Satish Verma, 21 października 2018
You dig in your heels,
when blood spills
under the skin.
Refuses to go, the homeless moon,
I will call the snow to cover the sod.
Scavenging,
through the stray thoughts, you
pick up the threads, to knit―
a scarf for the poem.
Body born, a planet
breaks, in your epic. The ivory
shaving will make a white gold.
The birth pangs start in natal pain.
Satish Verma, 20 października 2018
Noway, I will ask
the poem, to become stressed out,
like the street,
beaten and used again
and again.
Where do you want to go
for a rendezvous with―
unknown, in dark,
groping for the unsung,
unseen meaning?
Time is worn out. You live
on the fringes, unselling
your ancient home, submerged,
after the earthquake,
triggered by ghosts of comments.
Satish Verma, 16 października 2018
When I hold the pen,
it trembles in my hand; the poem.
The catharsis.
Zero minus, to no to everything
against the main stream.
You start kinking.
Gawking?
Every night I carry my glitches
to bed, to fight my demons.
Falteringly, you speak:
it should not have happened.
The genetic aberration?
Nudges the crass exhibition
of alphabets of exorcism.
You invoke the dumb gods, who will
not vacate the accelerandos.
Satish Verma, 15 października 2018
Give me a lone word.
I will write a poem.
You enter the final hour
of diagnosis. The kill
was imminent.
Back to back two trysts collide
generating a fire.
Who was peeling the moon?
The stab sets in. In
abeyance of the gift. I
will give you a scar.
Daisies will remain awake
at night, for the vigil
of a slain pilgrim.
Satish Verma, 13 października 2018
I have never been the same,
after watching, the abandoned
moon, rising gracefully,
and becoming secular. There
were no words, no speech;
but a biological war had
started between the shadows,
like gondolas in the air.
You unexpectedly turn blue.
Somebody had left the bloody footprints.
Satish Verma, 12 października 2018
Gliding on the clover
you invoke the sky.
A tiger moth lands on the―
sweet viola to seek liberation.
You die to find a rival―
to cheat the moon.
Everynight a silver bleeds
to write your name on the stone.
What you dream, does not
become your neighbour.
You give a big hearty
laugh to frighten yourself.
Satish Verma, 11 października 2018
Gliding on the clover
you invoke the sky.
A tiger moth lands on the―
sweet viola to seek liberation.
You die to find a rival―
to cheat the moon.
Everynight a silver bleeds
to write your name on the stone.
What you dream, does not
become your neighbour.
You give a big hearty
laugh to frighten yourself.
Satish Verma, 10 października 2018
On the rim of a beer glass,
stand, white crystals of salt.
I was watching a pale moon.
*
The lone tree always
waits for the dipping moon,
to give a parting kiss.
*
I grieve for the viola.
Why does it extend one―
petal for a landing pad.
Satish Verma, 9 października 2018
When the dialogue stops
there will be a royal bleed.
I had not come to the
terms of slaughter.
Wanted now, to manage
the anguish incontinent.
Can you find some space in
waiting, for the hangman?
Footprints and invisible faces.
Somewhere a hope lives in amber.
Trapped light, in wintery dark,
will stop a seed to play the nocturne.
Satish Verma, 8 października 2018
This jungle of words.
Fear, like a badger
comes, and sits at my door.
*
The insects, I
am tired of them. All the
time I sit under a bo tree.
*
This city was
like an ocean, full
of predator sharks.
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