Satish Verma, 28 november 2020
Trembling…
the burning coal has gone to sleep,
before igniting the dry grass.
Eye to eye colliding
turning you into ophelian mess.
Light had gone back to black matter.
It was a frisk season-
in sick society. The hidden plaques
have come out in the blood stream.
You are now backtracking
on the uphill, ready to fall
from the green heights to connect with ground.
For keepsake I will
again unwrite the book
not mentioning the stillbirth of freedom.
Satish Verma, 27 november 2020
Be what you are.
As night falls,
I start moon spotting
standing starkly against the pain.
Reaching for you
from you, in-
moonless night.
The relationship of
dream blood, was never
seen but heard.
The pursuit of location
where the eclipse descends like a dot
on truth.
I am going to touch
the surreal constellation
again in your wet eyes.
Satish Verma, 26 november 2020
The weight of the ideology
flattens your upheaved chest.
You speak, what you did not want to say.
A fake hunger and pseudo-demands,
put you on the pathless clouds.
How would you now fly towards the sun?
The polarization was deliberate,
to usurp the authority. Blue jays
have refused to join gangs.
A faded document tells about
your missteps. A bunch
of eunuchs have come to guard the palace.
Black versus black will
not brighten the screen. One third of
generation had the criminal record.
Satish Verma, 25 november 2020
My bronzed speech is available,
accepting the defeat of daffodils.
I will not write an elegy.
The postpartum blues are over,
I am coming out of the crib,
like a new born poem.
Floating the paper lanterns, at
night, on flowing river, to send the
message to moon. No more the beach will cry.
The triangular nuts will
speak of the hurricanes, protecting
the hairy seeds.
No resistance was needed
to stop the invading army of black
ants, ready to tear the dummies.
Satish Verma, 24 november 2020
When silence stays alone
in the hollow of the eyes,
would you come?
In the audacity of
beauty and pain, when
the moon does not rise.
Like beggars the clouds
roam, parting the
sky for a glimpse of a vision.
We will speak like
strangers not looking into the eyes.
Not quite sure-
you blinked. Time to return
back the gifts of ocean
profound and deep.
Pearls, tears and half-angel.
Satish Verma, 23 november 2020
Arithmetic becomes poetry,
when you start counting the stars in Milky Way.
Light will cross
your path. Your own sun
becomes a logic.
You step into a holy bath
to collect all the scripts
of the dark circles.
Where the infinity starts,
you become the center?
of all the conflicts.
A simple way to burn
without throwing light.
How would you raise your finger?
Satish Verma, 22 november 2020
Salt-of-the lips.
You never know, how it hurts
the bigotry.
It was not the might
of divinity, when you sentence
the child for blasphemy.
I would not kiss the-
stone, where the blood stained
the sun. Grey halo was collapsing.
It was the helplessness
of the river, accepting the guilt
of sunken boat.
Again I recite your name
in sleep. The sting was as cruel
as the tongue.
RENATA, 21 november 2020
Idą zombi gdzieś na spacer
idą sobie tylko w maskach
idą bo gdzieś muszą iść
Mama tata dzieci miś
i najgorsze jest mniemanie
że to jest normalne
raz dwa trzy
oddy cha my
Wchodzimy do sklepu a tam proszę bardzo
kolorowe maski nie wyrażają zachwytu na twarzach
bierzemy bierzemy bo wszystko się przyda
zanim zobaczę kto jest kto i się wyda
co i ile jemy
schudniemy czy przytyjemy
co to komu szkodzi jesteśmy anonimowi
to nie maskarada
ale krążą w maskach
czy mordercy czy to zbóje
złodzieje czy chuje
co ON tam pod maską knuje
nic nie wyraża ludzka mina
nie wiesz kiedy trafisz na skurwysyna
patrz w oczy tam cała prawda
czy masz PSA przed sobą czy policjanta
czy pouczy w związku czy skopie i da mandat
OBOWIĄZKOWO I Z POLECENIA
staliśmy się zombi bez twarzy i imienia
z chęci normalności
robimy w promocji
SESJĘ
zdjęcia w maseczkach
awangarda czy standard
Satish Verma, 21 november 2020
You to whom, I
am lost, the remaining pain
will fetch the grace-
poise and dignity of
ending.
The future lies in-
the halo of the hill, where
the blood was spilled last night.
A black spot on the sun was
enlarging. I spell your name
in a bird song, that croons
tirelessly in timeless dawn.
The moon drenched lake
wails for the boat not to come.
Satish Verma, 20 november 2020
The heartwood had the ingrained
dream map, to reach the
divine shape of a solemn god, who
was guiding the sap.
One day you would go deep
in dark, to find your roots
where tomorrow was conceived.
And in the ruins, you will
find the warmth of
your peers, still walking on the god-particles.
A religion now takes over
the mob, ready to plunge into yellow
sands of dry river.
The hopes and promises,
give you a horizon, far away.
Your want to touch this furnace,
that brings the burning day of solitude.
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