Irena, 29 april 2015
We have no eachother
All people have secrets, and that is ours
We have no me, no you
All we have is a railroad we cross each day
In order not to meet.
Satish Verma, 29 april 2015
Trampling the borders, he started
losing his vibrations.
He was asking for the perpetual forgiveness
for his bandaged ego.
The new incarnation.
For the broken homes
he refused to admit his side of guilt
and jumped into the frozen lake
for nursing his hot blood.
The faithless star.
The world did not exist
in total freedom.
Let him sleep, sulking away,
under the sea of wounds
unlistening to the wailing winds.
Not for the seeds
not for the flowers,
the crowds were assembling for the essence
of the drifting truth.
Nobody knew the red hot destiny.
Zofia Wingmaker, 29 april 2015
What if this is a test?
This distance,
This silence,
This incompleteness.
What if this is our end?
This annoyance,
This hatred,
This need to move on.
What if we were never together?
Ignore,
Reject,
Jealousy,
Vengeance.
What if you don't deserve me?
My creativity,
My loyalty,
My love.
What if I don't deserve you?
Your bravery,
Your consistance,
Your worry.
What if this is it?
Satish Verma, 28 april 2015
He would set them free,
words. On cityscape.
For extended release of connotations.
Part of him, not his way,
and become weaponless.
Once the silence descended,
nothing was left to be known.
Between doubt and belief
anguish was palpable.
Truth was a capped fossil.
The rumors and denials
were similar. Fractured time.
From lie to lie watercolor ticks the clock,
fells the tribe of seekers
and breaks the mirror.
Satish Verma, 27 april 2015
A solitary moon rises
behind the seven veils
unattended by stars and clouds
between yes and no
desiring nothing
turns back through the centuries.
The religion to kill
refuses to stare at the tainted fatality
lying sprawled on the burdened earth
splattered red.
Criminal divinity of the blood
bares the undone creation.
Seed money comes again
into dead bubble.
Cup of sorrow is filled again.
Satish Verma, 26 april 2015
When postponed, death had no meaning.
It was lying in ambush.
Journey was imperfect without
a termination.
Behind the dust was another desire.
Another thumb on the trigger
starts shooting through the bubble
of moon. Every bone springs
to jump for final galaxy
of hidden stars.
Striving was brutal. Being
was dying for life. Profits
of morality on sale. Fragrance
without house. A memory
now invites another name.
Daughter of next life
lives hundreds of years
in death. Becoming
becomes the fear!
Satish Verma, 25 april 2015
Faith was not taking him
near the truth.
Staring at reason
his inner self became a burden
on the whispering road.
They were going to exhume
the body of the martyr
for finding the ethos of hope
invoking the afternoon sun
to guide them in dark.
So the blood had a terrible
celebration of alienation
generating the heat of hate
not for the proud mother
who was grieving.
Time will not forgive
for the murder of green eyes.
The masses are rising
like a turbulent sea
riding through the tears.
Salvatore Ala, 24 april 2015
for Victor Hernández Cruz
Strip search because I was full of the drug love,
Strip search because my name is an eye-rhyme with Allah,
Strip search because of Mafia stereotypes,
Strip search because I was carpooling to Mexican Village,
Strip search because I carried a book of poetry,
Strip search because I was traveling to New Orleans,
Strip search because I loved a woman with two names,
Strip search because a black woman offered me a ride,
Strip search for desiring Belle Isle after midnight,
Strip search because I am not a savior but a Salvatore,
Strip search for bleeding from hands and feet,
Strip search for driving naked and saving time,
Strip search for visiting the graves of my ancestors,
Strip search for the orange blossoms on my bride,
Strip search for the smoke of ablution and peace,
Strip search for defiance at the borders of freedom.
Salvatore Ala, 24 april 2015
The most noxious landfill is language.
Books are polluted; libraries, dump sites.
Due to toxic levels of pathetic fallacy
Bookstores recall infected books;
Greenpeace intervenes poetry readings;
Poets are fined for offshore word spills.
Why must a cloud be forever lonely?
Why must the sea be always cruel?
Books burn by their own hands.
Lexicon’s toxic waste contaminates
Our graves and poisons our shadows
From which we rise to stain the world.
Satish Verma, 24 april 2015
Revolting inwardly
the fountain chokes.
New year amputates
the fingers of a whole man.
History repeats a parallel.
He sets the house on fire.
Sky withdraws the light
till the queen of darkness sleeps
before the future unfolds.
Smell of burning flesh drifts.
This moment was for God
to wipe the sweat on frightened face.
Hair and bones hide in the urn
that was forgotten.
Death has mouthed a betrayal.
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