Satish Verma, 15 november 2022
Keep the passion
to reach the moon.
One day the unspeaking
tongue will reveal―
the heart of the terminally
ill earth.
How often you create
new verbs between death
and birth of democracy.
Two sides of a coin. You
take turn to kiss the hands
of benevolent god.
The missed heartbeats
will search the language
of anonymous.
Why do you want to
go unsung?
Satish Verma, 12 november 2022
My nascent distress flourishes
under the diktat of unknown. Can you
tell me your history of fall?
The questioner fails to
put up the right questions. You were
inquisitive, but I was not understood.
Why does the hate develop between
the words and the meanings? I suffer
when I am numb. You suffer to open your mouth.
Satish Verma, 10 november 2022
I don't want to
be a winner. My words
are bleeding.
A dangerous god
manipulates the universe.
Everything will come to dust
and ice.
What does the silence
say? You need to erect a
god's temple on funeral ground?
Donate your blood
for heaven's sake. The
oceans are boiling.
Such wisdom of
no use? Stop thinking to
invade the stars.
Perhaps the burning days
will forgive us.
Satish Verma, 9 november 2022
A danger looms
large, permeating in
eyes, arms and legs.
This was an
ethnic divide of the body
for different hurts.
My voice doesn't
reach you. Still I was
calling you from thick fog.
Some galaxies are
half-eyed. Come follow me,
I will show you a burning comet
with a heart of ice.
Dust takes revenge.
One day burning glass
will ask the price of living.
I knew you will
attack from within to
become a ghost.
How much less
I knew?
Satish Verma, 8 november 2022
From within, a
fawned virtue follows
the breath, I spell
your name.
The cymosed
surrender at the feet
of a tall god was disgrace.
I will know the incoming stranger.
Spotless in dark,
your words breed. There
was something mysterious
displaying the grains in daylight.
I will count the golden
rings, in your pink eyes
becoming a ghost.
A wrong step in a
right moment, you become
a prisoner of a cell, with
no key.
From the ending
a new race begins.
Satish Verma, 7 november 2022
Water has no feet.
With cupped hands,
I will pick up
the crying baby.
When stars
go to sleep, I hear you
in dark, wandering
like amusk deer.
In a book
I will keep your eyes.
When you cradle in
Selene's arms, my thoughts
will catch a poem.
Once your mind
was not occupied with
my image, a fly of poison
bit me.
I was never the same again.
Satish Verma, 6 november 2022
No time was left
to call you to bring in
black rose to ward off
the ill omen.
Garden was burning.
Between the dense
smoke and golden flames,
blood moon was disappearing
like brisk pain.
Nothing matters now.
I had kissed your
hand only once, before
the door was shut. The
lips would count the poems
we didn't share.
Clouds come, clouds
go. The story ends
of rags to riches. The riches
of knives become blunt.
The Beekeeper was dead.
Satish Verma, 5 november 2022
The footman was
unseen. I assume, the
new democracy comes
into being.
A steady stream
of thoughts, spread wordlessly.
You feel only the plodding.
The river knows
the integrity of banks. They
won't cave in dry spell.
The rainbow digs in.
There were no arrows
to shoot down the moon.
Time will teach you.
You can't hold on
the realization alone. It
was late to pull back the strings.
Trying to become you.
Nonplussed, still wanting
me to hold on.
Satish Verma, 4 november 2022
When the hurting
fails to speak, tribalism wins,
without a shine.
When I hold your
hand, you wanted to know
the ethics of our sins.
Then you bend in dream
like the circinate frond
or maidenhair, to kiss
my bleeding toes.
For you someone
would be falling apart. Take care
of him to the death of night.
The body will meet
the dust one day, to understand
life and come back to
unload the virtues.
Not you, not me
we all are superficial.
Satish Verma, 3 november 2022
Do not punish yourself
devastatingly;
as long as I am not
turned into stone.
The display must
not be invoked. Go gingerly
in the lake of two wills.
Grief should not be
grey. In wilderness you
will find the support
of thick-lipped ghosts.
Pithy muscles
back the yellow rocks enigma.
Moon always comes to sleep
in the arms of blue sky.
Not the pathfinder,
I would become your path.
Poetry
Prose
Photography
Graphics
Video poems
Postcards
Diary
Books
Handmade
