Satish Verma, 24 january 2015
Black fire was furtively raging
after the massacre of moon.
I still stood with feet of clay
to experiment with my lies.
Bare neck hanging, something
has to be done, to make a gift
for the sake of truth, walking alone
without an effort.
I suddenly realize the illusion
and fail miserably in a perverted manner,
make a mockery of the death trap
in a hospital of thumbs
down, to roll the carpet.
Satish Verma, 23 january 2015
I wished
a solitary temptation,
to write off karma
and become responsible for the spattered blood.
You were generating hatred, Asia,
in the land of Buddha.
I can hear the glaciers receding.
Answerable to belonging,
the change of generations,
makes me free to become deaf and dumb.
Only I wanted to see, and see through
burning walls,
the hands, who lighted the torch
to burn the transparent shame.
Rejecting the original script
of fighting a god, in the midst of
non-truths, how far the time will decide
the destiny of man? I break off
from the cliches, wait for the leaves to fall
and its drifting darkness on the open land
of wounded whispers.
Joe Breunig, 22 january 2015
The shades of gray are nearly infinite-
mirroring attitudes regarding our sin.
Degrees of separation give distinction
to human perception of ugliness within.
Living now in this ‘Age of Information’
has not made life much more palatable;
visible is God’s Truth and Satan’s lies,
as individuals determine what’s palpable.
Gobs of available data doesn’t translate
into experience and useful wisdom directly.
Real sapience, is shown by the Holy Spirit,
when the ideas of faith are under scrutiny.
Biblical principles enable all to overcome
corrosive powers of intellectual pollution;
however, personal change, only occurs when…
one has the mindset for a Heavenly solution!
Author Notes
Inspired by:
1 Cor 2; Phil 4:4-8
Learn more about me and my poetry at:
http://amzn.to/1ffo9YZ
By Joseph J. Breunig 3rd, © 2015, All rights reserved.
xxxxoxox, 22 january 2015
It creeps in,
Like a theif through the back door,
It breaks you down,
Worse than a war,
You crawl on your knee's,
To try and hide,
But it always finds you,
And makes you want to die,
There is no white light,
And the end of this black road,
There is no holy ghost,
That will take home,
Pray to your gods,
And to your priests,
Nothing can save you,
From whats tormenting me,
Satish Verma, 22 january 2015
Death in meadow
on leaves, under the sky.
History was walking over the bodies
of those who were in service
to move the wheels of sorrow.
The horror sinks slowly.
They were killed without war.
Unpaid debts of life, conflicts
at home. Amidst the laughter
somebody hangs in a noose.
Cry, cry, the possessed one,
your script had failed you.
Your chosen god was fake one
your unknown fear was real -
under the veil of sky-blue peace.
The faith has a price now,
put up for sale on the combed street,
from the opening of a number.
No wages are fixed for lying deep
round the pain of centuries.
Satish Verma, 21 january 2015
Drowning her children
back in her womb,
a big tear rolls down the cheek of earth.
She was sitting on broken bones
to watch the terror,
ear for ear to listen,
eye for eye to see.
Hope was becoming ephemeral.
Nostalgia for breathing in,
the scented grains of death’s fruit,
no analogue, no relics of blood
and a ceremony of water, soil and wood.
All gone. It is a battered rubble
back to back, autoclaved, clean.
We walk back, heads bowed, shaven,
absolutely fouled with no immediate answer.
Was there a dialogue on non-death?
Satish Verma, 20 january 2015
The fall
was imminent
on the moment of complete truth.
I was talking of annihilation
standing on scaffolding of fear.
Walking on burning coals
was a sacred commitment,
a spiritual solidarity,
with lake salt –
to lift the spirit
of sagging trees.
Of freedom of body
in camps of violence.
Without sound, I wanted to see
the creation in nothing.
Anything was happening
under the bald sky.
Satish Verma, 18 january 2015
A poem writes my name.
I am trembling
on paper like salt.
Flowing like moon
on the black wound.
The lamb and the skull.
I know the saint
invented by masses.
You need a fresh awakening.
A vastness from nothing to nothing.
Later the pebbles will dance
on the bay of death.
Sometimes the scales were jinxed,
sometimes the weight was light.
I was sitting under a chaste tree.
B.Z. Niditch, 18 january 2015
Your Polish films
in black and white
under fascism's history
gave us deeper insight
into hunger, tyranny and misery,
knowing the thunder of war
from our lack and poverty,
that only in such dialogue
have we a brilliant diary,
with a wish again
to be in laughter.
Satish Verma, 17 january 2015
There was existence,
without space.
I was afraid of my unborn child.
Inheriting the stammer
of history
I could not think of any brand abuse.
On the contrary, fumes
throw you off the road.
Full moon rising on the cleft.
I was, as I am, never being
to any threat of drowning
in contradictions.
A dignity in withdrawl
and coming back after sunset –
to walk in night, alone.
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