Gert Strydom, 12 may 2015
The Son of God who became a human being
did walk upon the water of the Sea of Galilee,
when He came to set all men free
from sin and His love still is something amazing
and when I hear the birds sing their praises in spring
then I see the One who made things like they are supposed to be
and the humiliation of that dark Calvary does stay with me
as humanity’s most terrible crushing thing
but although the Prince does not walk on this earth anymore
He still at times comes visiting in disguise
and when a poor beggar knocks at the door
I do some great caution exercise
as Jesus does change lives from what they have been before
and in that wretched man the Lord God I might just recognize.
Satish Verma, 12 may 2015
A dented version of an old grudge,
blackened lips with an elite song,
your relentless search ends in
a terminal shock, nursing a green wound.
That anguish was still there, and the wild anger
sprawled on hidden fractures, false teeth,
and twisted spy glasses. Sky falling silent
in terrible gloom of centuries.
Blindfolded we are led for a ceremony
of total dedication, drinking opiates
from the cupped hands of a silver god,
with alien innocence and silent submission.
I stare at the changing colors of world
shifting like summer dunes,
dancing on the graves, in dripping
dew of midnight moon, salt of tears.
Satish Verma, 11 may 2015
Anointment of any prefix was hurting
I started shedding the names.
To fill the void, dialogues were not sufficient.
So many of thorns, without seeing,
in flesh, reading the closed mind, to
reach the inner blue.
After dark bloody spills on the rose petals,
you stagger on white tendons;
cracking the fright, peeling off the truth.
How nervous was the death to tread in.
In the pit, no sound, no hiding.
Deep down was hung a turmoil.
calling a name, when night was sad
and lightning was lifting the clouds.
The city of stones in me, the solar system
the galaxies, were stumbling out in defeat.
Satish Verma, 10 may 2015
Immensity of deviation was exploding.
Abruptly my frail frame collapsed.
I did not know the answers. I was lost
in my inner sanctum, full of hollow escapes.
The ugly ‘ism’ was devastating. Not in,
not out. I was blowing up in a burnt out moon,
pure as sin, prodding, writhing,
stuck in tar, melting in hot sun.
As a projection of inner violence, a psychopath
shoots an innocent on the temple, forsaken, revengeful.
No qualms for grazing the godhood,
the voice of sanity remains sitting on a toad stool.
The fairy rings are growing larger and larger,
sanaria shrinking. Epileptic paranoia overpowering
outside, I am sick, but relentless, the shadow disappears
in valley, down the memory. I let go the blurred spirit,
in a fit of rage, standing alone.
Satish Verma, 9 may 2015
You are not with yourself today.
Conversation was stopped, from cloud to cloud.
Now you know what you did not want to know.
No longer the pathless destiny,
comes near you, you go towards the
bushes to collect the ash, the burnt out
remains of a theme, a design, a horizon.
In memory of books, which are not read
by anyone now. Pages lay wounded. Black
stones trying to hear the sounds of dawn.
The tremors were increasing in the swampland.
The wolves were in howling rage. A daring
gift of death, tormenting the spirit, human
flesh, you watch through the twilight,
through the terror of betrayal. Each tear drop
sacrifices the eternity.
Satish Verma, 8 may 2015
Face to face, I was bewildered.
What was happening to the garden?
My body left in absent seizure;
words had destroyed a beautiful poem.
I was listening without blinking
like a blue moon
or the serene lake.
The interlocking in no-man’s-land
under a red rain,
somebody puts a hand on my shoulder
to bring out the sorrow,
the salt of my tears, sandscapes
of smooth bones.
Becoming something was music to ears
twisting the gaps.
Seeds of the brain, nude as the beach stones,
round and snug, somebody wakes the water
in the breast, kicking up the turmoil
I was nobody, nobody.
It was all lies.
Joe Breunig, 7 may 2015
Some days seem to be strangely ominous
and I’m reluctant to leave my comfy bed;
therefore, I clothe myself with Truth,
since I have nothing to fear or dread.
The inspirational courage of Your Word,
girds the frailty of my spiritual essence.
Wherever, I willfully determine to go,
I’m comforted by Your nearby Presence.
Despite the many, evil distortions,
created by human desire and wickedness,
I’m not motivated by fear, circumstance
or doubts, as I’m striving for holiness
that only You, provide with assurance.
I overcome all obstacles set before me-
knowingly sated, with the fact that
my saved soul is… never in jeopardy!
Author Notes
Inspired by:
Deu 6:6-7; Job 13:13-15; Psa 119:105-112
Learn more about me and my poetry at:
http://amzn.to/1ffo9YZ
By Joseph J. Breunig 3rd, © 2015, All rights reserved.
Satish Verma, 7 may 2015
The roses you bring every morning
become an interval between hope and ending.
Thinking about it, impulsively I
contradict God against humanity.
Little murder here and there
of nihilism, sweet smell of faith,
taking any road to reach the climax,
to die for the zeroism.
An outsider becomes the altered hero,
you would find the unimaginable,
lamenting and bleeding, blunting
the eagerness, the spark.
We will inherit the crowned homes,
the brief interlude between crime and award.
The mud, the water, the slugs
will decide the fate of man.
Satish Verma, 6 may 2015
To go beyond global suffering,
find death in blue glacier
of frozen physicals.
Greed of elements, and attached commentary
on the burning, anonymously,
when you were in dock.
The unfolding of the negation starts
softly down the blissful oblivion.
False pretensions keep you alive amidst
the crowd, the only art of rebellion
in the depths of despair.
The arguments were rising every morning,
when all the doors were shut
and sun was hiding behind the hills.
A procession of self-styled prophets
marched in the wrap of chosen blessed
to find the antique
non-movement of the moment!
Satish Verma, 5 may 2015
You forgot the lines
and lineage. Getting all
or nothing, pulling away at the umbilical cord,
seeking liberty to commit a sin
or feeling liberated after committing the sin.
The tone embodies the elopement, unbound,
to invent the disorder
and divide the provocation.
Night was approaching with few stars,
flowing like the squealing of a dark saint,
blameless, under the thin breath
of the dying sun.
Into the orphanage enters the day
riding on the dust of history.
My journey begins into time
to change into another tomorrow.
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