Satish Verma, 24 july 2020
Being you,
not the bee queen.
Volatile as it appears, would say
one day, I don't know you yet.
The estranged mogul
returns home, empty-
handed.
Don't tell me in
stark and straight words, one
needs clemency.
The flame had touched me.
A strange panorama, created
by the geometry of violence,
now hurts.
Speed and direction
liberates the path breaker.
Resonance of your voice rises,
reading the same poem
again and again.
Segmented icons would not sleep
on the same bed.
Satish Verma, 23 july 2020
When you take a false
lead, life will undo the seeds
and the cataracts freeze.
This is the story of
a butterfly, in disturbing amber
buried in snowfall.
Can your body take the imprints of flogging?
When you start sketching the polar ice
in the story of death, compounding
the mystry of
unleashing sea
of the fawn eyes, whose message
was sent in water?
Satish Verma, 22 july 2020
Every night you become
an insect, crawl into
the bed and chew the lips of unknown,
listening to the music
of flowing blood.
Outside the slogans-
tear at you. It was a wound
night, the words, untouching the space,
go- straight into the echos,
without any halo.
So where did you sink in
defiant orange of the sea,
while turning back from your designed
path? Another terrorist's sexism
was on play?
There were no barnacles, no
frog mimicry. I silent walk into
the arena to find the length of
the caravan.
Satish Verma, 20 july 2020
Sexist barbs against
wooden breasts, street-smart.
I am something not, I am. A wall
of tears. Liquid nicotine, I will not declare
myself, creating a poem in different ways.
Waywarding, protégé digs the gullies―
becoming unfaithful to himself. The
hope, will it be extinguished? The
tall mud slide, a devastating statement
burying you, me, everyone.
A black beetle, collecting carcasses,
to feed the young. It is on the rise,
green sea. I cannot see myself bleed,
by the grasshoppers. It is like
committing suicide solo.
Satish Verma, 19 july 2020
You will find one day,
water footprints, when
seismic events stop in eyes.
Don't you think a system
of mutual respect should-
be followed, before the
conception of a new rage.
Moons come and go.
You upturn the clock racing
the time to-
reach infinity.
Where the hundred stars
die daily, do you still
want to become a blue light
in the misty house-
of headstones?
Satish Verma, 18 july 2020
Will not put any claim.
Neonate my poem
has gone gray.
Black days and white
nights.I will recall my
ghost and ask, O god-
do you exist anywhere?
A thread of pain, makes
a family of feet, climbing
in smoke.
Vulnerable to theft, my
thoughts divert me towards
cemetery, where I will
bury my sins.
You remained a question
for me on calender date.I
will hold on the time,
which has thrown me back.
Satish Verma, 17 july 2020
No final goodbye. No poetic
apology. No introduction
to a frightening joke of
a blue Buddha.
The neonates were blind.
There was no alternative, except
to wish them luck. I wanted
to leave my pangs with razor points.
Morality and hunted crimes.
It was a shadow boxing
in cryptobiosis. A bleak day
invites no more clouds.
You talk to the solitary moon.
The silence enters the reeds.
A whistling wakes up the night.
Death goes for a walk.
Renato N. Mascardo, 17 july 2020
equation
from one
moment to the
next is always a new
equation two sides split by an
equal
symbol
a nullity
resulting from a loss
on one side balanced by a gain
on the
other
the way to be
content in the midst of
losing is trying to find what
is gained//
renato
thursday 16 july 2020
Satish Verma, 16 july 2020
After the sunset,
the moon comes out whitewashed.
An extremist flies a hawk.
The bird's meet was
disbanded. There was no
mandate to decide the fate
of eggs.
I cannot think. After the
arrest of an anarchist the cauldron
was left to boil.
The bones start melting.
Step out from the dark.
The blind men were protesting
in the street against the sun.
It is a small world.
You meet me again and again.
Satish Verma, 15 july 2020
In a pair, they were flying:
two monarch butterflies.
Hither, thither-
Fluttering in synchronized wings.
There was a Stark effect
in silhouette. The fever rises
in the bush. Someone streaks
in the street after moon
Let us stop the mouths-
to remain open. A missile flies
above your head aimed
for the burial ground.
A nascent star screams.
There was yellow blood
on your hands. You had
squeezed the young fruits.
Poetry
Prose
Photography
Graphics
Video poems
Postcards
Diary
Books
Handmade
