Satish Verma, 15 may 2016
It was the hiatus
that underlying silence
of which I was hearing the voices.
There was nothing left to be said.
I wanted to levitate in void
to unlearn what I understood.
Why the distance interpolates
between the guilt and acceptance?
Leaves are falling in different colors.
Time avenges, burns the grass,
the lips, the retina,
the black walls and white numbers.
Inner peace will return
On the ashes of fallen trees.
Life will resume another journey.
Satish Verma, 14 may 2016
Distance was increasing
in spewing rage.
I yearned for a solitude of desert
sand and rocks
away from musty tongues
and eros.
Counting my failed attempts
to reconcile with exits
and slant hopes.
Like an eclipsed moon
plying over the hill
to investigate a shorn lamb.
Plucking the hair from a beautiful scalp
to become a nun.
Arthritic river brings back the waves.
Unreachable was the crest.
Today standing alone on the summit
I watch the dropp with grief.
Gert Strydom, 13 may 2016
Without matter to what you think you do know,
without matter to what position you do have in life,
be to judge other people very slow
even when you do witness unhappiness and strive.
Without matter to what experiences you have lived through
give others the chance to be themselves and to explain,
be careful in the way that you do act, in what you do,
as you could be responsible for unmentionable pain
when you do conclude to what you on the surface do see
and do not know the true feelings in the heart
the intention of what things is going to be
as living is a special, knowledgeable kind of art
in which each person does only play a role
but it does affect the world in whole.
Satish Verma, 13 may 2016
Sitting on the heap of debris
I decided to move one day.
The rain did not stop
I was walking alone.
It was a cruel time, my toes caught
in bad thaw. I was working on a bawling
theme of comatose words, a pottery of sorts.
In fact the fear had not saved me.
The sun did not stop
I was thinking alone.
A prosaic neighbourhood had acquired
weapons, I was inattentive. My wounds
always bled in hooting night.
A flute it seems talked to me.
The moon did not stop
I was weeping alone.
Terrible, terrible it was to abandon
my home of luxury, to become a stone,
to walk like a ghost with orphaned
spirit. The voice without echo, murmuring.
The ink did not stop
I was writing alone.
Satish Verma, 12 may 2016
Homeless wanderer
my bohemian moon.
I continue my journey
till the clouds manipulate.
Crisp sky favours the stars
in dark night of gloom
of your failed promises,
and my goddess of ruin.
self-deception was a great relief!
Golden praise can do no harm.
You were targeting the great sentences,
and easy flows the river under sun,
there was nothing left in the desert
and slowly burns the cauldron of craft.
That sudden spurt of rage and tears,
strangle of dreams, roses and hopes.
My empty hands, white skin, leafy eyes
Why? Am I tremendous, expanding like sea?
Gert Strydom, 11 may 2016
Dare you character accompany me
into the unknown that lies beyond life,
to a place where no man truly knows
how it is going to be?
Dare you character accompany me
to a place where there is no awareness,
no feelings or thoughts
in the depths of death?
Dare you character accompany me
to a place where no one is really free
until that great trumpet of God does roar?
Dare you character accompany me
to a place where the whole world does change
from what it was before?
Dare you character come along forevermore
to the shining gates of heaven
or the burning portals of hell
in that last awakening?
Satish Verma, 11 may 2016
Before I leave
I will give you my gift
to perceive the human anguish.
Time had passed like a snake
noiselessly, skipping the years
I grieved.
The solace of harvesting the dreams
was thin.
A terrible shadow of a futile
creation.
Hopes always lied
hollowed by anesthesia of truth.
A surrogate womb trims
the love.
My garden was always green.
Howling was generating the heat.
Joe Breunig, 10 may 2016
Are you regularly transcending your ego?
Is doubt interfering with your intentions?
Can you dream dreams and envision a future,
that are aligned with His plan of Salvation?
Will your dreams manifest into your reality?
Have you discussed your purpose with Him?
Can you claim that you’re making progress?
Are you imploding from events that are grim
and seeking to pull your soul downward again?
Are you applying Biblical principles often,
to your personal, family and professional lives?
Are you kind toward others, with a heart soften
by the joyous message of God’s abundant Love?
Are you involving yourself in high-energy levels
of appreciation, reverence, trust and optimism?
Or are you sacrificing at the feet of devils,
who have stolen your Life’s sacred, first Love?
In the midst of your brokenness, does Light shine?
Can the uninitiated and unsaved, see any evidence
in your behavior, whereby your life is a shrine
that proclaims the greatness and goodness of God?
From agitations and disruptions, do you find release?
Can you stay clear of commotions and hullabaloos?
Are you living… in turmoil or staying in peace?
Author notes
Inspired by:
Psa 24:1-10; Phil 4:8-10; 1 Cor 14:33;
Eph 4:4-14; Job 12:10
Learn more about me and my poetry at:
http://amzn.to/1ffo9YZ
By Joseph J. Breunig 3rd, © 2016, All rights reserved.
Gert Strydom, 10 may 2016
Once I wrote a kind of happy song
but could not record its sweet melody
and then I was longing for somebody
with whom my life did go terribly wrong
and the rhythm of that tune stayed, was strong,
while the words was somewhat like a parody.
Once I wrote a kind of happy song
but could not record its sweet melody
Now of that song I have lost the body,
lost it like a child a among a throng,
do not know where any words do belong,
it could have been a kind of rhapsody,
once I wrote a kind of happy song
but could not record its sweet melody.
Satish Verma, 10 may 2016
Aura begins from tongue
to spit fire and frozen rain
in the epileptic rage of insanity.
Excruciating charm of august mind
is fading.
Life wants to humiliate the sunshine
and hate desires to meet its rival in disguise.
Hope’s termination had a beginning somewhere.
I search the inky sky for a star.
The void did’t have a center
A collection of tears becomes an art.
A bit of sin here,
a grain of guilt there.
The ending of dark stairs
depends on the black walls.
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