Satish Verma, 20 march 2019
The wayfarer, searching
for the leaf-pains―
fallen from the lone tree.
Some holy script will
tell the angst of the sap,
which would not reach the roots.
A responsible weep,
will divulge your name to―
forest bees, waiting for the moon.
I watch the setting sun
with trepidation.
Night will bring again, the blasts.
Satish Verma, 19 march 2019
The unthinking begins again
watching a lunar
explosion.
The smallest droplet:
I never had any agenda,
holding on to emptiness.
A dark jumps out at me.
I push the light
forward―
to see your face, O
invisible. Where the road
ends? I want to start
my new journey, unloading
the accumulated wealth
of erudition.
Satish Verma, 18 march 2019
You were collecting the
clocks, to stall
the time; for a pathless journey
to nowhere.
Quietly the colors
start disappearing. Only
a blank void
hangs on the eyes.
The body, is at work
to teach the soul. Fat will
singe the mind. You will
never know, why did you suffer.
My sleep was ordained
to become eyeless. I
will never watch the dreams.
Blind spot snaps out the light.
If I become you, the
freeze will set in.
The blackbirds are
circling.
Satish Verma, 16 march 2019
The póetique listening
to the reason, as foggy
as the past, untelling the
future of midnight onslaughts.
The rain of emptiness, was
playing havoc with the
fiery cross. No orchestrated
withdrawl, I am―
preparing myself for the
supersonic cruise missiles of
vendetta. Golden heart,
you will carve out and eat.
The bluebirds. They had left
unannounced. This summer
the snowy peaks will melt,
for a lone tree.
Satish Verma, 15 march 2019
Treading gently, trying
to feel close to the heat of
the cardinal sins, why
you were not able to take off
your eyes from the
macabre slaughter?
The unknowable instinct.
You abhore, but still want
to see the execution. They
were blindfolded and
were shot at the
back of head.
Decimated. You hold the
globes, making peace
with the wrongdoer.He
will not alter his ego
and why you were afraid to
react?
Satish Verma, 14 march 2019
Like a meteorite streaking
through the sky, iron
and nickel, for a proxy collision
with hidden destiny.
It was the post trauma
syndrome, after the great
divide of breast, lifting
the nipples.
The lofty peak crumbles.
There will be the scare
around, to grow the poppies
on the mounds again.
Are you ready now
for emasculation? The
legacy will, on its own, pass
onto alternative sins.
Satish Verma, 13 march 2019
The trail in mind, you had
a problem, before the coming of Him.
A quest, a a question, became
landmarks of the journey
in jungle of humanity.
The compatibility lost, you
have stopped looking at the
things with inward eye.
Is it necessary to give a title to every anguish?
The crisis throws up some detritus
of past, from where you had
taken up the wrong road.
The fixing magnifies your
scars. Do not go deep
in the veins.
I am your face.
I am your name.
Satish Verma, 12 march 2019
Sleepwalking in unlit
night, grabbing the
moon, for a bite.
Very difficult to chew
the contradictions, to relieve
the heartache.
Endless drumming of
woodpecker to mark territory.
A war begins for insects.
It was the Adam’s instinct.
I will not fall on
the burning coals.
In a dewdrop you will
see a miniature tree,
shaping out for the sun.
Satish Verma, 11 march 2019
A fuzzy fear descends.
You become ensconced―
in the smell of a
paranoia.
The saltcutter will forego
the idiosyncrasy
and start collecting the oil
from the dome.
A stain on the shirt
spreads, covers
the heart in distress.
Codas were waiting.
Do not burn the book.
Go in a lily pond for a ―
script. The different shades
of flesh will be revealed.
The divine sin will ask
for a retribution for ―
the withdrawl syndrome.
Satish Verma, 10 march 2019
The plunging line was―
going deeper, cutting close to
the bone. I was preparing
myself to be martyred
alive.
Prod me viciously, my
love, I want to die in your arms before
the dawn. It should be
too good to be true
for you.
Waterbirds. They are ready
to take a flight. Petal
by petal, sun will send you
the message. I am going to fade away
in moonlight.
Water hyacinth had the death secret.
Knife me gently. I will
meet my Apollo in dark.
Poetry
Prose
Photography
Graphics
Video poems
Postcards
Diary
Books
Handmade
