Satish Verma, 23 january 2017
Siblings
will take care of the morgue.
I am going to hang my god
today. Howling winds
are crashing into my breath.
In the sea
of flags, the white death walks on
naked bodies of faith. Innocence
will take a back seat
listening to the roaring assault
of blues.
Was it a hymn to drink
the religion of rage?
The men sitting in the glass vases
worshiping the rising sun in awe
with folded hands.
Satish Verma, 22 january 2017
It was the interplay
between shadow and moon.
An encephalopathy
in ring of fire?
The blast was the tipping
point of your identity. Now
you don’t recognize yourself
amid the books.
Grieving can start now.
Tossed from temple roof
on to mound of ash, you
stand on your grave for final count.
Again your voice will drown
in a green pond. It was a
prelude to a voicelessness for
ever. Irretrievable was, a bird song.
Satish Verma, 21 january 2017
Bounty
of landfall.
I am collecting your berries.
The castle
has connived with the moat
to end an era.
The first step
ends the journey.
An avatar has accepted the bribe.
Gather the tents
and return the sky.
My morale is sinking very low.
The dream
will wash the eyes
to read the book again.
mvvenkataraman, 20 january 2017
Art of writing poetry
Is like growing a tree
We must well-nourish it
To make it stay fit
Through a wide reading
Which, poem is needing
We must gain knowledge
To build a poetic bridge
We must study great books
And shape wisely our outlooks
And read all noble quotes
To travel in poetry's routes
We must always ponder over
And feel diffident never
By pursuing with enthusiasm
We must follow optimism
When daily we make a try
Our thoughts will never dry
We soon write poems easily
Our fame then grows greatly.
mvvenkataraman
Satish Verma, 19 january 2017
Confused and wary like a
spermwhale, you are
nosediving; -
through the shadows
of terrible pain
ejecting ambergris.
Who was getting
the bribery
to fix the belly button?
This was not revolution.
It was evolution-
of a stinking city.
The gods were sleeping
on the lips of a pride.
Nurses were preparing the bed.
How far the sane voice
will reach, to deliver
the relics of a salted dynasty?
•
Unbodied, how do I touch you
groping? The message was not
clear. How to kill oneself on stage?
A beehive falls on
your head. Are you going
to scream?
Entire town was going
for a pilgrimage. The saint
was preparing for a self-burial.
A hundred thousand moons
were placed on your crown.
The sun was going to roll.
Charred bodies
were turning in graves.
Who was becoming untouchable now?
Give me a kiss of cobra.
My bandaged life
wants to sleep in peace.
•
His severed legs were
tucked under his head to serve as a pillow.
He was half-eaten.
Howling
was silencing all the shames
Woman, I am not coming home.
Satish Verma, 18 january 2017
You are peeling me off
like a crab.
Time has sunk very low.
For the hungry kids
who was growing crab apples?
Creating art,
arriving between the pubes.
A microfossil
roosting within me.
I could live without oxygen.
Incandescent,
the liquid wounds.
I will not send any salvo.
Satish Verma, 17 january 2017
Mooneater, I am my poem:
fantasy of words
traveling through fog.
When light sneaks in,
would you like to weep
with me?
Dear death,
I am not ready to
close my chapter.
You are you
but I am not me -
taking a flight in dark.
Disintegrating,
I am collecting the spiderwebs
to catch the moon.
POEWHIT, 16 january 2017
Into the attic I creep.
Just for a tiny peek.
They won't ever know.
I'll go real slow.
A pirate trunk to find.
Jolly Roger, and that kind.
Slowly open to look.
It's empty but one book.
Soiled and old, yet it gleams.
First page open by seam.
Dear Diary, today I cry.
I met this nice guy.
from my poem book - DREAMS
Satish Verma, 16 january 2017
It was your
integrity
at the time of ubiquitous pain
of separation, you want to move the home
away from home
coming
to terms with the trauma
your shadow was not following you
playing dead
nuzzling the earth, racing to fill
the void, entering the truthlessness
this world
of violence, of mayhem, of self-betrayal,
the flags are not able to cover the nudity
Satish Verma, 15 january 2017
I see it coming
the end before the beginning.
Of dawn.
The midnight call.
Impeachment was fragile.
A satanic cult
overwhelms the freedom
of negation.
Do yoy think we can
move the tree of wisdom
from the altar of ethics
sending shots to the sky.
From the grief of paradoxes
Can you run away? One
moment you exhibit the caked blood.
Next moment it is dark.
•
Standing on crossroad,
do we end the walk
and wait for rumbling
surge of anarchy?
The anguish is writ
large on the tanned sun
who was moving along with
porcupines.
The wild berries
have colored the skull caps.
Swarms of red ants
are running behind the heels.
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