Satish Verma, 22 november 2018
Raising the walls
around you, you started
a ritual of placing a single
rose on the tomb daily.
Trapped in the blues,
there was a killer instinct
to destroy the self.
I become a flame,
passing through the flesh
eroding the body's mystique.
The ravage words
now sleep. A dying
moon will set the
night free.
It was an invasion by
deathless roots at night.
A slow music starts by puppeteers
to undo the potter's field.
Satish Verma, 21 november 2018
The winds ruffle the
solitude. Sparrows were
watching me.
*
My name was floating
in dark. I want to burn the
book, to throw some light.
*
Violence will toss
you around, when you
are wearing the grass.
Satish Verma, 20 november 2018
Under the holy basil,
lighting the earthen lamp,
whom do you invoke at dusk?
*
A needle pricks your finger.
You smear the blood
on your face.
*
It was the flame of forest
which ignites the path,
you wanted to tread on.
Satish Verma, 19 november 2018
Moon was not faraway.
It rejected the evidence against the rhyme
and proceeded to release
the poem.
The colored bracts of
bougainvillea, fall solemnly, to kiss
the grass. Spring was around
the corner.
Quizzing a stone, a dream
crashes in my hands;
becomes a tiger moth and
settles on your lips.
Future turns into a shell.
I pick it up from the beach of time.
Play with it for sometime and
give it away to my offspring.
It was the beginning. It was the end.
Satish Verma, 17 november 2018
A tiny doubt sends out
the solvos. Self on fire,
you want to bail out the hierarchy.
Physically imperfect, a star
ejects the charged rays.
There was no secret of coronal
mass. You were taking a dip
in golden plumes of nirvana.
No suffering, no remorse.
A slice of moon will heal.
In your path lies the gray earth.
Who will incite the ocean now?
A transient truce will not give
you the leaping death of
valley. The clouds will take there own revenge.
Satish Verma, 16 november 2018
Unmaking the bond
between cause and effect.
You start throwing stones
as a mark of intimacy.
Ipomea:
You wanted to learn the
art of blooming silently
at dawn.
Huddled like solar flares
before colliding with
a drift, you wanted me to live
for eternity.
Watching sperm dance
without tails
in bell jar.
It was barely visible.
Cultivating a digital entry.
This was becoming
a terror-haven.
Satish Verma, 15 november 2018
Not begging,
for a native dream;
hiding an ocean in the eyes.
The hills were trembling.
I am going to cross the river,
of flames.
I am sitting on the dirt floor,
counting the cowries.
This was my home,
that was my book.
Playing the game of death.
What had you written, O god
with your quivering hand.
I am still following a riderless horse.
Not the least. Any want...
Give back my blank page.
Satish Verma, 14 november 2018
Sailing,
triangulating the body.
I will not come for the false blues.
You dig out the bones-
to evaluate the sickle,
that failed to trim the dark.
The murder was clean.
A religion lies beheaded.
Anaerobic, the poem survived.
The animal smell,
stays.Overpowers the limbs.
You run blindfolded.
The crickets emit an omen.
A sulfur burns.
The yellow sun was rising.
Satish Verma, 13 november 2018
Let the untold suffering
settle the incompleteness of truth.
You have to move out―
making space.
The empty chair fills in
at dark. I talk to my father,
daily about the remains of life
and falling debris.
A son does not want to
know the futurity. A dazed poet
will write the history of ruins
which was younger than memory.
A resilience still brings me
face to face with the gods of dead souls.
Satish Verma, 12 november 2018
A dirty word
waits for the chilling moon.
Be aware now. I am
going to ask the black mountain.
There was no credible
reason, why did you wait
so long for a chimera?
A chaste excuse for
seven seas. They wanted a close
encounter with aliens.
This was spring of orange
and black monarchs
who have to distribute
the gifts for hunger earth.
I cannot understand myself.
Sometimes I am happy,
sometimes I start grieving.
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