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Satish Verma

Satish Verma, 19 october 2019

A Nondescript Night

The quality drops. You
look at the sky.
A juvenile moon was
following us.

The intention was not very
clear. To shake off the tail,
we went behind the bushes―
to understand ourselves.

The ennui was taking a
big toll. The roots were becoming
robotic. Cannot negotiate an issue.

Seedless, you cannot
impregnate. No thoughts―
no poems.

But then the life has so
many giggles.

You can start reading a murder.

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Satish Verma

Satish Verma, 18 october 2019

Appropriatly Speaking

No use, running after the scent
of the hounded animal.

The cat was dead.

You cannot travel beyond the sound.
Your presence was noted―
in a particle only.

In the blurred image of a paper
you may exist, may not.

But I am alone. What was life?
An unheard script handed down
by unseen hand?

Sugar curtains and salt-water:
you cannot stand the acrimony
of the pair standing nonchalanty.

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Satish Verma

Satish Verma, 16 october 2019

Forces Unseen

He was slated to become
godless, without engaging―
the nature.

The violence continues
in every joint, after an ego clash
in fractured body.

A blood carnival, between
divine and the beast, paying
the debt of earth.

The decadence. Let it be.
Becoming beautiful
in great decline.

The dice has been thrown.
A chance to meet―
the death after the duel.

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Satish Verma

Satish Verma, 15 october 2019

Flawless

Like walking on coal dump
coming of age.

Magnifying the blackness
of a miner's hands.

Excavating a long burrow
to feed the pain.

A muffled cry and you
locate a bound sea.

A clear moon was rising
as a witness to this atrocity.

A classic dance of an
angry god to show the presence.

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Satish Verma

Satish Verma, 14 october 2019

Cross Beams

A quest for negativity
after becoming apolitical.

The moon was marginalized,
when you lighted your―
earthen lamp under the
holy basil.

At night the demons
begin the assaults to
make the milk dirty.

The bluebird descends
in the dream to pick up
the elders for a wreath.

I am not going to cross
the river in flames.

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Renato N. Mascardo

Renato N. Mascardo, 13 october 2019

and so it goes

muscae volitantes

floating
pieces of my
memories just beyond
the pale of the eyesight of my
dim mind

in the
morass of my
past the flotsam of what
I thought I knew flit by out of
my reach

still in
blind hope I wait
unwittingly for thoughts
long gone for wit long lost to me
I wait//

renato
13 october 2019

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Satish Verma

Satish Verma, 13 october 2019

Did Not We Cry?

Ash and smoke.
I am fever, not becoming
any sound.

Like a lichen, a mycorrhiza
on damp soil,
unfound by light.

Thriving in airless
dark. Will not see the cool―
moon of summer night.

There was no key
to find the invisible.
A random poem will see.

Your painted body
in blue scars, still
remembers the fallen roof.

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Satish Verma

Satish Verma, 12 october 2019

Bloodless Eyes

The fresco had started
peeling off. I was―
searching for my ancestors.

The walls had the secrets
buried deep in the bricks―
when they were baked.

Few abandoned poems,
some fakes and counterfeits
and many masks.

A dynasty speaks of
the grieving world without any―
remorse. I do not arrive.

A birthday present for the new
generation, a bronzed
face with glazed eyes looking beyond gravity.

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Satish Verma

Satish Verma, 11 october 2019

Renunciation

The bifurcation―
was complete.
A fire baby―
and a weird ritual.

Criticality was redundant,
once I knew your gender.

Reeking of timelessness
in zero hour.
You fly the balloons―
from the ruins.

I scraifice a tree
for you, with
a shrill cry―
falling mid-flight.

White moon had
become very harsh.
I will bring honey
for night.

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Satish Verma

Satish Verma, 9 october 2019

The Seeker

Skin bleached in moon,
you prepare yourself tonight to hit the mystry,

of a recipient. The days are
tattooed on your body. The hands become claws.

A terrorist, becomes a canine,
biting blood-hot.

Like the opal, in a slow stream
of light, displaying the pisces around your―

eyes, swimming. There is no
money left to bring the milk of blue pain.

A physical contact via moon,
would you talk to me after the glorious sunset?

O, multiheaded cobra,
which of your hood is going to strike me

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