Satish Verma, 4 october 2018
Write me a poem,
under the flickering candle.
Moon will not come tonight.
*
I was very sad today.
Could not find the vault
where I had kept your prints.
*
Not far from the lake
where we used to walk,
a blue bird has arrived.
Satish Verma, 3 october 2018
Need mercy for a
Freudian slip.
I was sitting on a window.
The light went out
from the eyes of the masterpiece.
Only stones were left.
Give me the figurine.
I wanted to cut open the navel
and find out the blue god.
Will you pull the chariot
of moon? The black horses
will not send the blessings.
The dawn was still hiding
in a bunker. First you feed
a child and then kill the rising sun.
Satish Verma, 2 october 2018
You were aging by nights.
Days will not seek
to defend you.
Drawing the landscape
of a snowfall,
you will die in a portrait.
The world meets
you again like a jawless
lamprey with sucker mouth.
Beyond the blues
lies a tower, where
you will not find the stairs.
In battlefield, stands
the army of red ants, ready
to pound upon the moonlight.
Satish Verma, 30 september 2018
The ancient war is on.
You kill,
or get killed.
Do not jostle.
You were sinking in quicksand
taking on the depth.
In exile, you
wanted the remains of
a brilliant moon, after it was possessed.
The poet will find
the jungle, standing quietly
after the execution, was stayed.
Between the witness
and accused, the judge will not
reverse, the slant of the truth.
Satish Verma, 29 september 2018
An early bloomer:
you jumped on the otherside,
of Milky Way, at night.
Hearing the voices,
from inside,
becoming a Buddha.
The semen, without light-
sprouts, into a mad tree.
Not normal.
Starts walking at acute
angle, randomly,
for a cosmic, rare encounter.
A severed hand
writes the destiny of man
who went wild.
Satish Verma, 28 september 2018
Be laid:
with your private wounds
beside me.
For otherness.
Can you come out from―
your flesh, and watch
the ribs, becoming
infrasonic?
The desiccated dreams,
inhaling the fire,
drinking pain. You have
come full circle.
Can you describe the
journey of dead souls?
Without tears? Are you
going to reject the end?
The ruins are always a beauty.
Satish Verma, 27 september 2018
Like war of words.
A fierce battle of winds
erupted between
mountain and woods.
There was no
rain, after the clouds
gathered. It was time
to say goodbye―
to moon. The sky
was playing host
to fireballs and coming
meteorites like man's fall.
Satish Verma, 26 september 2018
The rocks in water
like words, between
the tears.
Quasi-pain, reverberating
like a river.
It flows―
intermittently. The lava
of an active volcano.
You want to cover
the smashed skull.
The mirror
breaks, under the shock.
It had never happened before.
A nude streaking
on the screen.
The moon had nothing
to offer. Over and spent.
It moves on its axis
ungoverning―
the stars.
Satish Verma, 22 september 2018
As I come, for molarity
without molars.
No grinding was left
in the millstones.
The family
accumulates. My distorted shape
will not accept
the broken ankle.
Paraplegic, you run
faster than meteriorite.
The boom was heard
beyond cacophony.
It had come from
the blue. The burning anchor
of desire, without
the damp eyes.
Satish Verma, 21 september 2018
Be tender, with me―
in midstream.
I will not arrive.
Perversity was not
my virtue. I am still
burning on coals.
It was a disappearing act.
I become a brown rose
in your eyes.
The impacted glitch.
I was not deft
at the art of weaving a ritual.
I carry the dried skull,
of my unknown ancestor,
who would not come back to home.
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