Satish Verma, 23 march 2017
You are not
on my page.
No more in my abstract sleep.
Cease-fire
will not be declared-
in the realm of dark dreams.
There was
one tear at a time.
No battle cry.
Trampling on
the old reminiscences,
a tiger jumps on the author-
of mangrove.
The aerial roots have
stopped breathing.
Your lungs become
a flute. A war song frightens
the death.
Satish Verma, 22 march 2017
I will not understand
the gift of hurting
in unsolicited encounters.
Will chase you around
the world,
without arriving.
O fear, my bread;
cannot feel you, unbirthing.
Life gives me many stitches.
A parallel face mocks
in the sky, unless the moon
cries for the kiss.
Wooden wheels move on
the laid body. Your venomous
tooth I break.
Satish Verma, 21 march 2017
Climbing
on the celestial pole,
did you come
for a lethal kiss?
Floating
in vacuity,
do you find some depth
in the black hole?
The wheels
move on stolen track
of an epic. You come back
to a dead sea-
for a swim. What looked pink
was not a flamingo
with a bent bill
held upside down.
Satish Verma, 20 march 2017
Sudden onset of an insertion
going for a kill in bluish green valley.
Pretend as if you are dead
and start disintegrating.
Your poverty of words disconnects
you from cogitation and you start-
walking in sleep. Cannot reach
the breasts jutting out like pine cones -
dismantling the invasion. You start
manipulating the seeds. Fruits
are nowhere in sight. The risk is
grave crossing the borders of virginity.
Pure aching and one thousand moons.
I have not reached the gates of truth.
Satish Verma, 19 march 2017
These were the children of
wrath, the fire god. What I am
watching was a subtle suicide
pact taking on the style of a civil
war among sparrows.
The transmission was offering a
dark vision of future. The skies
were not answering the prayers. The
old lover wants to come back in small
land to forbid the division of hearts.
No resonance comes after the surgical
strike. You remember the sunset on
the mount of your palm. I said, you
will survive all your enemies. I
distil the eyes for the coarse admission.
After all the poem has a meaning.
Satish Verma, 18 march 2017
There was no colour in the nude
and skin deep fire was raging
not leaving much of a trail.
A Janus cat,
that is our man of polity
with two faces.
Walking alone at midnight,
that is larger than life, on
death of a galaxy, where -
the crack of dawn meets
dandelion to decide the course
of bloody day. They were -
coming in huge lots to kneel
and kiss the hands of their master,
who will leave his signature -
in deep cleavage. Who was
guarding the doorway to
my sleep?
Satish Verma, 17 march 2017
In a moon city
will you distill
the darkness for a hallucinatory effect?
Without wearing anything?
Polarizing the sex
with the leaky pomegranates,
vying for control of towers.
Will it be unrespectful,
moon hitting the sun, when
it was departing?
It was a lucrative business
to trade envies with luck
or qualities. I feel connecting
with the violence of brown pillars.
Playing with smoke
you start undressing in epithets.
A bumblebee
raises the sights on rooftops.
Joe Breunig, 16 march 2017
Between circular arguments
and confirmation bias, critics
debate the fallacies of Faith,
themselves unable to connect
to Yahweh via the divine spark
that has drawn us closer to Him;
each individual has been given
a unique measure of Faith; yet,
desire dictates the development
of our personal growth in Christ.
The Scriptures remain available
to those wishing to receive the
fullness of God’s Love or those
wanting to dispute His authority.
Now people choose to search only
for information that support…
their preconceptions; after all,
we’ve the choice of Death or Life.
Author notes
Inspired by:
Rom 12:3; 2 Cor 10:15; Eph 4:13;
Deu 30:19
It should be noted that many people studied The Word of God with the
original intent of disproving its many truths, only to become saved to
their own surprise. A fact that is ignored by the mainstream media.
Learn more about me and my poetry at:
http://amzn.to/1ffo9YZ
By Joseph J. Breunig 3rd, © 2017, All rights reserved.
Satish Verma, 16 march 2017
A chilled moon was standing
between the lovers
and night was cruising around
to extract the blood
of a hangman.
You want to go back and talk
to old house for selling the dreams
again. When the body ends,
the hunger lives in another eye. Let
me break the cycle and become
fodder of a thought.
Layer up layer aching in
half-sleep brings the frozen rain
falling from icy peaks. You bring
cherries for moon who wants more.
Give me a window to have
a glimpse of still life.
Satish Verma, 13 march 2017
Crossing the burning barriers,
you take a fatal jump.
Brazenly, but giving little away.
Long shadows of ethnic clouds
were eroding the sun. Feeling the
wet lips you rub you sweaty
palms in vain.
Haunted, you would like to
kill the ghosts. You pull a silken
cord. A silver urn upturns the
ashes of your past.
Each truth walks without legs.
You are still incomplete. The
self-portrait will never hang
on the wall.
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