Renato N. Mascardo, 1 january 2021
stewpot of memories
(for gene baňez)
like pipe
smoke embedded
in my father’s jacket
your tuitive musing of med
school days
wells in
me the scents and
flavors of the past we
all shared/ the anamnesis of
affairs
long gone/
the piquant and
the bitter we choose to
ignore/ savoring instead the
haut-gout
of past
dalliances
of faded friendships of
minionings that persist through time
that have
become
sweeter and sharp
the umami in the
stewpot of memories/ and
now in
this fagged
transactional
age of truthiness and
quid pro quo you may ask/ the price
that we
owe her
the exchange that
is really fair between
her and us/ the tuition-fee that
we paid
against
all that we got
are getting and will get
back from her plus memories so
priceless//
renato
thursday 31 december 2020
Satish Verma, 1 january 2021
Answering your own question,
wrapping the kill-
as manifestation of
God's will.
The old earth
still bears the fruits and
comes face to face with the
ungrateful human being.
Not touching your breast, I will
hear your heart beat
once-over.
Before the rains come,
the rage will sleep with the stones
and reconstruct a-
prehistoric fault.
Apollo wants to leave
Delphi and become a monk.
Satish Verma, 31 december 2020
Stares down, the grey
moon, fixedly,
in naked aggression…
Fire and brimstone.
I move one step, towards you. In semidarkness
I have lost the address
of peace.
The transgender, stumps
the ghost. There was no noun,
no pronoun, only an abstract
feel. Do you see the
wooly trail beating the dust?
When did you hit the dirt road
not to come back…
What was undone? After
the death of the cuckoo, there was
no wedlock in words.
Satish Verma, 30 december 2020
Like the banana peel
thrown on the sidewalk, you
come across the life.
And you still go on, in the-
search of moonlight-
without pills.
The drugged sleep.
Unorthodoxly you insult
the sun. And one-liners
go abegging for the listeners.
You are talking to your
peers now, long dead.
Fair amount of water, is
needed to sink.
The river merchant has brought
no fish.
Satish Verma, 29 december 2020
Like the banana peel
thrown on the sidewalk, you
come across the life.
And you still go on, in the-
search of moonlight-
without pills.
The drugged sleep.
Unorthodoxly you insult
the sun. And one-liners
go abegging for the listeners.
You are talking to your
peers now, long dead.
Fair amount of water, is
needed to sink.
The river merchant has brought
no fish.
Satish Verma, 28 december 2020
Like a snake
it moves.
My poem.
You are not, what you were
in the night, lightning
the grey moon.
I hear, what you
did not say or did-
not think.
Even dark
forebodings, move like red
ants, from the slit eyes.
I cover the faults
via songbird, which
was calling, desperately,
unwaitingly.
Satish Verma, 27 december 2020
You decline to speak-
to listen-
to see
like a meditating Buddha.
Like a sunflower
with moon seeds,
ready to explode at sunset.
Strangulated-
neck, hanged from a tree
to tell the tale-
that you were violated.
This was the principle of
cosmic order. Poor god
waits for the world
to show the rage.
I wake up the tree.
Leaves fall like unspoken words
from the decaying oak.
Satish Verma, 26 december 2020
In suddenness, I will
write a poem for you.
You had stopped at the
outset, like a black moon
opening up perfervidly.
Remote from the oneness
of life, a flame leapt up
to ignite the process of birth-
without perceiving.
Come let's meet at the
navel of the destiny.
I had the penchant of
burning myself.
You, who would never be
visible, I will dust all the mirrors
to find out.
Waiting for the festival to begin.
Satish Verma, 25 december 2020
Refusing to be
healed.
A wound will stay awake.
Mired in bitter controversy,
the captain said-
the war was not a deliberate act of
atoning for the soul.
That prevents the sun
to come out after a long night.
You walk in the light years,
gaunt and dazed,
in pain of hunger. The words
hang in shame.
A city fails, for
another voice of verse,
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