Satish Verma, 19 august 2016
Freezing was not required
for the casket. It only contained
a shroud.
The schism had scored a
victory. Bystanders will find
a dark matter
between the words. The god was
very lonely today. The black wounds
start crying.
A white cloud climbs the eagle’s
span. A golden moon walks like
a big tear.
A surge of greed will take over
the yellow throne. Someone puts
it, a spiritual horror.
Satish Verma, 18 august 2016
The descent starts
with a dance, of tears and fire.
A culture of lids
lowers the salt, the silver,
the gems.
Antithesis to cremate
a golden ascent.
The night long vigil had a
naked puff.
It will roll now in stasis.
The ash will take over the tongue
for a big lie. Faith healers stand
in a row. The empty hands
were getting a burial.
The toeless path will ride the
wheels now. Beyond the blue sky
there is no death.
Satish Verma, 16 august 2016
Drowned in unclogged arteries:
thoughts.
I am going to release a swarm
of bees. It was your dark hour.
A father sits outside your body to collect the stings.
A restive finger
on a blue gun invites the ghosts
to witness a burial of a fractured faith.
Thieves were waiting in wings.
A silent intimacy becomes invisible.
Sit back and comb the house
before it catches fire.
The earth spins in your eyes when you
pay the debt of a river;
when we were kneading the mountain.
Satish Verma, 14 august 2016
Looking around for a loop of light,
a captive throws out his
trove of litter and ask for a
right to be killed.
This was question hour
of your conscience. Who would
now act as on executioner?
Anybody who has not stolen a glance?
You are standing alone with
the rats.The hips were exploding.
Owls will assemble later on
to mourn the death of a native giant.
Under a yellow moon I had met him
once. He had promised to talk about
sexual encounters with nameless
ghosts under the waterfalls.
Satish Verma, 13 august 2016
I write a song
for you which you will
not find in book.
The butterfly waits
for the bud to open its
secret of colors.
Did you taste
the tears of the sky ever
in a purple dawn?
Joe Breunig, 12 august 2016
Though Today’s path is uncharted,
I’m not worried; being led by Love,
shows that my trust is in the One,
Who wanted a relationship started
with me, before I actually knew
Him and the sacrifice He had made.
When I trust the plan and purpose
geared for my Life, breakthroughs
that I seek, will materialize by
the very seeds of Faith I possess;
with Him alone as my inner guide,
my soul will soar and divinely fly
as we journey together, each day;
I’m no longer concerned about being
lost or where I’m now headed, since
He lovingly accompanies me on my way.
Author notes
Inspired by:
Heb 11:8
Learn more about me and my poetry at:
http://amzn.to/1ffo9YZ
By Joseph J. Breunig 3rd, © 2016, All rights reserved.
Satish Verma, 12 august 2016
I have agreed to cede
an unwritten moon
in a killing frenzy,
for a chequered spirituality.
Now visitation will start
ravishing the light at dawn.
The grievers will assemble
for a final scoop of dust.
Forgive my star,
for a failed touchdown.
A child stands before glitterati
born again to suffer the other sky.
Nothing comes out of nothing.
The circle was complete.
Satish Verma, 11 august 2016
What was about this face?
Between mirage and actuality?
A fireball was coming towards you.
You upturn the underside,
wanted to taste the blood
and get argasm.
The statues were posing nude.
Mothers were clad in leaves.
Fruits were the greed of man.
I refuse to lie in state. The
sand grains will find the innocence
of silver breasts when sky will
spat a murder. Were you ready
now to become corrupt?
At last the beginners are now
becoming the boots.
Satish Verma, 10 august 2016
Sometimes the ice burns,
a fish moves in your eyes.
The ubiquity was at lowest level,
nothing was visible in sun.
Mission crawl in the crotch
does not find any fever.
The golden cave has caved in.
Moon will find another sky.
Nerves were green, pain was
black. No mercy for hooks.
Your map was here and my stitches.
Let us see, who tells the lie.
Satish Verma, 9 august 2016
Living in a cyst, it
would explore the breast.
The black ethics goes beyond
the bounds of mystique of
non-movement.
A while away
a conflict comes out of the body.
Melts into a face.
There is no flesh, no skin.
Only transgression, holding my hands.
There were no arguments.
Only speech punctuated by silent sobs.
A taper standing in a gale.
The shadow flies like an arrow into
the pitcher of hemlock.
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