Satish Verma

Satish Verma, 12 march 2017

Irreverent

The show must go on. 
Under a sable cloud. 
I am on the vast stage 
to perform. 
 
Tall cacti and harsh 
dunes will not find 
a sweet acacia. 
 
When I am hungry 
I would like to write something 
very personal on a yellow paper. 
 
The potter’s wheel will not 
move today. 
The potter had turned into clay.


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Satish Verma

Satish Verma, 11 march 2017

Geography

A gasping confession 
of a pubescent fault. 
 
Why did you enter the bed 
of a molten lava? 
 
Wisdom was in silent eyes 
not on the lips of a blackened rose. 
 
The water was white and cool 
the sun was red and hot. 
 
A mirror will never tell the truth. 
Bleached was the face of moon. 
 
One night I will be killed 
in the hands of a benevolent foe.
 


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Satish Verma

Satish Verma, 10 march 2017

In Abeyance

Take my body for sail, 
my wings to fly. 
I am trying to find out 
the meaning of a drop. 
 
The point man was taking aim. 
There was no culpability. 
I asked, what was the need to 
know the verdict of a rape? 
 
The bed always suffers. The secret 
of a muse overturns a disaster. 
In insane sky a beleaguered moon 
was taking a shower. 
 
Unmasked, the desire turns to 
fire and ignites the palace. 
It was not enough to meet death 
with empty hands.
 


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Joe Breunig

Joe Breunig, 9 march 2017

Poem: Life’s Complacency

If you’re not being stretched,
then could it be that you’re…
suffering an ungodly attitude
of your own Life’s complacency?
When looking around, do you see

the discrimination, intolerance,
injustice, hatred, poverty and
other societal ills affecting us?
Is God’s Love evident in actions
of everyday living, so Salvation

is really sought, by those, you…
hope to spiritually influence?
Can others even tell, that Christ’s
essence, upon your life has been…
sacredly and divinely etched?
 
 
 
Author notes

Inspired by:
Zeph 1:12; Luke 12:15-31  and

The world needs Christians who don't tolerate the complacency of their
own lives. ―Francis Chan

Learn more about me and my poetry at:
http://amzn.to/1ffo9YZ

By Joseph J. Breunig 3rd, © 2017, All rights reserved.


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Satish Verma

Satish Verma, 9 march 2017

Wrenching

The crisis starts boiling 
about the invisible foes. 
The contraptions hope to recapture 
the moods. 
 
Harsh, arrogant and ritualistic. 
In the stark nudity of silence 
a wooden Buddha lies on the 
floor crying. 
 
“ I am not happy, I am not happy. 
Why were you still a virgin? ” 
White butterflies will not sit 
on jasmines to lose their script. 
 
There was a black moon to chase 
the fugitive. There will be no midnight 
sun. Between lips and cups 
the grey fox had lighted a lamp.
 


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Satish Verma

Satish Verma, 8 march 2017

Sculpturing

It does not work; 
the manipulation of the fast. 
The genomic fugitive 
nurtures a home of light, windswept pyre. 
 
Under the prophet 
a gloom unloosens the absolute. 
Now as you weave 
a pattern of lies, the page hits. 
 
The book is thrown into 
fire. The words swim, break the grief 
of naked sun. There 
is flooding of wombs. Who will conceive a god? 
 
Between you and me, 
a river flows. I become voiceless. 
You cannot build a bridge. 
The spinning curve outlines the shore.
 


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Satish Verma

Satish Verma, 7 march 2017

Birth Untainted

It in now dark. 
Talking of exposed genitalia 
I go into a terrible shock. 
 
A compulsive deceit 
takes hold of the attention. 
The candle burns me inside. 
 
Between eyes 
a *chakra uncoils, like a Naja. 
Strikes! You are stricken- 
 
 
with a bulbar palsy. 
No haemorrhage. A purple venom 
spreads in the whole nativism. 
 
Voices move in half-lit corridor. 
The doors do not lead to rooms. 
All exits disappear. 
 
A chandelier crashes. You 
are awakened from a deep slumber. 
A poem is born.


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Satish Verma

Satish Verma, 6 march 2017

In A Sombre Mood

Are you sure after the sunset 
the hunger will find the mouths 
in black alley? 
 
I go to my ailing land. 
Stand on a mass grave. 
No faces, No names. 
 
Brother, I am not bickering 
I am listing on my fingers. 
 
Was it possible that we could 
count the virgins in the town? 
 
Mudslinging starts. Who was not 
corrupt? The prevailing conjugation. 
How you will tell your kid who 
was your mother? 
 
I become restless, tossing around. 
A single word shimmers like a 
blood soaked jewel. I pick it up. 
A baby poem is born.
 


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Satish Verma

Satish Verma, 5 march 2017

Dream Landing

Candle by candle 
you burn your dreams 
unflaying the blue veins. 
That makes you still beautiful 
hanging in sky. 
 
On the dead land your feet 
will not touch the pond. Stumbling 
I bring botanica to cover 
your innocent faults 
for telling the truth. 
 
That makes me feel guilty. 
I pretend to be not what I am. 
This is the time when I start 
hitting the road, missing the 
scandalous moon who will - 
 
kiss me hard when I was alone. 
Just a fleeting pain. I ask you 
to become a tree, so that I 
can sit under your shade 
and write a poem.


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Joe Breunig

Joe Breunig, 5 march 2017

Poem: Wasting Your Wilderness?

Are you today, wasting your wilderness?
Don’t you know, it’s appointed by God?
Nothing is squandered in His economy;
are you diligently seeking His holiness?

Do you realize, that He will humble you,
will test you and will do right by you?
Are you prepared for the future blessing,
that’s on its way? Soon you will view

God’s plan and purpose that He’s crafted…
especially for you! Rejoice loudly now!
Though you’re excessively burdened with
challenges, you’ve been divinely adapted

with abilities and strength to become
flexible, to be led by His glory cloud,
not taking matters into your own hands;
are you allowing Him to loving plumb…

your weary soul and eternal spirit?
 
 
 
Author notes
 
Inspired by:
Rom 8:28; Deu 8; Jam 1:1-4; 2 Cor 1:8-9;
Num 9:15-10

Learn more about me and my poetry at:
http://amzn.to/1ffo9YZ

By Joseph J. Breunig 3rd, © 2017, All rights reserved.


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