Satish Verma, 8 september 2019
Be precise, I would say.
The definition was changing― of the sand,
in our eyes.
Who was going to judge the
translation of sex? There was no man, no woman
in terms of misery.
The nights were deluged.
Days dry. My grains refuse to grow under―
the timeless sun.
The mother tongue is
laced with fluid endurance. I stand in
a storm, breathless.
The absent death
mocks at the living dead. How many times
you will go to the river?
Satish Verma, 7 september 2019
A smear campaign starts
against the ladder, which permits―
the ascension, but leaves the spaces in between,
of dark. You stand still.
The hunger becomes the mouth―
of rags. I will come and collect
some numbers.
It was useless to hunker―
after the game. The fear will ultimately
start a monologue.
On bees, I will build a
synopsis. The sleuth always falters
when the moon hides.
A canned script draws the
scorn. The player had become grey―
in dark.
A bunch of mushrooms,
like tall girls, standing
in wind, gossiping.
Satish Verma, 6 september 2019
Where do you stand―
in the crowd, for the love of a cause―
your feet cannot measure the ache
of the earth, respecting the rhythm
of a lone survivor.
Can you believe in the fall of a titan?
Stranded in accuracy
for a salt lick for
a zipless mouth wide open.
Intuiting,
what the flesh would not say.
And I keep standing by the midriff to see the face.
Satish Verma, 4 september 2019
I become again a fakir,
but not on alms.
A giver wants nothing
after a knife thrust.
Take away as many as
you can, my thoughts, my limbs.
There is no language
of charity, in the black hole.
You are the one, who
does not need any ladder.
Sitting on the beach, watching
the waves collapsing.
One day you will move
away from the walkway.
Satish Verma, 3 september 2019
The plaques were being
attached to the wall. You would not be able
to go for refusal. The right to say no
was inherent in yes.
Accepting the exorcism and self―
flagellation, exonerates you from the guilt of
giving away; which was not yours. How
can you claim that you are your own master?
You tie a knot on the thread, hang it
on the weeping tree, throw back your head,
and wipe out all the questions, I wrote
on your forehead.
Peace― it will be mine.
steve, 3 september 2019
I've been "holding on" for life, for love, for us, for me...
I thought the storm would pass by now, so that we both may see,
But the skies are even darker, than they were the day before...
And the distant sound of thunder, says that soon the rain will pour,
The cold wind stings, and takes its toll, each time that we lash out...
And it's one step back, from where we were, when you live in love and doubt,
The rain pours down upon me, I've been holding on so long...
I thought by now you'd know me, but I've never been so wrong,
The stars once shined above our heads, now it seems like its been years...
And I haven't seen a clear night yet, but it's hard to see through tears,
And I wonder if the chance we had, is all we threw away...
Or just how much, that we have lost, for things we didn't say.
Satish Verma, 2 september 2019
Find an auspice today.
The moon was coming back
after an abdication.
Lurching on cobblestoned stretch
of blue-black clouds; paring
the tall conical trees of
royal pines.
Heaped with roses, a man
with no-war slogan, lies
in the open earth.
You will not perceive―
any smell of smouldering pen and knives.
The body turns without
a comma.
Satish Verma, 1 september 2019
In fever, I will
always see butterflies
landing on your nose.
White, yellow, black.
They come and go and I am
sitting under a cherry blossom tree.
Stroking you, cajoling you
to drop the wings.
In grass the sun waits
in a dew drop.
The moon was not a poor thing.
Will come in white robes
to preach.
Satish Verma, 30 august 2019
Resisting your wisdom
I want to remain, thoughtless.
Not bargaining, I come in the crowd,
to negotiate a stunt.
The awakening,
the trepidation. I pay honour
to the great stress angler―
my poverty of cruel jokes.
Like a fox to reignite―
the identity. I will move away
from the body of blood soaked denials
standing alone, against the genocide.
Was still hungry, eating
your violet-red― plums. Not was whole,
the controversy. Somewhere a
forensic evidence will say, mask was not real.
Satish Verma, 29 august 2019
With the tip in the center,
this is the circle of an iron will
undoing the circination.
You are moving in a straight line
now. The knots in the chest
will take you to surrogacy.
The needle's eye was watching
you― gauging your grit.
Can you take a prick?
Without blood? From an
urn you lift a red string to tie
on the hands of unborn thought.
You miss a line, a word
an image. Still it happens deep
inside. An angst constricts you in
pythonic grip. A poem becomes you.
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