Satish Verma, 7 march 2019
When clouds were
drawing graffiti on sky,
where were you?
Untamed manners
in a profound grief
brings back the black buck.
The buck stops here,
fallen on the golden ax.
Get me the lantern.
Satish Verma, 5 march 2019
Scratching the rusted face
of the dust storm-
to read the message.
I have come very far,
from the old stinks.
It was not the escape.
The unshaped sap,
spills from the cut end-
of treetops. I gather your cones.
The fall begins abruptly.
It was a landslide of
leaf drop. Yellow and brown.
I wait for the red.
It reminds me of blood
dripping from your poem.
Satish Verma, 4 march 2019
That obscene stare
aggravates the silicon
thrust. You become a victim
of an upheaval.
The white dwarfs have
invaded the blackboard.
You can get a glimpse
of unsolicited rape.
A cyanide capsule
hangs on your chest.
Will you commit a suicide
after an unnatural kill?
It takes a toll. The
abuse of the fingers.
Instead of writing a name
you print the cave.
Satish Verma, 2 march 2019
Time entombed, a negative
film, showing the
white bones of
a black moon.
I am surprised, how
a jungle of humanity, lives
with predators―
uncomplainingly.
A lost genre will find
new syllables to start a
heliographic script to
make history.
There has to be some
reason, in the lamb days
to become a wolf.
Satish Verma, 1 march 2019
On ladder, you climb
for espionage, with
a feeling of an evil.
Somewhere, somebody
pulls the strings,
at arterial roads.
You put yourself
in harm’s way for
exotic blooms.
A civil disobedience, starts.
A bone of contention was
the muscle of love.
One on one
tooth for tooth,
lips for lips.
Satish Verma, 28 february 2019
The pungent smell of dry
smoldering leaves, greet you
when you cross the road.
The knower has become
unknowable and I start collecting
the pebbles, a remimder
of lost childhood.
Somebody has kidnapped the
art of the nocturne. The
songbird will never find the moon.
When you are under attack
you run faster,
to drink the speed of dust.
It was a case of intimidation.
Invisible ghosts were demanding
their bricks of gold.
Satish Verma, 27 february 2019
Like a wax moth, me―
sensing your footsteps
from a mile.
*
The half-truths
were always baked in milk
to look white.
*
The cleric was
jubilant. God has decided
not to live any more.
Satish Verma, 26 february 2019
The upbeat moon
becomes dazed, when you
start, the dance of death.
Personified, lone word,
unloved; changes the
choreography.
Given space, a sick
crowd, expands, unsquares,
for the throne.
The abysm from which
the cicadas are crawling out
to devour our being.
I do not want to
control you, your song.
I am burning in my own holocaust.
Satish Verma, 25 february 2019
There was a sharp rise
of indecent things. On the
rocks you left my name
without flowers.
Make a heap of all
the gifts of life and griefs and
start a bonfire. No message
is going to come.
Let us live in separate bowls
of soup. Time had swept
them clean for a murder.
One day the alien god will
alight from the sins,
to alter the numbers.
The mudslide of untruths
will scupper your house
made of paper and pen.
Satish Verma, 24 february 2019
A desire spews the rocks.
Between two moments
lies my body.
Learning the first alphabet
of violence. I fail myself
in the lily pond.
Statues and inscriptions
were me. I had become
the god of doubts.
A disembodied faith
overtakes my senses,
I float between the words.
The humming
starts from a formless bee.
The everpresent honey drips.
Poetry
Prose
Photography
Graphics
Video poems
Postcards
Diary
Books
Handmade
