Satish Verma, 3 september 2020
Living in a different
reality. You wanted to confuse
the honeybees. They were dying in large
numbers. There was frantic search
for the skullcaps. Power
of the crowd was on display.
The stingers were on prowl.
Again the mountain
slips. The terrain becomes pathless,
placeless. So where to sit with a mirror?
A tulip garden has arrived
for inquisition. Are you ready
to surrender your cloaks? The
public servants will make an inventory.
The day dreaming does not stop.
I wait. The best is yet to come.
Satish Verma, 2 september 2020
The shallow incursions
grow louder. I have
burnt my fingers, lighting
the moon.
The future of currency
was changing hands. You
start bargaining for-
the water, the air.
Armageddon: will it take
place in the modern times?
Where are the titans
and the hill?
It slows the search for
the truth. The mudslide was
rising and the buried will
not speak, at peace with themselves.
Satish Verma, 1 september 2020
Annihilating your
own minarets to meet
the god once.
Little time left to make the score.
The climbdown has started
absolute and final.
The methane was
spilling out.You need a matchstick.
Awful.You cannot see
the kitchen fire.Where was
the sanctity?
A noble cause.Dousing
the flames, to leave a naked
body of truth.
Don't split the hearts.Only
give the shrouds.Faces
must not be seen
Satish Verma, 31 august 2020
I had met the flower
after a longtime.
The rose.
And its fragrance
hauls me to childhood
after the big dying.
A tender, scented dream
will touch me,
to become a poet.
Lying on dewed grass
you think, a promiscuous
microbial libido begins.
The explosion will eject
free verses, waiting in silence-
to witness- the April fall.
Satish Verma, 30 august 2020
The sleep was disturbed.
A book reads me.
The thinker will not rest in the arms
of Morpheus.
There is no road. You will
walk in the kitchen for the last supper.
A scream in the throat
dies. I have no soul. The night
looms large. I will not surrender
my pen.
Unquenchable thirst
was me. My head in a spin,
I go beyond the words,
to find the clapping hands.
Satish Verma, 29 august 2020
Let me paint a still life.Like
your eyes- unmoving.The irises
with shut pupils.
Why I should be green-
I ask my old mentor?
The terror of a smile
wipes away the tail of dust, with comets.
And the pachyderm remains
buried in the sands of time.
Touching the margins was gone.
You cannot leap over the grass of antiquity.
In fog twin hills will move away
without any acrimony.
A denial becomes a stake
a part of the golden ring- the boundary mark.
Satish Verma, 28 august 2020
Zinnias were stalking.
The fading moon hangs upside down
from the massive Ficus tree.
Ultimately the grace withdraws.
Now you sit under the bo-tree
becoming a wet Buddha.
Unthinking, unblinking
falling out of thoughts,
and start supervising the barren landscape.
The dawn sets free, the white
pegions to become prey of ravens.
Would you talk about peace?
The evil touches every next door.
I will write a long letter
to me, to unwrite the sermons.
Renato N. Mascardo, 27 august 2020
this space between
nothing
in life is set
instead of finding that
all we feel is digital we
have to
make do
with sentiments
that are more analog
though we try to grip things around
us in
feelings
deemed binary
alas neither zero
nor one do they turn out to be
for when
life deals
us its blows we
end up uncertain like
Schrödinger's cat neither living
nor dead
as we
wait for what the
morrow brings let us dote
on this space between total grief
and joy//
renato
thursday 27 august 2020
Satish Verma, 27 august 2020
Something exciting
was to happen.You
call for an assayer.
Morality has failed,
running after the
false values of untruths.
Pure virginity.
I won't touch you again
for the sake of god.
Crossing the threshold
like walking on burning coals
to test the bonding.
The mankind was
always cannibalistic.
You devour the body without blood.
Satish Verma, 26 august 2020
I left a piece of moon on my
table and started writing about
the broken mirror. There was a time
when we used to cry together.
Dusting off the old books, uncared
for months. A rare ritual
defines the motion. It was the
temblor giving me a dustbath.
Do you know who was the leader
of the pack? The greed, the authority?
There was a bright door, between
the umbels. Would you taste the hemlock?
Every thing is in disorder. You
remember how cranky I was when
I found you unframed. Today
I will embrace the empty wall.
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