Satish Verma, 25 november 2014
Distance was increasing
in spewing rage.
I yearned for a solitude of desert
sand and rocks
away from musty tongues
and eros.
Counting my failed attempts
to reconcile with exits
and slant hopes.
Like an eclipsed moon
plying over the hill
to investigate a shorn lamb.
Plucking the hair from a beautiful scalp
to become a nun.
Arthritic river brings back the waves.
Unreachable was the crest.
Today standing alone on the summit
I watch the dropp with grief.
Satish Verma
Gert Strydom, 25 november 2014
Like a thunderbolt from a blue sky
you came suddenly into my life
and now that you are my wife
there is great heartache in each goodbye
and day and night
I do miss you when you are out of sight
and when you are gone
I am alone
and this kind of love I have not known
before you did become my very own.
Gert Strydom, 24 november 2014
On another earth
in another place and time
you will again be mine
but while your adult offspring
try to run your life
our marriage lays in shatters
and from their birth
they acted as if being divine
but to me they are without spine
and still the birds outside do sing
while all around me there is strive
and to them it does not really matter
but on this world you are heartbroken
while everything with meaning is falling apart
and the hurt lays unspoken
as a cruel kind of art
that you do not deserve
and to nothing there is any method, reason or rhyme
while the clouds of destruction are gathering
and although we are apart you are still my wife
and your children do gather
in their own kind of celebration
while I keep praying to the Lord of creation
to intervene but He is hidden in the shadows,
stays totally unseen and life moves on
and from my life you are gone.
Satish Verma, 24 november 2014
That is how I injured myself
desiring the right thing,
extracting the reason from charity.
I will now pluck off the rage, the silence,
the exotica from the frozen valley.
Words will become my foes swimming in your eyes.
I was listening to your questions
without becoming a witness; I was my own answer.
The time was revengeful. Show was over.
We were losing the relevance
and guests had departed.
We were becoming the walls of a glass house.
I dread my conscience, a terrible roaring in mind.
Does not allow me to sleep. Values were insulting me.
Falling like an old wall-paper; truth went unnoticed.
Peacocks were dying daily.
I am going to lose myself in the night
of a moonless sky.
Satish Verma
Renato N. Mascardo, 23 november 2014
haiku
at 2 in the morn
a thought: without you my words
mere bricks without straw.
renato
sunday 23 november 2014
Satish Verma, 23 november 2014
Nothing to look forward
I return my gifts today.
Completely denuded I will spread out in emptiness.
I was nowhere in the circle of untruths,
the pain was slipping inside
and self-denial took its toll.
Nomad in exile
for the kiss of unknown
wandering in whispering streets.
There was no more remorse.
Saffron was the choice of pathos.
A collective suicide of pledges in the sun!
Parallel grief of desert and wind
offers the plundered toast
I drink to my parched lips.
Satish Verma
Renato N. Mascardo, 23 november 2014
dwindles
so slowly
regressively they go
the dwining and the dwindling
instantaneous
no longer
there is a pause
longer and longer
before retrieving
a name an action a creation
the neurons and dendrites
they hobble they trip and almost fall
suspended until
they finally clutch a will-o-wisp of an idea
in desperation and relief
the nows and tomorrows
are replaced
tossed away by
the distant yesterdays
the simpler pasts
looking forward matters no longer
when the cataract of old memories
inundates
going to seed is so much easier
oblivion is such a comfort
ah
time to change my Exelon patch//
renato
saturday 22 november 2014
Satish Verma, 22 november 2014
Young days start with a nostalgia
for a lost freedom
Anxiety was the prime suspect.
As the age moves on,
truth consumes the virtue.
I hold this insult
in the throes of conscience with tears.
The dreams did not last long
in the wild eyes of geniuses.
Grace and dignity fell short of sinners.
The prince of blackness strode
on the white souls.
I could not have been a witness
of paradox.
Lacked in the old books
I still wait on the highway
for a sun to climb the hill.
Satish Verma
Satish Verma, 21 november 2014
Was it a spriritual failure of a man
to become an animal effortlessly?
and how difficult it was
to change the street’s crowd?
In the human drama
no dialogue ends. It begins again
and the hero replays the tragedy.
The fight between one versus many
continues endlessly,
like jungle’s law
where a body is thrown to beasts.
Though I have run out my steps
I will count the miles, I have to scramble.
My hands tremble when I write the
epitaph of a dying light on mount.
It is getting dark now.
Saturn will shortly rise.
Satish Verma
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