The new incarnation.
For the broken homes
he refused to admit his side of guilt
and jumped into the frozen lake
for nursing his hot blood.
The faithless star.
The world did not exist
in total freedom.
Let him sleep, sulking away,
under the sea of wounds
unlistening to the wailing winds.
Not for the seeds
not for the flowers,
the crowds were assembling for the essence
of the drifting truth.
Nobody knew the red hot destiny.
Satish Verma, 28 kwietnia 2015
Fractured Time
He would set them free,
words. On cityscape.
For extended release of connotations.
Part of him, not his way,
and become weaponless.
Once the silence descended,
nothing was left to be known.
Between doubt and belief
anguish was palpable.
Truth was a capped fossil.
The rumors and denials
were similar. Fractured time.
From lie to lie watercolor ticks the clock,
fells the tribe of seekers
and breaks the mirror.
Satish Verma, 27 kwietnia 2015
Cup Of Sorrow
A solitary moon rises
behind the seven veils
unattended by stars and clouds
between yes and no
desiring nothing
turns back through the centuries.
The religion to kill
refuses to stare at the tainted fatality
lying sprawled on the burdened earth
splattered red.
Criminal divinity of the blood
bares the undone creation.
Seed money comes again
into dead bubble.
Cup of sorrow is filled again.
Satish Verma, 26 kwietnia 2015
Another Name
When postponed, death had no meaning.
It was lying in ambush.
Journey was imperfect without
a termination.
Behind the dust was another desire.
Another thumb on the trigger
starts shooting through the bubble
of moon. Every bone springs
to jump for final galaxy
of hidden stars.
Striving was brutal. Being
was dying for life. Profits
of morality on sale. Fragrance
without house. A memory
now invites another name.
Daughter of next life
lives hundreds of years
in death. Becoming
becomes the fear!
Satish Verma, 25 kwietnia 2015
Green Eyes
Faith was not taking him
near the truth.
Staring at reason
his inner self became a burden
on the whispering road.
They were going to exhume
the body of the martyr
for finding the ethos of hope
invoking the afternoon sun
to guide them in dark.
So the blood had a terrible
celebration of alienation
generating the heat of hate
not for the proud mother
who was grieving.
Time will not forgive
for the murder of green eyes.
The masses are rising
like a turbulent sea
riding through the tears.
Satish Verma, 24 kwietnia 2015
Fountain
Revolting inwardly
the fountain chokes.
New year amputates
the fingers of a whole man.
History repeats a parallel.
He sets the house on fire.
Sky withdraws the light
till the queen of darkness sleeps
before the future unfolds.
Smell of burning flesh drifts.
This moment was for God
to wipe the sweat on frightened face.
Hair and bones hide in the urn
that was forgotten.
Death has mouthed a betrayal.
Satish Verma, 23 kwietnia 2015
Like A Firebird
Like a whiff of pungent smoke
morality hurts.
The inner song dies
in chorus of sharp tongues.
Anger beats the wall
causes no beginning,
no ending.
A naked shadow burns.
The voice on the edge of truth
jumps in the dust of lies
like a firebird
bathes in immortal grief.
For deliverance from the depravity,
one who calls you a name.
How I longed to invoke
a time outside the space!
Satish Verma, 22 kwietnia 2015
Circle Of Glory
Pain unites the victims.
Discreetly, afterword, was the same.
Only loser helped you to die instantly
for the millions of stars.
The shadow was a terrorist
on the terrace.
Wounds were flying on erected dais,
the circle of glory was complete.
Over the dead nurseries
sun was kneading the earth,
for a graying sky
to bear the night.
A shameful retreat
of the weaver, of faked skin,
when body was stained with orange bruises
inviting the moon.
Satish Verma, 21 kwietnia 2015
Bon Voyage
Absolute yes or no
makes you wish
not to understand philosophy
of semipermeable life.
Sort of, lies pass through,
truth is left behind.
The fingerprints don’t speak
the identity of runaway minutes.
Somewhere you fail miserably,
break the cushions
and lie on thorns
to feel the terror of time.
Where the birds have gone?
Trees have startled the sky.
The staircase is broken.
Bon voyage to blue eyes.
Satish Verma, 20 kwietnia 2015
Footfalls
It was in you,
the beast.
Reading your private thoughts:
tribal instinct-
to gather tools.
Dwindling belief.
You are left high and dry
after the deluge receded.
A big fire
erupted in your house
to burn you alive.
