Satish Verma, 6 january 2020
Tonight the moon will sit
on the gazobe,
to have a look at the sea, rising.
*
On the night's shade
dewdrops will wait, till
morning glory blooms.
*
It was a long night.
My lamp starts to flicker.
I hurry up to finish my poem.
Satish Verma, 5 january 2020
It was a damp kiss
of an image.
Dispassionately you drop
an old coin into my hands.
Faithless in your poem.
I adored the Venus in twilight.
Carnation. A rose pink color,
appears in your eyes.
Rising from the marshy
slush, greater flamingos
keep watch underneath, at the
army of urns.
The sameness now dithers.
You want to weave the moon
in your breast, unpreparing
to open the heart.
Satish Verma, 4 january 2020
The brown rice were
not yet ready.
An old man turns in grave.
*
The thingness
was shapeless in dark
Like a sleeping Buddha.
*
Once I told a lie.
The snow started melting
releasing methane.
Satish Verma, 3 january 2020
Can you understand
the agony of a titan, which
cannot afford to show its fall?
Missing the defeat―
no one was victorious.
Battle cry was a phantom.
The questions, that were
fluttering in a storm―
had become the sufi fakirs.
It was a dirty stricture.
The colors had stopped flowing.
Even the death has lost its terror.
Satish Verma, 2 january 2020
I would not understand
your fabric, when you come
wearing only smile.
The politics of life was beyond
my poetry. I only have the words
as my wealth. No other assets.
I wanted more space
between the black holes. My earth
needs a rebirth. I am very lonely.
Poison poems. You always
sparred with a family of weighting
heights, which could not touch the sky.
A series of serial killers,
were ready to begin the assault
on the tossing daffodils, deaf, dumb and blind.
Satish Verma, 1 january 2020
I felt you, through your
words. Tight and
crisp. But you remained untouchable.
For thousand of years
a lity of valley
cried, to get a dove's cooing voice.
The musk deer will not
leave its domain. Some
poems were hungery of its hideout.
An ordinary day of fall
starts the inferno. Syllable
by syllable in colors.
The dilemma of drinking
the hemlock at one go.
How would I describe the ascending paralysis?
Satish Verma, 31 december 2019
In search of wholeness,
the words sit around me
cutting the edge of the corn ear.
A new shibboleth, will
announce the arrival of
a bloody tribe.
In this life cycle, I
will meet you, to kidnap
a Pir for remaining silent.
Who was on the road
to give a sane advice
to the waning roses?
It was not poemtime.
The kids were bleeding
from the barbs of unknown.
Satish Verma, 30 december 2019
The godman also had
an underbelly.
He lost his vision,
came full circle.
Now paper lamps
float in rows
on tear effect.
An underdog―
becomes a horseman,
follows the royal buggy
with a naked king.
The verdict was
very simple.
It was a nightmare.
Satish Verma, 28 december 2019
I believe in you, O tidal
mouth, where the salt
meets the stream.
I never had any God
to put the fish in desert to swim,
and someone can write a poem.
I am not different
beyond the unwritten
miracles. I cannot undo a cliché.
It is still my dharma ―
to listen to unheard cosmic
chants of blue birds.
And I reached the emptiness
of a vessel, which had
spilled over the milk of seeds.
Satish Verma, 27 december 2019
Was it a calculated
risk, when it was poetry,
falling like rains
on the parched lips
of yellowing pages.
Like the stones of a
grey mountain,
singing a hymn to blasts,
pick pocketing the sun?
I start reading the anatomy
of violence, ever, never
easy to understand.
Lots of red blotches
were spread on the tiny figures.
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