Satish Verma, 23 february 2019
Hiding from each other
your prosperity.
I wanted to remain a fakir.
*
This was the faith
in its truest sense. I wanted
to live in childhood paucity.
*
Like the first letter
I wrote to you, I am
sending you a poem.
Renato N. Mascardo, 22 february 2019
in this empty room
no chats
day in day out
for days and days the room
stands still almost forlorn until
someone
departs
leaving the rest
still remaining to grieve
and touch before our room goes
empty//
renato
21 february 2019
for Rebecca Toledo and Liwayway Ibasco
Satish Verma, 22 february 2019
After tasting the homemade
poison, the walls,
start moving.
The poppies are in bloom.
I am not interested in morphine
or codeine. A sago palm has
come of age, preparing to
put up the conical sex.
A trust deficit will not know,
the signature of veneer, of
the gender.
Something moves behind the
bushes. I was already afraid
of emptiness. After the violence,
amputations and barrenness.
The desert invades my bones.
Cannot sleep with hands
on my chest. Will you
collect some runners?
I want to raise
the grass for the sake of commanality.
Satish Verma, 21 february 2019
The nephrite syndrome.
I will not change the―
calculus, to find the truth
of the flesh.
The paid price of chemistry
will make history. If
you can stop the blitz―
of the replicas.
It ends like a fire, without
ashes. The limbs check
the fall. Across the river
an isle erupts.
The prisoner at last escapes,
from the procession of profanities.
You are finally liberated,
releasing the lost poem.
Satish Verma, 20 february 2019
Nothing-ness fills me
again. Once visiting a funeral
home, a child asked me,
why do the people die?
How do I explain the dark
side of life? A blunt trauma,
makes me jaded. One collapsing
process creates the black hole.
A nude, the tall figure, stands
on the rock, much venerated,
and you cannot take off the
eyes, deciphering the skin.
In the intense pain of―
learning, a fantasy of
looking out at a ghost deity
in the vegetable, springs a miracle.
Satish Verma, 19 february 2019
Moon rose from
obscurity, once I released
the fury of darkness.
*
Do not want to
repeat; why my song was
stolen by flight of birds.
*
The negativity of
the penknife. Always tearing
away the heart.
Satish Verma, 18 february 2019
I will color
the sky, grieving for the
departed moon.
*
Tossing my words
onto the lake, to bring back
my baby pink.
*
Night I had woven
a gold pattern on the bed.
Memory will know.
Satish Verma, 17 february 2019
Like a meteorite streaking
through the sky, iron
and nickel, for a proxy collision
with hidden destiny.
It was the post trauma
syndrome, after the great
divide of breast, lifting
the nipples.
The lofty peak crumbles.
There will be the scare
around, to grow the poppies
on the mounds again.
Are you ready now
for emasculation? The
legacy will, on its own, pass
onto alternative sins.
Satish Verma, 16 february 2019
Come to me
like never ending pain.
I will wait till eternity.
*
Wing pierced, like
butterfly amidst cacti,
still trying to reach your lips.
*
I carry the fragrance
of fallen jessimines on grass,
white as the morning snow.
Satish Verma, 15 february 2019
The who was
inside you.
I want to discover,
a foam-born deity,
killing the moon.
You destroyed
me in the poems.
I cannot weave the
moonlight on the
jessamines.
Can you send
a message to Mars?
It is too crowded on
the earth. There was
no room for the muse.
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