Satish Verma, 22 september 2019
A young grasshopper lands
on the paper, I was writing upon,
making a chirping sound―
and starts reading the poem.
It was an exceptional treat
for the eyes. Shutting the storm
window, I will watch the rain―
pounding on the frame,
to recall the visitor―
which was behaving like a
celtic Druid, in meditation, to see
the future of mankind.
Not sure, the bent legs, will
ever lift the body and
propel it to move.
The mayhem was thin, but I
declared― the poetry
was not for insects.
Satish Verma, 21 september 2019
Unsung:
how it was, you died
wearing your shoes? The
jesamins will meet you―
in the backyard.
The stains are unwashable;
like pomegranates bursting
open on my chest. The
screams still run after me.
How do I get you midway―
in anonymity. I never wanted
you to go, my make-believer.
It was not homozygosity.
Your face swims like
a dragonfly on the interface
of tears. There was no re-entry
in the frame of life.
Satish Verma, 19 september 2019
Leaker had started
the invasion of the lake.
The house blinks every night.
Was there any civility
for boats to collect―
the skeletons from the bed?
The dust dances in my
empty home. From where―
the ashes of wounds had come?
There was fear of unknown.
I was afraid of the fear.
I am burning your address.
I see an apparition. A
branded witch. I don't care.
Death was always my friend.
Satish Verma, 18 september 2019
Training your voice, you
had come around to open―
the door of the miasma.
The departure stretched
very long. Strange blinkers
were holding the light.
A cunning God would
not let you die―
in the trenches of syllables.
The moon would withdraw
from the humming night―
for a face-lifting.
One blind sun, hurts
the path, where I had
laid the marigolds.
Satish Verma, 17 september 2019
When you would be absent,
O Druid, I will know you better.
Time leaps my watch―
I have become blind.
It was not enough to
read― that was not written yet.
I am coming down the mountain
to meet the dust.
Life was not very kind to me.
Too much undoings had given
me a white sheet to―
write the names of fugitives.
I sweep the floor, I wash
the black earth and shut―
the windows. Too much knowing
had made me a dwarf.
Satish Verma, 16 september 2019
The abundance spills on my
torn shirt, when I was
gathering your voice.
The affiliated sore
begins to fester in your face―
after flying a kite.
It blurs, when you give
a speech, manipulating the lives
of innocent bystanders.
When you were heaving the numbers,
I was holding on the poems, like coins
not your paper thoughts.
Being blind was not becoming
a Buddha in the garden.
Suicides were increasing every day.
Satish Verma, 15 september 2019
It was a flame in the drizzle:
a golden peacock.
I was trying to understand
the Adam and Eve.
Between X and Y, my
heliograph stood in the foliage of words.
The hetero factor was generating heat.
The mitochondrial Eve will
search the land where the seeds were
dispersed. The swinger was still
active in the dark.
You have missed the bomb.
The laser-fed boom landed―
in the crotch of death.
The black dust covered the grave.
Satish Verma, 14 september 2019
Despite the great divide
a dialogue must ensue, between
earth and sky.
This was a climacteric change, when
you cannot land on your feet,
after the rainfall.
The criminal assaults, rapes
and homicides, bring the species
on boil. The books are our god.
You cannot start a group
conflict, skirting the question
of mining the gold.
The void within widens, you
will not tell my dreams. For each
star I had picked up a soul.
Satish Verma, 13 september 2019
Lamenting, what not to―
think. Condemned to burn
the words daily.
The dwindling values tear open
the sit-ins of faith. I was
not ready to become a stone.
A busy vessel sends daily, the
blood to remote memories.
I look askance at the falling peaks.
A dog star following the
heels of master with blinders. No
straight vision. Time was the
mystery of the clock.
The moon is nowhere
in sight. I was starving
for a cardinal pain.
Satish Verma, 12 september 2019
You were becoming more prone
to violence, confronting
the moon. Heat was rising.
Like a mongrel, twirling
round and round in dirt,
to sit in.
It was very dangerous, the
racial thought of eliminating
oneself in the mainstream.
A morphogenic change
was visible. Why were you
shrinking in horror?
The group pain was getting
a hold of me. I am not
sure, what I will do now.
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