Footfalls of disquieting roar
breaks the empty silence.
So thin was the salty air,
it spewed the fire.
Death of the moment.
You sit down on the rocks
outside your body
and start counting
the winks.
Satish Verma, 19 kwietnia 2015
Foeticide
Ends did not meet, like beginnings,
fact was insulted by fiction:
the newborn stuns the God.
Drop by drop
life drips from ankles.
Desolation takes advantage,
forgets the path, becomes self-centered.
Dialect changes, to taste the foul
heritage,
cadaver breaks the glass jar.
Foeticide of a flute, overnight
the soft face becomes dark. Orange moon
floats like an empty boat.
Waves burn
for the sake of swollen lids of time.
The essence of lies weaves a theme
a skull rolls down on a slide
laughing like sin of omissions.
Night screams.
A hot sun glows from the window.
Satish Verma, 18 kwietnia 2015
Last Flowers
A hero demands affection, the heat
for a surrogate role
of a saviour of oppressed.
Deafness increases
towards the integrity of a failed man.
To become something after impotence
with implicit metaphysical rags
worn in chains of blind silence.
It was all, molesting the parting hour,
or nothing, obscuring the pressing hope.
The game continues to bluff the speechless
for casting a spell on innocent vision.
Essence and rose want to separate,
no sensual dive in the sea of
silken love with blackened hands.
The other forehead has a smear of blood.
My fingers move in tender wrongs, you
did not deserve this cold night. Nothing
will happen to the vase. I
am plucking the last flowers.
Satish Verma, 17 kwietnia 2015
EXPLOSION
Spitting the blood, he said,
every winter for few days –
he would feel outcast and there was
pain in the idea of pain, but he wanted to live
without a painkiller.
Sometimes he will singe his hands on a flame
to protect his dignity. The history of his
unrest remaining untold. Then he will go
out in rains of knowledge and soak himself
in mixed joy.
A lump in the throat hurts, when he
tries to decipher a dream to measure
the life. A liar knows the complete death
of a truth to assert his independent existence
in myth.
A deadly poison of the choosing,
your own microclimate, aggrandizement
of royal tradition, makes you popular in masses.
They surge to touch your gown, ripping
the explosion.
Satish Verma, 16 kwietnia 2015
FABRIC
Throwing the prosthesis, he jumped for
numericals, refusing to expand,
walk with father of sorrow
the revolutionary.
He wanted to talk as an equal
in interpretation of truth about death
and God, the new incumbent
of faith.
An aptness to spill the blood on
your face, of some recent slaughter,
as a witness of dying for peace,
as soothing law of nature.
He wears the fabric of inspiration:
the city and streets are empty
weaving the welts of pain,
for nothing.
Satish Verma, 15 kwietnia 2015
EXPERIMENTS
Poaching on the brooding landscape
you crashed while scaling the flame.
A togetherness became a half-truth.
How troubled
I had been for basics.
Then shifting loyalties for petty things
you were holding up my soul,
and I did not move with the changing times.
For the rivers
to walk with green trees.
If the words had the answers
to rebel against the eternal guilt,
to beat the death with pain.
Fighting
for the faded truths.
My experiments with lies will continue!
Satish Verma, 14 kwietnia 2015
MAGESTIC INNOCENCE
How far? How far the goodness will survive?
Born to suffer, a troubled mind
was punished, for melting down.
Livid with revenge sun bleaches
the man made God, a personal anger.
Executioner was on the street
lighting bonfires of your principles.
A silent hope revolts, like green fire,
evergreen, possessing the pride spurts
of hot flames, as the age grows,
the grieving will stop, and when the borders sleep,
it will rise on the horizon, a new moon on
a majestic innocence
of pure hills in sky!
Satish Verma, 13 kwietnia 2015
DEMOCRACY
To slice a hope in stark terror
he thought to bid holy goodbye
to destiny, and let himself go
in the shadow of weeping deads.
The orange moon looked mutilated.
Quietly stood a suicide bomber,
ready to get killed for a home in white heaven
and destroying the leaping stars.
Who had the blood on the hands?
Hiding in the white gown,
crossing the shelter, to dropp the guilt
on the road, never to look back.
Century of oppression, like baked blood
shines on the coffins of martyrs.
At dawn the pariahs promise to lead
the band towards democracy.
Satish Verma, 12 kwietnia 2015
DEMOCRACY
To slice a hope in stark terror
he thought to bid holy goodbye
to destiny, and let himself go
in the shadow of weeping deads.
