Satish Verma, 11 december 2016
Abdicating the shadows;
totemic.
I return back to dig up the buried-
moon from the ruins of poetry.
It benumbs.
No response was coming from
cajoling the black secrets-
of time-cast.
A storm was raging in a pack
of emptiness. Like a dead fly
between the pages of skulls.
I couldn't find the exact words.
The religion of wish-lists.
Can you find the end of desires?
From thought to thought-
was there any vision?
Satish Verma, 10 december 2016
White lotus at red feet:
we will start self-infliction
explicating
with regrets.
After a rough night
the day was weeping.
From where the bread will
come, when you were playing
with a golden spoon.
This morning I again
dig a hole in heart.
Was the Mayan calender right?
Why the sun is playing slow music?
I am coming nearer
to a locked god.
Joe Breunig, 9 december 2016
Without the experienced sadness
of our soul, we would seldom
appreciate the fullness of joy;
when overcoming Life’s bedlam
and its numerous complexities,
our ability to possess vision
and real, practical solutions
come as our personal decisions
to willingly trust in The Lord,
are divinely realized. One day,
a clearer view or perspective
will be spiritually conveyed
to us, under the abundant grace
of God, as we seek… His face.
Author notes
Inspired by:
1 Chr 16:11; Psa 105:4 and
Perhaps our eyes need to be washed by
our tears once in a while so that we can
see life with a clearer view again.
-Jinky Morrison
Learn more about me and my poetry at:
http://amzn.to/1ffo9YZ
By Joseph J. Breunig 3rd, © 2016, All rights reserved.
Satish Verma, 9 december 2016
I met a talking moon
on the road of death.
What easily comes, goes easily with winds.
I was counting the ribs of
my dying child. He went into the
woods to fight the unknown wars
of hunger.
Bunker: it went into flames
sailing into brilliance of space.
I am going to inherit the black grains
of molten day. How I will confront
the night tainted with bonfires
of sunken eyes?
God particles in tiny fists spreading
the spun cotton, intitating a
revolution of thoughts. A bumpy
argument. The icon denies the guilt
of mass killing. I want
to remain unsung.
Satish Verma, 8 december 2016
Take the thorns away
from roses.
Sex will never be the same.
Bring the bellicosity under
cover on the steep side.
The mountain has started cracking.
The wreckage was strewn
around in the field of croci.
Religion had hit the jagged cliff and exploded.
It was not an airborne god.
The salt water was telling
a tainted story.
Flashing the legs, the
pink panther will find an equal in
wolf. It was a political liability.
*
Sacred sex
on water trail.
Would you mind to sit
on a solid rock and
measure the strong winds
stripping the tall trees?
Jackals were calling.
Lions are approaching.
You say it was not immoral
to commit a sin before the fire.
There is a bloody gash
on my body. I am not
able to stop iniquity.
Satish Verma, 7 december 2016
The path disappears
under the foot.
Gently I lay down the book
and start reading the blank page.
Stainless thoughts.I strip to root.
A stunning revelation
about a tinned dialogue.
Blue hydrangeas
were telling something.
It was time to become insane
on the street.
The lust,
the sex
creeps into the sect. Religion was a proxy
to kill, to achieve a stop.
going nowhere.
Satish Verma, 6 december 2016
Why were you afraid
of unknown?
I am washing away
the whole truth in the vicinity
of discrepant nouns.
The words will articulate
the body overrun by rough
handling of the golden triangle.
The arrival does not stop
the allegro.
Claustrophilia enslaves you.
You start a new journey
towards a non-space and non-entity.
Was there anything beyond the naught.
I have come faraway.
Will not return to numbers.
Satish Verma, 5 december 2016
Come and meet me in chamber of death
where the tempest comes every night.
I start disrobing the anger
to find the eye of the moon.
Where do I get that ink that
writes an unwritten poem on water
of eyes when the ship was
burning after a rare landing.
Come and meet me in sleep of an infant.
It was time to start a dialogue
with golden death sitting on the
greed of man. The lips were extracting
the other honey from frozen moon.
Come and meet me in merciless sun.
Satish Verma, 4 december 2016
You were starving the words
to commit the waves of hunger.
What I wanted was a patch of shade
under an olive grove.
No intrusion. It was a miscarriage
of justice. We were searching the -
missing links between the years
of misunderstandings.
We sell our gods and move on
unquietly to understand the-
lament of middle of the road, when
sun was nestling in the clouds.
It was Fall. Fall of vanity, fall of
integrity. Fall, fall-
my pride, my tears. The season
was changing.
Satish Verma, 3 december 2016
Staples were traveling on the
epiderm, thanking the wounds.
The dust, the eternal ugliness
were growling.
Riveting drama:
a royal swanking for a macabre
heist. A bizarre charisma
overtakes the cozy lips.
I was green,
and I was a cloud
where the sunflowers meet
beneath the sun.
Blind poppies assert themselves
unfurling a flag of milky sap.
The wasps were going-
to become stingless.
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