Satish Verma, 22 august 2022
To understand the life
after the flames die, I will
meet you in conflict zone.
Do not come with a tag.
Marked for a kill
I overturn the dead body of a cobra
to find my image in the glazed
eyes. My willingness was gone.
In a loop, I do not want
to ask any questions. Cannot
you understand, what
I do not want to say?
The empty glass does
not lie. You did not climb
the silken hills to be in a mausoleum.
I will not make my tomb.
Satish Verma, 21 august 2022
Half your young age,
violence comes in choppers,
to avenge on the solemn moon―
for a long night.
It sucks, day and
night. The assassination
draws the blood tears, unwashed,
from the sunny plasma.
The crotch was saboteur.
Pure love had become
an echo of hemlock.
Your lips were blowing blue.
It was terrible trauma
of believing in your religion.
Truth will not rise―
from the dead.
The perfect U-turn.
A dead poem turns into
dew on your eyes.
I am singing again.
Satish Verma, 20 august 2022
To erase your subtle pangs.
You become ingrained in verses.
I will not speak―
a single word to come to terms
with the unknown.
But life extracts a price.
You must become a buddha―
and leave your princess.
You will not see―
the Apocalyse giving rise
to an opus. And my child
you cannot read my book.
The voiceless dumb
bell goes on ringing to send a
call for the faithful to come
and jump into the cauldron of moon.
I boil in the guilty sun.
Satish Verma, 19 august 2022
This one-sided
dumb feeling, rising―
nothing less.
Spurned.
I reconstruct your
profile after strip tease.
Stitching the
thoughts with my empty
pen, no ink― no paper.
A poor day at hand.
I will not talk to anyone
about a dumb doll.
No fillers.
You don't need any make up
to bring the black smile.
Moon and the candle,
both were wary
of silent storms.
Satish Verma, 18 august 2022
The art of faking
will not come to me.
Your breadth
twists the moon, making
a dent on the face
of lookalike.
Becoming a stranger,
celebrating love― without
my arms of flames.
An old story repeats.
Beautiful but trembling,
the farewell handshake.
Neither comes
nor goes, the vase life
of withering roses.
The sculpture
was not yet ready.
The angel recapitulates.
Tim Kitchen, 17 august 2022
Little Man.
There was joy, there was sorrow
there was darkness, there was light.
And then you came to be among us
on a cold and winter’s night.
The little miracle, we had hoped for
a gift to a father, of a son.
For this Grandad, a little playmate
And time together, full of fun.
For your Mother, what she hoped for
and it seemed would never come.
A little bundle of hope and joy
her very precious baby son.
With your smile you make us happy
if you’re sad we feel it too.
And our lives are so much better
when we spend our time with you.
You and me, we play together
football, cars, Spider-Man too.
In a world of fun and fantasy
that’s created by me and you.
When you grow to be older
and I can no longer be.
Hold me tight in your heart
and just remember me.
Satish Verma, 17 august 2022
Life plays the tricks.
You become a meteor-
a streak of light, in the almond eyes
of a god.
I don; t like the grey areas.
Can you become fearless
and confess the guilt of drinking
the mercury? Blisters had
appeared on your face red and blue.
Was it a pure fault?
Mother earth smiles. When buried
alive thirty below the mound of lies
you remained alive.
Dehydrated, you speak
the truth and spill out the
false teeth. Your mind separates
from the heart and blood stains emerge.
Satish Verma, 16 august 2022
Let the dialogue begin
between the apostate and
the threatened god.
Heretic demands
an apology from the religion
of assassin.
The bleeding ancestors
release the mathematics
of grey crimes.
So your temple was
destroyed because of the lion
sitting at gate.
A moon falls on the
raw hides of innocents and
the planet stops breathing.
Satish Verma, 15 august 2022
Predicted to fall.
Man battling against his
demonic spirits.
A killer silence
becomes a knife. Slicing your thumb.
You want to invoke
the missing gods, sleeping
under the dams.
No one should bring
me to tears. I disapprove
the color of blood.
My bones are becoming
stronger, without flesh. I walk
without legs on the hills of fog.
Do not throw the
acid on moon. Hands
will do.
You cannot pass through
a ring of fire. Bonding fails.
Satish Verma, 14 august 2022
There was something
between the lips.
You will not recite my name.
A muted word―
becomes a psalm at
execution. There was no
crowd to witness the grace.
If I prepare a book of
all my defeats, would you
write obituary.
The antiquities had become
alive. This was the beauty
of lunacy.
And the saint was dead
without meeting his god.
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