Satish Verma, 1 september 2019
In fever, I will
always see butterflies
landing on your nose.
White, yellow, black.
They come and go and I am
sitting under a cherry blossom tree.
Stroking you, cajoling you
to drop the wings.
In grass the sun waits
in a dew drop.
The moon was not a poor thing.
Will come in white robes
to preach.
Satish Verma, 30 august 2019
Resisting your wisdom
I want to remain, thoughtless.
Not bargaining, I come in the crowd,
to negotiate a stunt.
The awakening,
the trepidation. I pay honour
to the great stress angler―
my poverty of cruel jokes.
Like a fox to reignite―
the identity. I will move away
from the body of blood soaked denials
standing alone, against the genocide.
Was still hungry, eating
your violet-red― plums. Not was whole,
the controversy. Somewhere a
forensic evidence will say, mask was not real.
Satish Verma, 29 august 2019
With the tip in the center,
this is the circle of an iron will
undoing the circination.
You are moving in a straight line
now. The knots in the chest
will take you to surrogacy.
The needle's eye was watching
you― gauging your grit.
Can you take a prick?
Without blood? From an
urn you lift a red string to tie
on the hands of unborn thought.
You miss a line, a word
an image. Still it happens deep
inside. An angst constricts you in
pythonic grip. A poem becomes you.
Satish Verma, 28 august 2019
Friends and foes
would have a scuffle
about, who was going to pluck the lymphoma.
A rainbow deflects,
from your eyes, making
me grasp for the breath.
Seeks apology, while
talking to trees, on boil
was the language, under the poverty line.
It does not make any sense.
The rain catcher was on trail
of a fugitive.
The sun. Always hiding
behind the veils of massacre.
I am not going to face the moon.
Satish Verma, 27 august 2019
I am trying to do my bit,
nonpareil. A soundproof doer,
erasing the palm from the painting―
drinking the nitrogen from the air
starving myself.
Cannot bequeath my eyes,
my thumb vision. You were always
asking about my sadness, emptiness.
I will not tell about
the acid times.
That killing instinct was not
there. I will give you the
unborn poems, that would not wear
the death mask, my unspoken
thoughts, peeling after the darkness and
I will let you go to find your path.
steve, 27 august 2019
I feel a fire raging.. deep down in my soul...
White hot flames are burning.. and know ones in control,
You can't know just how I feel.. and know one has a clue...
Of the fire raging inside me... when all I want is you,
I wish that I could tell you.. exactly how I feel...
Instead of stepping lightly.. while trying to conceal,
Life is more exciting.. when I look into your eyes...
I can feel every heart beat.. as my blood begins to rise,
Everything inside of me... I'm trying to control...
Like a moth to a flame-... I can feel it in my soul,
I wish that you could look at me... the way you look at her...
So I could feel the passion.. the way we never were,
To know the love inside your heart..or the heat beneath your skin..
There's nothing that I wouldn't do.. that I wouldn't do again,
I know the dreams I have of you.. live only in my head..
And any tears that have to fall.. are tears that I have shed,
I know that you don't understand.. why would you even care...
For you don't know the depth of love.. for you my heart must bear,
And though I cannot say out loud.. my true hearts desire..
You can see me from a hundred miles.. for I'm the "man on fire".
steve, 27 august 2019
There's a "monsoon" pouring down... in my heart and in my head...
And I can't stop the rain... from things that have been said,
The torrent that is rushing by... is washing me away...
And the years keep coming faster... leaving only yesterday,
Dreams I used to carry... have turned to nothing more...
Then vessels on the water... never reaching any shore,
The winds of time are blowing strong... but have yet to lift my sails...
And nothing that I've done in life... have ever tipped the scales,
It's like I'm here, but I'm not... and nothing that I do...
Will change a single thing... or make me visible to you,
Sometimes when I think I'm right... everything is wrong...
The years are passing way too fast... but nights are still too long,
If I've learned anything... it's that life's not what you think...
And when it's good... hold on tight... for it passes in a blink,
So let the rains fall down upon me... let it wash all over me...
Let my tears fill the rivers ... that are heading out to sea,
Let the tides rise and wash away.. the pain we hold onto.....
And maybe give us one more chance, at love we once knew.
Satish Verma, 26 august 2019
The hunger was scouring
each house― in utopia―
daring you to open the door.
Weavers were ready for―
the moment― of encounter―
to spin the corona.
As if an asteroid was heading
towards the silent ariel,
to destroy its integrity.
Beyond good and bad, there
was an effigy of a designer―
in dancing mode.
It was a jinx in your
speed. You would not climb on a
walk without a rope.
Satish Verma, 25 august 2019
The words had started to fail me.
There was always an ‘if'―
before every war of hunger.
The candlewick has burned
out. I am collecting the―
wax from the eyes.
Wrapped agony, now lifts
the dead bird from the
rose bushes.
The frosted god
will melt to bare a
black stone.
I am not luck
I am not the future.
You know where this path leads into?
Satish Verma, 23 august 2019
Unfazed you stand in―
a drizzle, to locate the
moon nestling in clouds.
The speed of bite was fatal,
showing the movement
of incompleteness.
I searched the identity―
of one anonymous, who
had fathered an illegitimate eunuch.
I wanted to make a
confession, looking at the
blue sky, about my waywardness.
The crazy thing of mixing
the flowers, winds, moon and birds
with serious chores of life.
Unmistakingly a poem.
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