Satish Verma, 25 november 2019
Widening the scope
you want to remain
at center stage.
Thinking starts, battling
the ghosts. Doubt remains alive.
A broken beer bottle, at your throat.
You suffer the fall
of humankind.
The acid burns. You wire the
clouds. Tears will not flow.
This is not the end.
Turn the page. Why you
need the signs?
Those pale, staring eyes, unclosed.
Not sufficient?
Can you read the red line?
Was it not an oblique cut,
where the sand was lifted?
Satish Verma, 24 november 2019
Gold fringed, the hood
strikes. You are bound
to throne.
It was unnatural to
demolish the ancient shrine.
God will not show his face.
And what about the dew
collecting on grass leaves,
when you were crying?
The kids won't cry now.
The hunger has put
them to sleep.
It was the dead end
now. You are melting in
great walls.
Satish Verma, 23 november 2019
Not a dog day―
after snapping. In
fatigues, you get a parole
to start sowing sunflowers.
A butterfly skips,
the roundabout and lands
on your lips―
after spending entire
life from flower-to-flower
from bush-to-bush.
I was a witness to history
in making. There was
no togetherness. Will you
believe that?
I am a flame now. All
night I will burn,
to read the explosions―
reaching the bottom of fear.
Satish Verma, 21 november 2019
Collecting the dirt,
a speechless drama unfolds.
Now you can hear the―
wails of buried amnesia.
You can touch now the footsteps
where the activist fell.
The gift of bleeds coming
from the saddened past;
the space was expanding―
to accommodate missed abortions.
My limbs giveaway gathering,
the blackberries of moon.
Satish Verma, 20 november 2019
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, 19 november 2019
Weep every don.
All the translations were fake.
The yellow peaks do not burn the
sky, now at sunrise.
I am forgetting myself―
in the gathering of my foes.
The pilgrim's path is now dirty.
You cannot transcend the―
dead remains of ancestry. In
the hutment, that was the end of view.
Nightblindness. I cannot fathom
out the saint descending a great depth.
From beastkinds I swim back
to save an unborn epic.
Satish Verma, 18 november 2019
I was not afraid of the clock, ticking,
dividing your attention. A guarded
withdrawl of the statement, had
brought a comic relief to the distraught
vicitims.
Caving on guns, the
mustard cloud could wipe out
the entire generation.
The tender bodies
wrapped up in white cloaks,
ready to be sent back
to mother's womb: earth.
Why a sun wanted to
pass out gingerly?
Satish Verma, 17 november 2019
Unshackled, the pallor moon
was lying still, in a white-
shroud of clouds, only face
visible, staring-
down languidly.
I have come afar,
from the whispering dark,
to annul my existence.
Your hands tremble,
carrying your name. The
magic of unsaid-
poems, working.
Life had been a Medusa.
The blues, the reds, the
greens, overbearing.
Scores will be settled
when moon,
goes down.
Satish Verma, 16 november 2019
Art of dying
comes, after
you listen to the siren song.
The intention
was to kill yourself,
non-violently, when
moon was hiding.
Man was changing the skyline. You can
redraw the landscape without hurting the grass.
Don't offer to sacrifice
the goat on the rock,
where the shipwrecks took place.
You burn that, what you
would not eat. The
assassination charges were true.
Satish Verma, 15 november 2019
It was a free fall.
A plot seems to thicken.
I would never know.
Perhaps I will not explain,
how the test tube baby
slapped the sky.
The fun of unknowing
the secret of
a cold-blooded murder.
Suddenly the streetlamp
goes off. Night cracks
open to release the animal.
How a godman
becomes a werewolf?
The shadows are hovering.
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