Satish Verma, 19 september 2018
It returns to haunt,
the dilemma, of disowning
the old version of truth;
when I was searching the parallelism
for the sake of otherness.
The unreturning melancholia,
brings the surreal intruder,
I did not want to entertain.
The insane activity of heart
wants a sin uncommitted.
The flirt eyes like a tulip
between your fingers,
unrolling the tender petals.
Night throws the salt on the moon.
There were no tears.
Satish Verma, 18 september 2018
A fugitive moon
appeared, after the blaze of the sun,
in a frozen standoff,
died.
My room was dappled
with pale moonbeams shadows,
nestled on the―
blue walls.
There was a constant drumbeat
coming nearer. He wanted
to quit. You cannot change
the legacy of dark rooms.
A manhunt must start
for the thief who stole away
all the voices of
a departed soul.
Satish Verma, 17 september 2018
It insults the─
primitivism. Hypothermia, you
become cold-blooded.
*
Fractured limbs.
How will you climb the
mound of questions?
*
Gray night.
Between black and white
the ashen moon.
Satish Verma, 16 september 2018
The moon titled her head
and went inarticulate
in black and white.
Seeding the earth with
stupor, undoing my-
poem in water.
An asteroid crashed in
my blue lake. Sit beside me,
I would say to a songbird.
The cardinal sin was
to abandon the throne
and climb down at night.
What was the designer's
love, I will ask, when I
was preparing myself for a self-denial.
Satish Verma, 15 september 2018
This was a shock treatment.
Becoming friends
with aperitifs.
We drink the eyes
in remorse.
Unabridged. I clean the words
on the whiteboard. The
tongues were black.
Dilemma of stings.
No flesh was left
on the bones.
The body,
becomes a river.
You are drowned
in pink folds.
Satish Verma, 14 september 2018
The wind was in your hair,
I will bring the
valley, for you.
A major shake up. People
bend the moon
on the lake, against hanging.
The snow-capped peaks
would collect all the green fires
for the running tribe.
The centuries weep
for the unknown warriors;
who were born to look like chaff―
becoming fodder. I will
ask the god to write a requiem
for a person, who dies
thinking too much.
Stephen J. Vattimo, 13 september 2018
Up and downUpright than upside-downNightmareRoller coaster ride never subsidesStatistical clown operating the rideDoing timeWithout committing a crimeLife without hope in Jesus Christ
Written by Stephen J. Vattimo Sept 12, 2018
Satish Verma, 13 september 2018
After the
elective execution,
you reach at the
end of nowhere.
A wayward
cloud stands alone
under the plump moon.
It is absolutely―
white, like the
wings of a swan.
Beneath the earth
you want to dig out
the remains of dark hoods.
Gale-force winds
promise to make you
snow-blind.
Satish Verma, 12 september 2018
I was worried.
A deviant had lost the shape,
and had thrown a word at your face.
The black name was crawling
on the white paper. It was not
a rape, but the abduction―
of a mystic.
The snake time. Politics.
The crowd was celebrating the death.
What would you say, death
had many names?
I want to sleep with you tonight,
O moon. The slave
had become the master.
Satish Verma, 11 september 2018
Often,
I will return to myself,
to meet a lost ancestor;
exploring the statics―
of the room, from where the journey
had started.
I will read your face in dark. The
wrinkles, the broken teeth,
and the foggy vision.
The fire escape now lies bereft
of trappings. There is a blank space
there, sucking the sky.
The pragmatism had taken over
and I was left over with
the figures in stones.
I am trying to walk again
deep into the woods. The time stands
still. I am ready for an
uncounter with unknown.
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