George Krokos, 30 november 2019
The caged bird sings because
it longs for freedom
to fly and be with its own kind
and to know what life is really about
and be able to share it with a soul mate.
That's why the caged bird sings -
a song of hope and for all we know
a mournful yet beautiful sad song
of longing for the life
it was created for and dreams of having
instead of being cooped up in a cage
playing a role that was
never intended by nature
for it to have and live
as a captive show-piece
for a higher evolved form......
The ultimate expression of cruelty
to deprive another creature
of its natural born freedom.....
That's why the caged bird really sings!
________________________
Satish Verma, 30 november 2019
The ethical dilemma,
and chaste abscenity,
were the game changers.
Vowel syncope was making it easier.
Let the most vulnerable
lie still. A pseudowar of words
is going to start.
A blast of vocabulary,
some smothering of smells,
will make the jaws, drop soundlessly.
And many would not
breath easily. It was catastrophe.
The language convulses.
In jungle of gatherings
there was no pond.
I was still searching, the inflection.
The creative touch.
Satish Verma, 29 november 2019
Munitions in place
you were ready
to strike.
What you wanted to
find out, I had
found in my poems.
It was the dark night―
that becomes ink.
I am writing in black letters.
What was the
obsessive cult of
fingertips, holding the pen?
Sometimes you look
at you, when
you were not you.
Satish Verma, 28 november 2019
Returning to the ragpicker
like a lone fly
of love triangle, said― were you
writing a letter to confess your love?
Like a glue sniffer, I
am stuck with you.
O brown earth, raw
wounds heal …
When I sing a blade
of grass, when I sit
under moon, holding your
hills for comfort.
My head nestling on
your heaving breast, while
I sleep without―
a dream.
It was devastating to eat
you. Your cauldron, bubbling.
Someone wants to pay
back your sun, your moon.
RENATA, 27 november 2019
piasek pustyni
złoto w skrzyni
biały proszek
szklane wieżowce
bogacz obłędem szalony
niczego nie szanuje
po kawałku kupuje
uda cycki i dupę potem żony
tu nie ma miłości
pośród setek ciał w nagości
zazdrość tu nie gości
piękne ciała zmyją okruch samotności
RENATA, 27 november 2019
ślicznotko
masz chęć na walizkę
pełną dolców?
szejk zaprasza
na przyjęcie
oni kochają rasowe
konie i kobiety
i nie śmiej powiedzieć nie
i nie śmiej zakochać się
a będziesz mile widziana
nadziana
Satish Verma, 27 november 2019
Yes it would remain
incomplete, my story―
my poem.
The henna speaks today
against unadulterated lies,
against the rage of
losing path.
No more the wrens
will sing, till the clouds don't send
apologia for not
sending the rains―
of blueberries. If I
were you I will turn the
bees into butterflies.
Satish Verma, 26 november 2019
Shredding begins.
One by one all the leaves fall, like disrobing.
The words hang around, the naked soul.
You have to catch
the essence.
Deep in the sea―
lies the earth like pain. It
rises― when you prod―
to recover the intensity.
The center and tangent,
both, cry.
Perception comes, when
you break the ―
giant silence, searching for a poem.
Satish Verma, 25 november 2019
Widening the scope
you want to remain
at center stage.
Thinking starts, battling
the ghosts. Doubt remains alive.
A broken beer bottle, at your throat.
You suffer the fall
of humankind.
The acid burns. You wire the
clouds. Tears will not flow.
This is not the end.
Turn the page. Why you
need the signs?
Those pale, staring eyes, unclosed.
Not sufficient?
Can you read the red line?
Was it not an oblique cut,
where the sand was lifted?
Satish Verma, 24 november 2019
Gold fringed, the hood
strikes. You are bound
to throne.
It was unnatural to
demolish the ancient shrine.
God will not show his face.
And what about the dew
collecting on grass leaves,
when you were crying?
The kids won't cry now.
The hunger has put
them to sleep.
It was the dead end
now. You are melting in
great walls.
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