Tim Kitchen, 17 february 2020
Even though it rises every day
somewhere, someplace in time.
On a day in the life of Jacob
the sun doesn’t often shine.
A shopping centre is bright and loud
and Jacob is sitting on the ground.
With his head buried in his hands
sensory overload of sight and sound.
People notice as he begins to shout
his Mother scared he’ll run away.
Some think he’s badly behaved
but for him it’s just an Autism day.
Later he escapes to his room
stressed and needing time alone.
A meltdown at dinner hasn’t helped
but he’s calmer now, on his own.
Playing at length on his old guitar
takes his mind to another place.
Where the demons in his head
for a while are not in his face.
Eventually he takes to his bed
and will rise, as soon as it’s light.
Probably won’t have much to eat
appetite dulled by a restless night.
People around him struggle to help
he tries to cope in his own way.
On a day in the life of Jacob
it’s always an Autism day.
But he deserves a chance in life
and we must strive to find a way.
For children like him, with future fears
to be able to seize the day.
Satish Verma, 16 february 2020
Handcuffed, you digress
from the vacuity. A bucket
full of hymns, will not―
erode, the fog of winter.
Let us start telling the
unsaid things of monstrous life.
The milk bath, the roaring and
the panther in the dry well.
The cortical pain, seeps into
the medulla. You will not find
a single soul, who will talk
about the fall.
The clocks are being moved
to save the light―
which splinters into myriad
faces, when you scream.
Satish Verma, 15 february 2020
A firefly in a jar
will not fly.
Presiding over the genocide
how can you count the dead
children of god, on the street,
by your forked tongue?
The roving eyes. Chameleons.
With folded hands, they
throw the snow on your
disheveled hair.
The morals are marketed
daily on the dais. I deny myself,
something which I can give
you. O hunger, don't go back.
Satish Verma, 13 february 2020
Fear of staying in sidelines,
as a waning voice,
and falling in a drain.
You stand at the door of light,
and see the truth― boundaries
crumpling.
Afraid of transmission of lies,
interfacing long threads
of darkness.
It was extraneous, A
lot of heat generated by the
conversions. The doorkeeper remains the same.
The wisdom goes with
a begging bowl. Spirit was to
become an incomplete text.
Satish Verma, 11 february 2020
Skin deep, the moon
goes with me,
to bid goodbye to old year.
I have moved nearer
to the door knob,
of the unopened crypt.
The stale air leaks from the crumbling door.
The unfinished books
are under the frost. I cannot
shovel the walk. A grainy
picture emerges, of despair.
Going to dig up the ruins
to find the script.
Ink spills on the paper,
words depart.
Satish Verma, 9 february 2020
I hear again your voice
after injury pause.
An apologia.
It is still kempt,
the mist scented, milk bath
by moon, in dark.
In legendary night, everything was legitimate.
The licit kiss of death too.
One by one the faces
were missing. The snake bites,
of love.
The embroidered memories are
hanged to dry up in rain.
The eyes like moths, flicker around
the dark candle of another childhood.
Satish Verma, 8 february 2020
The long tentacles return
to gather you,
in clawless loops.
What do you see in the godless
domain of winged
colts?
The colossus had
glaring flaws. Binary
curse falls like a barrel-bomb.
I remained oblivious
of the uncorrupted dawn,
rising from the ruins of fallen saints.
I am standing on the
grey rock, where black and
white meet. Time becomes a moment.
Satish Verma, 7 february 2020
Wearing raw beef,
speaking Buddha,
it was real time in dystopia.
I was wondering,
how to cheat life.
Crypts were empty.
Think, keep quite,
I would say, watching
the river go by.
The feral look, will
teach you suffer. There
was no ending.
Half-bird, half-mount―
You carry the burden
of undoing nemesis.
Satish Verma, 6 february 2020
A mentalist does not feel
secure, when you start
jaywalking in the empty street.
What was the need to
rescue a predator, when
the river was dry?
The ducks were crossing
the road. Stay put, till
the kids want to make a halt.
It was a renaissance
connection, when a clan is
sentenced to speak softly.
Satish Verma, 5 february 2020
The fat moon
rises, when the bland earth
gives a call.
Like the black magic
of depression, in fall,
overwhelming the silence.
Of not becoming, what
you wished me to be,
or not to be.
A conflict always,
climbs the wall to overlook,
the pain of separation.
This winter, I am not
going to witness, the death
of night birds.
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