Satish Verma, 16 september 2016
Hauled up
the breast suture.
You were following the milk route,
epitomizing the fall. From the
golden clouds. Wanting to
swim in blue veins,
you were drowned. The fire
has spurted the blood. A carbon
copy of exit strategy
in your hands, you unreel
the chains of libido in failed
state of limbs.
The cartel has littered
the street with gentle greens,
to buy the lips. Spurned
lover commits a suicide.
Satish Verma, 15 september 2016
Immersion in a regal
carnage. Ash colored dawn
was gang-raped.
A bullet-ridden sexism
shuts out the fame.
Starts a chilling confession.
O, my orion
I adore your ruffled
stance. Do not make a kill.
Sunflower, why your
seeds were participating
in bonfire of a moon?
They came for a sexual
encounter. But found a prism
exacting a gun.
Satish Verma, 14 september 2016
It was
a graceful exit
with audacious idiocity.
A cyclops was going
for a dress disaster.
Visitation
of flesh, mars the beauty.
Cheating starts
between the pails of tears.
I start hitting the planet.
Let the bride
sleep in fog. A volcano
was going to shed
the sperms on your
shirt.
B.Z. Niditch, 14 september 2016
The poet asks how much
as his Dutch friend
puts his hand
on the meter
does not dare
to talk about money
at new year's time
they are both tired
and stood up tonight
by their double dates
two bouquets of roses
lie on the front seat,
the poet needs to
study French
in the library
on the back bench
waiting for his exam,
but he will not take
the cab driver away
from his grave yard shift
lasting a life time.
B.Z. Niditch, 14 september 2016
To rock the boat over me
knowing an aging poet
is always in exile
shipwrecked on the ocean
or by merely visiting
the company of another.
B.Z. Niditch, 14 september 2016
Watching
"The Seagull"
with my friends
up in the balcony
with a confessional
love poem
slowly emerging
in my smiling
imagination,
there is no language
that could sabotage
or upstage
the Beat in me
with my sax of a soul
out here
in the provinces
of France
anyway
it is starting to rain
off the islands
and my girl friend
suddenly asks me
for tickets
to see Adele
wondering if our life
merely repeats
the family dialogue
from any generation
in any lyrical play
or musical language
will send me back
to my early childhood
making my thoughts
and aching spirit rise
between two continents.
B.Z. Niditch, 14 september 2016
Who will wish
to become a poet
is a dreamer
of the surreal
who dresses
in a white suit
and coat of many colors
speaks in dada
from two tongues,
Polish and French
plays hide and seek
by a bench of a monastery
under hidden garden walls
the winds rise up
from the dusty rain
round his eyelids
near the edge
of the shore.
B.Z. Niditch, 14 september 2016
In the dark grove
near the Seine
at the finish line
here at a church
near a Paris road race
midnight becomes the tree
of life in an Eden's garden
where exiles are conceived
in river bed dreams
of prayers to St. Joan of Arc
to deliver
a murmuring baby
who emerges smiling
by the greensward park
in a laurel crib's
smiling stroller.
Morgan, 12 september 2016
Have you lost your job?
Is your wife depressed?
How can things be that ok--
even your jeans are distressed?
My dear friend, there's a law
you can bank on, not to worry,
based on odds and statistics,
and such called Probability.
Even the angels accept it
and abide its changing faces.
There is little more you can do, pal,
unless you have friends in high places:
Up-tick follows down-tick--
that's the sum of it.
just wait and you will witness
its doings and reap its benefit.
For now, even now
the small gods that admire pluck,
seeing it empty so long, rush
to fill your cup with luck.
There is good in store aplenty--
a miracle job, a newly ecstatic wife.
Better times are coming, coming surely,
coming to change your life.
Satish Verma, 12 september 2016
Like swapping your face for
a tormentor. Stop the rains.
I am going home, after
a hard choice of peace
in sunlight. Give me back my
memory. I want to take a
flight. Scanning the midnight
sun on blue lake.
Stairs are climbing on me.
Stay with me. I am falling
on your purple doves
eating blood oranges.
I am sad inside the stitched
eye. Clouds are breaking the
light. I will not come
for therapy from lies.
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