Joe Breunig, 7 june 2017
Isn’t peace indicative…
of a Godly, quiet heart?
How else can one explain
the calm that’s realized
during personal storms?
Does His Presence remain
with us, in these times
of temporary crisis? Do
souls remain untroubled?
Can our spirits continue
unafraid, allowing us to
go forward with redoubled
efforts, to reach others
with the Gospel, as part
of… Heaven’s campaign?
Author notes
Inspired by:
John 14:27; Num 6:24-26
Learn more about me and my poetry at:
http://amzn.to/1ffo9YZ
By Joseph J. Breunig 3rd, © 2017, All rights reserved.
Sztelak Marcin, 7 june 2017
Bohater nabity na szpilkę schnie na wietrze,
ten przenika spłowiałe okrycia przypadkowych
egzekutorów. Czynią powinność
z ledwie zauważalnym grymasem.
Profesjonalnego znudzenia.
Ziąb do szpiku, a dumne sztandary
nie nadają się do zapychania dziur
w barykadach.
Więc wciskam tam palce, szukając
skarbu — jątrzę rany. Mam za małe
pięści aby zmieścić w nich powietrze.
I rzucić na jałową glebę,
z której wyrosną ludzie bez ust,
w zamian za to z czerwoną plamką
zamiast źrenicy.
Na razie w martwym polu ostrzałów
zbierają się święci, tymczasowo
bez przydziału.
Chociaż na pewno coś się znajdzie,
z rzeczy mniej ważnych, jak narodziny
albo cudowne ocalenie.
Bohater już w formalinie,
wygląda na zadowolonego. Za szkłem,
nieprzepuszczalnym dla dźwięków.
Satish Verma, 7 june 2017
It was not your body,
but blood was on the wall.
Inhale the stench of the day.
Grim scene, the multiple kisses
of marrow and flesh. You were
not drawing him, inviting-
him tonight for a date,
but the fetch was on the wall.
From, to turn. Put a starfish
in my bowl, to play. There was
a guest waiting at the door. Will
not abuse your lock and key.
Crawling, groping, darkness descends.
But there was a light on the wall.
Sztelak Marcin, 6 june 2017
Po zmroku odrywam ostatni zapięty
guzik. Ciasno upycham w pościel
nużące modlitwy — niezbyt wygodnie,
ale gdyby przyszło się nie obudzić
będzie jak znalazł na drogę.
U jej kresu nieunikniony powrót
do wody, jeszcze nierozdzielnej.
Tam puszczę pączki, zakwitnę
i nawet nie pomyślę o porannej
kawie. Nie wspominając o miłości.
Tylko że skrzydła
podcięte sprawną ręką rzezaka,
rytualnie.
Satish Verma, 6 june 2017
Black livers?
Are you really desperate
after a vision? Miasma
rising?
A disheveled sky was
calculating. Tide was turning
back carrying the
tremors of shores.
Was that true, you faith
thinning? I see myself
getting ready for slanting moon
eating seeds of death.
It tears through
the veils of abstract. Are you
looking back at paralyzed
sun who has swallowed a stabile?
Satish Verma, 5 june 2017
Do not remember the names.
Somebody is waiting in the wings.
It is very dark here. The drums
will break the mother’s heart.
The death will not accept the
dew on the grass. She wants tears;
The Buddha is taking a turn
in his sleep. Why is he so restless?
O, my father, I am watching the
fields turning into piles of ash.
Cannot shut the eyes for a jiffy.
Will you write something for the god?
Satish Verma, 4 june 2017
That fleeting incandescence
was branded witch
in grotto of a cloud.
For the first time I saw
your face in water.
You said this is manic
depression talking to flowers
and seeing a bizarre
apparition in dark blue sky.
What was the thing called
arrival? Every moment
a truth dies before
your eyes.
Between laughter and tears
I touch your eyes. Is that real?
And your brown ankles
walking on white snow.
I am soliciting a bloodstained
floor for a dance.
Satish Verma, 3 june 2017
Why did your hand
become the fist?
You were thinking about the indignities
heaped upon the lake,
when you were retrieving a song
of freedom from the depth of questions.
There was no capitulation.
You went on opening the congealed-
blobs of blood to know
the keynote of violence.
The sectarian hate.
It outlives the love of brotherhood.
You want to go back to, from where
the jungle starts. It had swept
away the snow-white young
peaks.
Footprints of some movement.
Can you see that?
Satish Verma, 2 june 2017
Walking with death
talking poetica.
Living without walls
and firing squad.
While new culture was
drowning on steps of
dots and bass voices.
The blood on hands.
Sometimes you are going
nowhere in a pathless
city. Back to back setting
ablaze bazaar of black gods.
Between the veils lies
the trauma of man. I
step out from the underside of
hymns. Cannot sleep in temple.
Satish Verma, 1 june 2017
There was soft
purring. Inviting but malicious,
when you entered the cave.
A bittersweet encounter.
Quantified. A new dna print
after a cyber attack.
Another turn of the Venus.
The whole world
has never been the same.
Anatomy of violence
was shaping the
future bêtes noires.
Stupid thing, our roots
still commingled with dust
searching the stone-deaf god.
Poetry
Prose
Photography
Graphics
Video poems
Postcards
Diary
Books
Handmade
