Satish Verma, 12 march 2017
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.
Satish Verma, 11 march 2017
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.
Satish Verma, 10 march 2017
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.
Joe Breunig, 9 march 2017
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.
Satish Verma, 9 march 2017
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.
Satish Verma, 8 march 2017
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.
Satish Verma, 7 march 2017
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.
Satish Verma, 6 march 2017
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.
Satish Verma, 5 march 2017
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.
Joe Breunig, 5 march 2017
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.
Poetry
Prose
Photography
Graphics
Video poems
Postcards
Diary
Books
Handmade
