Satish Verma, 16 august 2019
This was not a witch
or witchcraft, striking
a pose to entice the sleep.
The grass will not―
listen the earthly
eavesdropping on moon.
Some extra neutral
wine for a resilient poet
who will refuse to die.
My color was not black
nor white. It had the
golden hue.
Your nails were very sharp
digging for a *Digambra
on my bare chest.
Satish Verma, 15 august 2019
Why do I give you the bliss―
of my poverty?
The burden of asking, was light.
Not like the unquenchable
thirst of a desert. I will be a
night blooming cereus.
In exile, I will remember
your sky, tying the stars in
my poems, to recall your shades
when the moon moves away.
The sunlight throws the voiceless
profiles of clouds, motionless
suspended, waterless― dead.
There is no traffic, no history
of any scandles. The corners of
my prayer book have―
become dog-eared.
Satish Verma, 14 august 2019
Not settled anytime
between a beast, an angel and the man:
who was indebted to whom.
A cyclic ritual it was, to pay the debt
to the eternal dancer, who
was, harbinger to catastrophe.
Not wanted to be judged.
Fatherless, a shadow moves―
in the womb of justice.
Why do the moon was in distress?
A catmint will improve―
your vision.
No artificial insemination was―
needed. The pungent smell
would put you off.
A taste of triangle, lying
next to the moon
in bed of water.
Satish Verma, 13 august 2019
Remarkably steadfast, the
mighty oak was standing up, as
the thick rain was pounding at it.
I had come a faraway to unleash
the tenacity.
The flesh and the moon.
It was the anniversary of ropes
and shackles. You should not have
adored the distant dreams
without touching them. The transcript
was not ready. No template
was perfect.
I would not know most of you.
That was a bliss. In blue and dark―
I will sail for nothingness. No more,
no less. The chirping, synchronized trill
of crickets, encourages to stand still, I listen
without hearing.
I have come back to zero.
Satish Verma, 12 august 2019
Staring into nothingness―
the body clicks.
Smells the pungent fumes and/
cedes the suspension of tears.
Quenchless, you drink
the white phosphorus, glowing
in dark, of
stark reality.
The barrenness will put
up a Harappan seal,
to come back.
The stomata bleed.
The blue salt was naïve.
Will not leave the ocean.
You cannot swim,
you cannot drown.
Satish Verma, 11 august 2019
No moon tonight
I had to find―
my path along the hedges
by fireflies.
The river was in haze,
not wearing any scent.
Some invisible hands were
rowing a boat in midstream.
At this time a god jumps―
in, to sort out the memory of dark nights.
Not dementia. But I will
try to remember your face in moonlight.
Once I had lost my way
to your home. Now my
home has lost me for ever.
Satish Verma, 10 august 2019
While ascending throne,
you cover up your tracks―
by putting up the somber demeanor.
I don't find myself happy.
No stings visible. The world
is savagely beautiful, always
indulging in finding a goat.
Can you see through a person?
Wooden legs cannot take you very―
far. What you need was your intent,
to scramble and make a kill
of a subtone.
The crowd goes in a tizzy.
Tortoise in a bag, was moving
faster than the man.
Satish Verma, 9 august 2019
For a long time
I will look at you
to find my image.
In the grainy morn―
the frivolity,
dithers.
Thrown from the roof
a cluster of flowers
for vanity.
Satish Verma, 8 august 2019
Brown eyes:
little things―
I ask from you.
This is the holy land,
you can walk, without
offering anything.
I will not surrender
an alter ego
for a price.
The walls scoop
the shadows
for future skin.
A small pilgrimage
for the
dying god.
It hurts when
my lips will not touch
the flame.
Satish Verma, 7 august 2019
Digging deep into
the body of moment, you have
to find out the roots/of dopamine―
blend of dopa and amine,
circulating the gossip. It was
a prelude before a personal take―
into the consciousness of guilt.
Do you need to bring in
the demigods and tree nymphs―
for fertility? The arboreal pain
sends the apology of the shade.
There was no need of any limbs to
walk. Standing on the brink,
you can reclaim the pyramids.
The precocity of non-existence
appears, when you start confronting
the blue lake of tiny eyes.
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