Satish Verma, 30 november 2018
Some question?
It always haunted me.
In combat posture,
why would I become a child?
To cry and learn a laugh?
Karma?
A green memory,
of the shade of bougainvillea's
arbor, entwining the wooden pain
of my frame, to know
the faith of water, improvidently
creating the false interiors.
How far was the home?
You want to toe the
peace of garden, blue sky
and dark night.
Satish Verma, 29 november 2018
O stark avenger,
Time.
I will come on your lapses,
when every moment,
tells a lie.
Was it wrong time?
To ask the poem go,
binary?
on a fringe thought?
Has the angst a right,
to explore the fast moving
mind, to experiment
with the answer?
We are on the crossroads,
to know ourselves,
driven by the fragrance,
man-made.
The words are only transient!
Satish Verma, 28 november 2018
I try to think,
not to think of you;
cede hope to candor.
You will not contribute,
to your own rape, of truth;
rediscovering the shame.
The modesty will not sit
on the stigmata.
Moths were becoming defiant.
Copiously drenched,
under the wet moon,
a poem will seek a title.
It returns back, the
kiss, you sent for the flame.
It was very hot, the farewell.
Satish Verma, 27 november 2018
It was not easy to recall,
the love in truancy. Needs
extra gene. I would wake up in blue
darkness for an aubade.
The salt glitters when I
shut the mind.
In random wreckage,
the first glow before dawn,
sets you on fire. A star gazing
begins, buried in the flesh, only
the eyes protruding, incapable
to locate the moon.
A blank paper floats. You
were surfing on words. Not
yet to meet the inevitable. Not
the kiss of hurt. I am coming
to unfurl the opus, the
noble commitment of navel crossing.
Satish Verma, 26 november 2018
It does not make any sense
to go beyond, where the road ends.
He was searching the meaning
of life. Moving out of comfort zone
to Roman cave.
Émigré to chessboard,
he will stop pushing the game.
But what about the demons―
sitting on my chest, in cahoots with the nails?
Somebody walks into assassin's
trap. Somebody's bread does not
reach the home.
A child will ask, when my
father will return? There was no answer.
The tide has brought back
the ashes.
Herbert Witzen, 25 november 2018
How flows this wild and often hidden stream?
What, but trapped in the body the haunt,
this love of mine, the world cannot see;
maybe should not, a select few souls only
picked for some outward squint and awkwardness.
Do I value you, O abundant spirit, in the thoughts of the world,
where you too often lie, far off, not in me, where I forget you?
O myself!
Myself! Well, I cannot obey that entity and its demands all through;
I must caress and oppress what needs each,
and by each present the world a cankerless flower.
What an outfit to wear! Which does not show
but in the inward of the eyes, and whose soles guide the wearer,
and not the wearer it. And what choice,
that would not misrepresent and slander another I,
and bring to bear a hackneyed and false impression
of a simple side, a mask, a map
for thieves to steal the golden store.
I suggest that I, courageous and wise,
which is securest and tenderest:
thieves and invalids far off and below,
space to step around or step over.
Satish Verma, 25 november 2018
Like sly coyotes
you move around
the fireballs. You switch off
the earthly lights. They are
now oranges. Presently
a broker will sell the wounds
of the moon.
Why did you feel sad of something
which was unsaid? A thousand
and one words will speak
when the poem would be brought
dead. You are not here
not in the nakedness of lies, when
something glitters which was not yellow.
The twilight now settles
in your eyes. Moon refuses to
plunge into darkness.
Satish Verma, 24 november 2018
There was no secret
among mountains.
Clouds were their adopted siblings.
*
Only the rain drops
were dancing.
The mounts stand still.
*
I beg your leave.
The spring has invited.
I have to meet the yellow blooms.
Magdalena S., 24 november 2018
obralam sie dzisiaj
z wlasnej prywatnosci
w wyobrazni oczywiscie
wiesz, mowia ze
najlepsze jest tuz pod skorka
przy sercu
zalezy jak grubo kroisz
Satish Verma, 23 november 2018
Take off the glasses and
look at it closely, the infant
universe of the ―
receding age.
I said, weapons should not
be allowed to speak, cheating
the all terrain of
humankind.
The legality has to be
defined to earn the daily
bread for impregnable
hunger.
Whatsoever, there was no
precedence to take the occult
into the homes of non-
committal voices.
You become the temple
without god, who was
waiting at the gate.
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