The orange moon looked mutilated.
Quietly stood a suicide bomber,
ready to get killed for a home in white heaven
and destroying the leaping stars.
Who had the blood on the hands?
Hiding in the white gown,
crossing the shelter, to dropp the guilt
on the road, never to look back.
Century of oppression, like baked blood
shines on the coffins of martyrs.
At dawn the pariahs promise to lead
the band towards democracy.
Satish Verma, 10 kwietnia 2015
BURNT OUT WORDS
Tryst with nano was like burning in hell.
Headless body of truth,
turning into invisible particles
flaunts an absent God.
The mist envelops a rag picker –
sleeping on the payment.
Hunger fresh grown will be served,
when sun rises.
Indelible ink an yellow pages
bearing the burden of unborn grief
inherits this globe, the ashes
of burnt out words.
Satish Verma, 9 kwietnia 2015
BOWL WAS STILL EMPTY
Trying to follow truth
his journey was nightmarish.
Alchemic fusion with past and future failed –
his bowl was still empty.
In the inner space
a largesse, free of present,
becomes the pain of perfection!
Now what to do next?
More afraid of life than death
he tried to manage the fear,
the futility of becoming somebody,
the nihility of ripening in celebrations.
In the darkness, an eye looks
beyond the stars, at timeless silences
of hope, waking, slits of dreams
like lasers, creating new designs.
Satish Verma, 7 kwietnia 2015
BLACK MOON
He made me move on the rough edges
to the abyss of ‘ I ’, persuasive, but strong
for a thrilled journey, on the snow-clad
relationship between disquietening
follicles of wants.
Completely alert, still drowning in fear
of abstract river, of fire, of nodal pain
of self-destruction. Suicide was below dignity.
This was annihilation of the present, past and future
in realm of faith versus asexual love of sin.
Only one moment was sufficient to disturb me,
between me and my flips, between captive
and captor. The quiet honing of silence
for breeding vowels and petals of narcissus.
Black moon, I always loved you.
Satish Verma, 6 kwietnia 2015
FLAMES
You went blank on the line
between sand and water,
between seizure and assault.
The tribes have unwrapped their torches,
they are coming in numbers.
Who was going on trial?
Fierce fidelity is demanding vendetta.
The drummer announces the fight.
Justice parts the lips for
peace against tragedy!
The golden voice caves in.
Time moves as a profane octopus -
suckers clasping on the vital stomata.
Green blood oozes from eyes.
The truce was transient.
Childless earth throws up the flames.
Satish Verma, 5 kwietnia 2015
CREATIVE SHAME
Neglecting the presence of choiceless
pain, I became singular and I said
I would not allow the life
slip through my fingers.
Looking inside, beneath the rags
of awakening, makes you to rebel
against the decadent forgiveness.
Belief in dying was a reversed nightmare.
Till the arteries explode in the limbs.
A robot kindles the hope to walk
without a brain and I grieve for the
death of a nightingale in the woods.
I will knead the invisible universe,
roll it to the stone wall of conscience.
Age will undo the million dreams
behind the creative shame.
Ostatnie komentarze:
8 lipca 2025
Belamonte/Senograsta
i to jest piwołanie poety
8 lipca 2025
motyle moga nas opuścić i wtedy trzeba przejsc
8 lipca 2025
ja wiem, poranbny jogging :-)
8 lipca 2025
dziękuje za głosy. Góry Izerskie i te spacery,
8 lipca 2025
jeśli tylko
o skierowanie całkiem łatwo, właśnie to przećwiczyłam,
8 lipca 2025
sam53
mam nadzieję że to jeden ptaszek... ale jeśli
8 lipca 2025
jeśli wiatrem i deszczem to halka niepotrzebna...
8 lipca 2025
może troszkę optymizmu... za kilka dni wyjrzy
8 lipca 2025
wiesz jak trudno o skierowanie do sanatorium...
8 lipca 2025
tej pieszczoty po pewnym czasie się nie zauważa...
8 lipca 2025
postrzeganie życia.. jest w nas..
8 lipca 2025
a może go.. nie zauważać..
8 lipca 2025
sam53
8 lipca 2025
Belamonte/Senograsta
7 lipca 2025
jeśli tylko
7 lipca 2025
Toya
6 lipca 2025
violetta
6 lipca 2025
Yaro
5 lipca 2025
dobrosław77
5 lipca 2025
violetta
5 lipca 2025
Belamonte/Senograsta
5 lipca 2025
Arsis