Satish Verma, 15 august 2020
The milk run appears like
flesh trade. A bigamous
marriage with two ideologies.
The politics looks like
a fudged slogan. The silence
was broken by screams.
A dwindling faith, could
not revive the ancient Buddha.
There was no pity, no sorrow.
Activism wades on home-
turf. The colossal night
releases the lynx vision.
I am the cipher, you
said, will not connect
to any integer.
Satish Verma, 14 august 2020
The summer moon with
poetry and musk.
I waited full evening
to become a coherent whole.
I wanted to quit, like
a Buddha, not to come back
in the baked mud house
where the sun would not break.
The earthen lamp with
a flickering flame, under the
holy basil, wants to die
before the moonrise.
Paralysed lower limbs
will make you sit like a god
on the altar, deaf and dumb.
You don't want to learn
about the red lips of the goddess.
Moon was bleeding heavily.
Sit in a lotus position.
Sky is going to fall.
Satish Verma, 13 august 2020
I do not write about something
or anything. You will
not knock at my door.
I will be pained, if
you sweep the floor, to
tout the unwritten song.
I sing wordlessly. Even
the echo will open
the waning wounds.
My body, I give to
hawks, to escape the
elegies in the death well.
Even the night
will bring the pillow
for the dying moon.
Satish Verma, 12 august 2020
It was not,
just a kiss of a zodiac sign.
You had become a stranger
between fight and flight.
The trick was capricious.
Albeit, a calligraphy
on a bare tree, engrafting
your name which keeps
on growing with broadening trunk.
You watch the sky
at night and start a monologue.
The stars were expanding,
filled with grief. The
despair of going back home
in dark.
Satish Verma, 11 august 2020
Behind the iron mask, with
unsteady hands, I
separate the conjoined thoughts
and start greening.
I will ask, the god
after a chilling spectacle
of undying freeze, that
don't give me the bliss,
but only truth.
No mercy, no sympathy.
I will walk on the spiked
road to reach you in your own
sepulcher, to become you
and suffer.
Who needs eternity
to grieve for dying lights?
Darkness has its holiness.At least
you won't see the beasts in action.
O god, let the blue sky
open like an abyss to embrace
the fallen baby.
Satish Verma, 10 august 2020
In search of lost
memory, there was no regret
of losing any achievement.
A Buddha was ready
to walk away.
Zebra stripes become
evident at sunset.
Was there an eye in the eye,
the smell in the smell,
of an infant sea?
There will be no
ache retrieval. I am dancing
around the fire, reversing
a sin. The ugly and weird
life has become hypocrtical.
A smoke shapes your preference.
Satish Verma, 9 august 2020
Sometimes I would
look at the lame moon. For
whom you were faltering?
Perhaps, I was a
mirror. You trip, fall
and become a raw wound.
One day I will
touch you with my ragged
hands, to heal my knife.
Satish Verma, 8 august 2020
To be honest, there
was no poem today.
A refusal to celebrate
the loss of truth in me.
The weather is climbing.
They have assembled to-
disgorge the peace efforts.
War was in our blood.
The great divide of
guillotines and blessed swords,
to behead or not to behead
the god.
There was very little good
in the evil designs.We have
logic and logistic problems.
You do not want a friend, only enemies.
The rebellion, the treason,
the betrayals, all were meant
to upgrade your divinity.
let us revert back to animal status.
The bread, land and water are one.
Satish Verma, 7 august 2020
It was unbashed invasion,
and then you were paraded naked.
The marrow was depressed.
I will not be able to collect you.
Lost in thoughts, I
am losing you in every book.
There was no striving,
to be called by any name, any monument.
Hyperplasia. The rot has set in
Would you come to greet the death one day?
There was a speaking ache.
Word was me, I was the tongue.
The turgid lips still remember.
Once the sting was here to take a kiss.
Satish Verma, 6 august 2020
The art of losing the
core-hurts, standing in deepest
mood.
You want to see, what your
prefrontal cortex thinks.
The suffering: the debris
fall on the eyes.
Vast Greenland melts.
The terror strikes. You
inherit the barren land.
I start talking with the
spirits. In the shoe box, lies the
past. The water was rising
in eyes. The scent of moon
sometimes misses the earth.
The butterflies, sometimes
come, declare the deadline
for garden prayers.
Poetry
Prose
Photography
Graphics
Video poems
Postcards
Diary
Books
Handmade
