Satish Verma, 30 september 2016
Anti-howling receives the
deserter. There was a mass
breast-beating without
any noise.
The pugnacious jaw
drops. Shows a frail
sensitivity to tormented
values –
of invisible mirrors, shutting
down the wolf’s face. An
ancient spider jumps
on your bronzed ego.
A transsexual walks on
the ramp to defend her territory.
Cucumbers would jump to
conceive the obnoxious yawning.
Satish Verma, 29 september 2016
An autopsy was being conducted
with brutality
to silence the rising dialogue,
pulling out the lethal crunch
of scripted history.
You want the kiss of a parting grain.
A secondhand face crops
up in a newspaper. Are you ashamed
of curtains? They have covered
all the skeletons. The tangerines,
why do I remember them
like juicy lips in dark.
We are going to bungle together,
decked up to receive the body
of a honed player.
Satish Verma, 28 september 2016
Were you ready for a virginity test
to cross the umbrella of harpoons.
A chilled moon
will welcome you after slaying
the hot sun in the valley
of gods. A schism scoops
ignominy. Seeing the lights
which were not there. Almost
sexy, the sky pretends to unrobe.
No weeping. A Caucasian brings
red grapes for a naming
ceremony of black password,
searing the age of complicity.
A rocket propelled grenade
is going to blast a whisper.
Satish Verma, 27 september 2016
Arrive with me in untainted
light. Between two threats:
life and death. Falling from
mantle, there was no surrender.
Bone-deep, I will ask you a
question. What life has given
to you and what death
has taken from you?
Read more in my eyes. You will
find the ravines of hunger. For
truth. No organic pain. Only thirst.
For a very violent rush of rains.
Ink-stained moon was willing
to cede the moonlight, even dew
to wipe out the nightmares of
your scrapped ego.
Satish Verma, 25 september 2016
Lashed together
for a better tomorrow,
ending war of words.
Heralding the new
moon I sacrifice
my becoming age
I will sleep now
on hawthorns in bleeding
flames of forest.
Satish Verma, 24 september 2016
It was a complete disaster.
I will listen to moon tonight, while
writing your name
on bikini top,
holding the pigeons. The
birds had abandoned the
walnut tree in haste. Between
them can you see a butchered
image of little god, who
broke the cold chain of flirting
and sat on a rosette of
tears blocking the sun?
Was it true that death always
sits on our shoulders like an
owl undocking the life for piercing
contentious lips?
B.Z. Niditch, 24 september 2016
Watching from a telescope
heights of stars
after my bicycle ride
rests along the Bay
meeting a lost sailor
who caught yellow jack
in islands far from home
here at a frozen shore
ice fishing in a few holes
that he plummets
in halting waves
on waters
at the home harbor anchors
rescuing my orange kayak
still anchored for the spring
as a Canadian robin appears
along the shore.
B.Z. Niditch, 24 september 2016
"Have a nice day"
say the living neighbors
who do not envy the lost
as news reports
on victims ashes
in Europe and Asia
cannot speak or reply
to the unthinkable
in an absence of gazes
from tiny snapshots
ex camera
in a former life
concealed among caves
and white stones
along the beach
your luminous eyes
cannot hide ourselves
on the unspeakable.
B.Z. Niditch, 24 september 2016
The child soldiers
smile and gaze
in a nightmare
as your furniture
and personal pictures
are being removed,
then you are taken away,
there are few
photos of you left
bathing on the sea
or up on skis
or on a white mountain
vacation,
no one to greet you
in the city market
without any fruit
or vegetables
in a time of war
reporters visit
after the horror
who now stare
at your losses.
B.Z. Niditch, 24 september 2016
A Beat poet
cooped up like a canary
in a New England winter
tired of TV. screens
and faded old films
clouded over
his bloodshot eyes
wanting to be a runaway
or a Rimbaud
here in Vermont
a red French wine
takes out his sax
to play riffs
along the Green Mountains
yet afraid to be
terrorized from a water bed
abandoned from home
and his made up
spiritual exercises
with a crusade
against his lost friend
shows me her balancing act
in his disturbed universe
by throwing a football
from the Patriots
telling her a Chinese proverb,
"Tension is who you think
you should be, relaxation
is who you are."
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