Gert Strydom, 10 april 2014
In each raindrop there is a kind of magic,
magic in the falling blue-white thunder,
the thunder that in a flash downward flick
the flick of something about which I wonder,
the wonder that again brings fresh new life,
new life to where seeds are turned under.
The bright rainbow has a own kind of spell,
a spell of time when the hot sun blazes,
blazes in brilliance as all is well,
while the deep well suddenly amazes,
amazes with water that is clear and pure,
pure to the taste as heat hangs in a haze.
Nothing can the power of rain remove
as overnight the grass and the crops jumps,
proving the great power of divine love.
Satish Verma, 10 april 2014
Belief will lynch all the vistas,
one by one,
for art of living,
to break the silence of innocence.
I will scream, when hurts bruise
in temporal sleep,
for man’s hymns of wheeled corpses
wafting in eternal cliffs of truth –
being proud strings of a forgotten song
in the valley of death
chastening the majesty of scars.
I will pray for the brief funeral
of old age,
I shall not beg for mercy.
Satish Verma
Gert Strydom, 9 april 2014
I want to go to the high-veldt,
I want to look up into the pale-blue sky,
stand next to the green hillocks
and I want to walk on the red sand
when the stormy weather rises
and barefoot leave my tracks there,
I want to raise my eyes to the heavenly lights,
and at night look at the bright stars.
I want to go to the high-veldt,
leave marks that betray my presence,
see the blue-white sparks jump
when the stormy weather rises,
smell the falling rain,
see how the wet ground looks,
stand next to the green hillocks
where nature pays homage to the Creator
and I want to experience the world of my childhood days,
see the blue-white sparks jump
and fold my hand around beautiful stones
and like marbles stroke over them.
I want to go to the high-veldt,
leave no place unvisited on my hike,
find all of the old secret places again
and I want to experience the world of my childhood days,
follow the sun on its bright white orbit,
to where the most distant horizon is,
stand next to the green hillocks
and blinded in the eyes of a child
live out moments of my childhood days again,
find all of the old secret places,
just walking on and on
without diverting from the old footpaths.
I want to go to the high-veldt,
stand next to the green hillocks,
for moments be woven back into the fabric of time
and I want to walk on the red sand,
live out moments of my childhood days again
and barefoot leave my tracks there.
Satish Verma, 9 april 2014
It was midnight moon
cruising in the bedroom.
I step aside in the depressed window,
watch the overwhelming spillover.
I listen, then do not listen to alien voices
of bipolar beings, speaking Aryan,
artfully in cryptic signs
crunching the bones.
Black crucibles throw up bright stars,
in cruciferous crow bars. Pungent
smell of armpits. Dizzing heights
of memorials, becoming digital targets.
Deathless deluge of totems, claim the
corpse of earth. The screams start
coming from buried caskets.
Divining rods disappear.
Blue spirits trying to fly away.
Satish Verma
Nightrayne, 8 april 2014
I tell myself I’m over you -
yet find myself thinking of you,
far more often than I should.
Yet it doesn’t hurt like it use too -
now only a phantom pain lingering
after a long ago cut off limb.
Does that mean I've come to accept?
Does that mean I've pass through
all the dreaded stages of grief?
I can see I've tried to beg,
I've tried to bargain.
I've been consumed with rage,
sometimes I still am...
I’ve cried my heart out,
I've shouting to the stars in a desperate plight...
I felt the hopelessness set in
as the realization near drowned me;
I will never find comfort in your arms again
Gert Strydom, 8 april 2014
Sometimes the things I do and say
is like a sword a that I do sway
and it’s not mine to take up
but yet I do it day by day.
POEWHIT, 8 april 2014
The moon turns
SPIN earth SPIN
who am I ?????
Spot of living dust
Air of must
SIT, [wonder an hour ]
Smell of the flower
Life turns with power.
5/8/2014 JOE POEWHIT
JESUS SAVES
Satish Verma, 8 april 2014
I care less,
walking on plateau.
Now,
mind rejects the peaks.
A small patch of green,
I knead on ice
of firm orbs.
This sterile landscape starts a fire.
My hands knit a taciturn probe
to enter the inconceivable.
The particles sleep in metaphors
of a baked sky,
where the stars bleed every night.
The fear looms large.
I sit in the crevices of hurts
to reduce the dimensions of time.
Satish Verma
Gert Strydom, 7 april 2014
I want much more
than mixed joy and pain
and no comfort
or just memories
are enough for me
and although I am lonely
I am still searching for meaning
and I want to feel you lie beneath me,
hear you call out my name
but we are torn away from each other
and now I have got to press my love
into a few words in a verse.
Satish Verma, 7 april 2014
The waves crash at your threshold.
You had given me lot of tears:
I was dying in me-
in veiled existence. I want to hear me
loudly; my secret coming,
across the book in black box.
The androgynous deity
limping back to shore.
The claws, gnawing, stretching, giving
arterial push to the dead thighs
of ailing planet. First purple, then black
gangrene appears on the toes.
Chase of wealthy robes, spilling of sperms
for sake of virility. The slicing of time
gives dividend to survivors.
Satish Verma
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