Satish Verma, 22 november 2020
Salt-of-the lips.
You never know, how it hurts
the bigotry.
It was not the might
of divinity, when you sentence
the child for blasphemy.
I would not kiss the-
stone, where the blood stained
the sun. Grey halo was collapsing.
It was the helplessness
of the river, accepting the guilt
of sunken boat.
Again I recite your name
in sleep. The sting was as cruel
as the tongue.
RENATA, 21 november 2020
Idą zombi gdzieś na spacer
idą sobie tylko w maskach
idą bo gdzieś muszą iść
Mama tata dzieci miś
i najgorsze jest mniemanie
że to jest normalne
raz dwa trzy
oddy cha my
Wchodzimy do sklepu a tam proszę bardzo
kolorowe maski nie wyrażają zachwytu na twarzach
bierzemy bierzemy bo wszystko się przyda
zanim zobaczę kto jest kto i się wyda
co i ile jemy
schudniemy czy przytyjemy
co to komu szkodzi jesteśmy anonimowi
to nie maskarada
ale krążą w maskach
czy mordercy czy to zbóje
złodzieje czy chuje
co ON tam pod maską knuje
nic nie wyraża ludzka mina
nie wiesz kiedy trafisz na skurwysyna
patrz w oczy tam cała prawda
czy masz PSA przed sobą czy policjanta
czy pouczy w związku czy skopie i da mandat
OBOWIĄZKOWO I Z POLECENIA
staliśmy się zombi bez twarzy i imienia
z chęci normalności
robimy w promocji
SESJĘ
zdjęcia w maseczkach
awangarda czy standard
Satish Verma, 21 november 2020
You to whom, I
am lost, the remaining pain
will fetch the grace-
poise and dignity of
ending.
The future lies in-
the halo of the hill, where
the blood was spilled last night.
A black spot on the sun was
enlarging. I spell your name
in a bird song, that croons
tirelessly in timeless dawn.
The moon drenched lake
wails for the boat not to come.
Satish Verma, 20 november 2020
The heartwood had the ingrained
dream map, to reach the
divine shape of a solemn god, who
was guiding the sap.
One day you would go deep
in dark, to find your roots
where tomorrow was conceived.
And in the ruins, you will
find the warmth of
your peers, still walking on the god-particles.
A religion now takes over
the mob, ready to plunge into yellow
sands of dry river.
The hopes and promises,
give you a horizon, far away.
Your want to touch this furnace,
that brings the burning day of solitude.
Ice, 19 november 2020
everyday
I was imagining us
that day when we'll be together
coz this whole waiting thing sucks
I can't hold your hand
I can't touch you
I can't do things for you
I can't make you smile
I can't comfort you
I'm losing hope sometimes
but your love makes me go on
but I found out while I'm imagining
you're doing it to someone else
my world broke apart
do I deserve this pain??
you held her hand
you touched her
you do things for her
you makes her smile
you comfort her
I lost hope
but your lies made me move on....
Ice, 19 november 2020
I don't wish you karma
I just want you to realize my worth
I don't wish you go back to me
I just want you to do what you want to do
I don't wish it's still me
I just want you to be happy
..even if it's not me
Satish Verma, 19 november 2020
Wearing the red bandanna,
you tried to manipulate the bedrock.
Life had been never the same for me.
The ferry sinks the riding
deity in midstream. In polytheism,
I never had my own god.
O the chemistry of love has
changed. Meatless, my skiny arms,
lift the sage of fallen moon in darkness.
I am not ready to conclude
as yet, my epic of fragmented truth.
We were fighting the wars of lame lies.
Who would spare me to become
immortal in stones? Let us not start the
annihilation of sane shadows in the poem.
Satish Verma, 18 november 2020
Your interpretation
was a miracle of
unbelieving. I was not
a flesh eater.
Between paradise
and a hut, lies the sky
of colored dreams. You
lean forward to-
pluck the moon.
So stoned, was the
sinister design, that
you walked straight
into the arms of stings.
It has become a
strange saga, when a
moth burns, without
a candle.
A sun nosedives with
a water motif on the lips.
RENATA, 15 november 2020
a wtedy gdy już wszystko było
przykuję cię kajdankami
będziesz uległa bez przymrużenia oka
i pęknąłbym ze śmiechu
gdyby ktoś powiedział
że kopniesz mnie tak
że w momencie śmierci
nakryję się jajami
a potem dla bezpańskiego psa
będę Pedigrii Pall
a wtedy zrzucając na karb
twej kobiecej wyobrazni
radz sobie sama z bransoletkami
pushpatuladhar, 13 november 2020
The Poetry that I never created,
But the seconds of my day
That I adored so much.
Couldn’t grip the moments
Of my day in my fists
As the iceberg of the day
Set into water and spilled over
From the seams of my fists.
After my morning routine,
I’d befall at
The dining table of my kitchen
For my everyday breakfast
With a Mug of Coffee
Or a Cup of Tea
Arising the whole fullness in
The emptiness within me.
The morn spun another page
Of my erstwhile diary
With the deeds of that very day,
Too much absorbed I’d be in
Savoring the flavor in me
So that my time spilled out
Of my clenched fists
Might never be in futile.
*
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