Satish Verma, 20 april 2015
It was in you,
the beast.
Reading your private thoughts:
tribal instinct-
to gather tools.
Dwindling belief.
You are left high and dry
after the deluge receded.
A big fire
erupted in your house
to burn you alive.
Footfalls of disquieting roar
breaks the empty silence.
So thin was the salty air,
it spewed the fire.
Death of the moment.
You sit down on the rocks
outside your body
and start counting
the winks.
Satish Verma, 19 april 2015
Ends did not meet, like beginnings,
fact was insulted by fiction:
the newborn stuns the God.
Drop by drop
life drips from ankles.
Desolation takes advantage,
forgets the path, becomes self-centered.
Dialect changes, to taste the foul
heritage,
cadaver breaks the glass jar.
Foeticide of a flute, overnight
the soft face becomes dark. Orange moon
floats like an empty boat.
Waves burn
for the sake of swollen lids of time.
The essence of lies weaves a theme
a skull rolls down on a slide
laughing like sin of omissions.
Night screams.
A hot sun glows from the window.
Satish Verma, 18 april 2015
A hero demands affection, the heat
for a surrogate role
of a saviour of oppressed.
Deafness increases
towards the integrity of a failed man.
To become something after impotence
with implicit metaphysical rags
worn in chains of blind silence.
It was all, molesting the parting hour,
or nothing, obscuring the pressing hope.
The game continues to bluff the speechless
for casting a spell on innocent vision.
Essence and rose want to separate,
no sensual dive in the sea of
silken love with blackened hands.
The other forehead has a smear of blood.
My fingers move in tender wrongs, you
did not deserve this cold night. Nothing
will happen to the vase. I
am plucking the last flowers.
Gert Strydom, 17 april 2015
Tonight phosphorescence
is present over your body
while we walk in shorts
under a golden moon
and it is as if every firefly
is focusing
its tiny beam of light upon you
and your blouse glimmers
almost see-through
and there’s dozens of little lights
glittering in your hair
as if they are also flying there
and the sparkle in your eyes
outshines the stars
and your tender lips
are sweet beneath mine
and it feels as if I am dreaming
that a girl so divinely lovely is mine.
Satish Verma, 17 april 2015
Spitting the blood, he said,
every winter for few days –
he would feel outcast and there was
pain in the idea of pain, but he wanted to live
without a painkiller.
Sometimes he will singe his hands on a flame
to protect his dignity. The history of his
unrest remaining untold. Then he will go
out in rains of knowledge and soak himself
in mixed joy.
A lump in the throat hurts, when he
tries to decipher a dream to measure
the life. A liar knows the complete death
of a truth to assert his independent existence
in myth.
A deadly poison of the choosing,
your own microclimate, aggrandizement
of royal tradition, makes you popular in masses.
They surge to touch your gown, ripping
the explosion.
Salvatore Ala, 17 april 2015
We are bone, love, we are earth,
Our breathing slows and we are stone.
We are flesh, love, we are spirit,
Our eyes close and we are mineral.
We are burial places, love, we are fire,
When we kiss the ice ages recede.
We are half lives, love, missing links,
When we touch the earth grows fecund.
Joe Breunig, 16 april 2015
Finding Holy Ground frequently,
should be much easier these days;
isn’t it wherever we happen to go,
since His presence abides with us?
Haven’t we accepted His higher ways?
Are His precepts and promises hidden,
inside the stony temple of our hearts?
Do we desire to mesh our wills with His?
Are we making proper, daily sacrifices
of attitudes- without being torn apart?
Can our speech be free of covetousness?
Will we learn to be completely content,
boldly knowing The Lord is our helper?
Can we get over the irrational fears
that may usurp His Grace and circumvent
the holy plans and purpose given to us?
Are we bowing daily to His authority?
Can we listen to Godly conversations,
without be offended by our ignorance?
Wherever we go, we must realize and see
that we are standing on holy ground-
for the Earth still belongs to the Lord.
Therefore, let’s raise clean hands overhead
with genuine praise before Him, seeing…
that He remains worthy of being adored!
Author Notes
Inspired by:
Heb 13:5-8; Isa 55:8-9; Psa 24
Learn more about me and my poetry at:
http://amzn.to/1ffo9YZ
By Joseph J. Breunig 3rd, © 2015, All rights reserved.
Gert Strydom, 16 april 2015
Your dad says proudly that he did design you himself
and your eyes, nose and mouth are genetically from him.
Your mother says that she is your own breeding machine,
the paediatrician says that you may go home tomorrow
and it is much more than just a maybe.
I am astounded by you small long body
where you are laying in a glass box with a blue light
and we would not want it any different
where you are growing at the speed of wind
and your eyes are covered by minutely small sunglasses
against the sharp light that is blinding you
and your grandmother wants to pull you much closer.
Fragile and brittle you lay and wait
where the machine is doing its work to the following day.
Satish Verma, 16 april 2015
Throwing the prosthesis, he jumped for
numericals, refusing to expand,
walk with father of sorrow
the revolutionary.
He wanted to talk as an equal
in interpretation of truth about death
and God, the new incumbent
of faith.
An aptness to spill the blood on
your face, of some recent slaughter,
as a witness of dying for peace,
as soothing law of nature.
He wears the fabric of inspiration:
the city and streets are empty
weaving the welts of pain,
for nothing.
Satish Verma, 15 april 2015
Poaching on the brooding landscape
you crashed while scaling the flame.
A togetherness became a half-truth.
How troubled
I had been for basics.
Then shifting loyalties for petty things
you were holding up my soul,
and I did not move with the changing times.
For the rivers
to walk with green trees.
If the words had the answers
to rebel against the eternal guilt,
to beat the death with pain.
Fighting
for the faded truths.
My experiments with lies will continue!
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