Joe Breunig, 16 january 2015
O Lord, it’s morning; I’m here,
seeking Your face and guidance;
hear the echoing words of my heart;
they’re not some human contrivance
to guilt You into honoring Your Word;
I know that you’re not a lying Man,
with false, hollow promises that tease.
Living my life with these empty hands
raised unto You alone, I ache and yearn
for the sound, of Your quiet voice-
that gently soothes my Christian soul.
Despite today’s harshness, I rejoice…
knowing that the battle belongs to You.
Therefore, I continue to be still-
basking in Your Presence once more,
waiting for You to reveal Your Will…
that’s been individually crafted for me.
Author Notes
Inspired by:
Psa 46; Exo 14:14
Learn more about me and my poetry at:
http://amzn.to/1ffo9YZ
By Joseph J. Breunig 3rd, © 2015, All rights reserved.
Satish Verma, 16 january 2015
They swim like tadpoles.
Thoughts!
I was waiting at the far end of pond.
Heartburn increases at dusk,
fierce battle of blazing stripes
on blankets.
On the scarlet face
a bridge was burning
in wide open eyes.
Somebody takes an aim
hauling a runaway bruise.
Blood comes out roaring.
Weep, my stars,
ice was thin –
drowning the lake.
Satish Verma, 15 january 2015
Somebody had put the feet
against the flame,
the street had become a wall.
Commitment had failed,
the doors were locked.
Collective guilt was seeking favour.
Repeating the same story
blurs the sky.
Sun will not come out.
You are speaking.
He was speaking.
Truth was speaking.
Solitude and silence
come before the summary.
I was responsible for myself.
Earth refuses to conceive –
fire in veins.
Doves had stopped flying.
Satish Verma, 14 january 2015
Looked downward –
the granite face,
to see imprinted kupfernickeled
god, lying in dust.
From where to where
we have come sleepwalking?
In freezing winds, like brown angels
with swollen lids.
White moon-poised to commit suicide?
Blindfolded heavy as lead
in the trade of spared lies?
Back pain will carry us not very far.
Green stems have yellow leaves now.
We start blaming ourselves
to keep the winter away,
in torn shirts.
Satish Verma, 13 january 2015
Your lips were me.
I wanted a kiss
which never came.
Insertion of a word, was committed
my wings took a flight
for anonymity.
To keep suffering alive
truth was accepting the hurts.
I was not speaking for myself.
Who was me to want a praise
for the custodian of morality?
Something for my name?
I must salute the fallen fingers,
who did not write death –
for my hugging blankness.
Satish Verma, 12 january 2015
When terror strikes,
fear inside you
makes a hissing sound,
breaks the vessel.
Pain spurts out.
Your limbs swell like sapphires
in a naked suffering.
You were searching the face
of your dead brother on burning ghat.
And then on, it pours.
Babies were burning in incubators.
Blasts devouring the eyes,
ears and noses.
But the dredging will continue.
Irrespective of ocean of death
leaping to fragile shores
till the waves send back the relics.
Whom shall I call for condolence
in the thick of fog?
I was closing the weeping chapter.
Satish Verma, 11 january 2015
There was the hunger
and suicide.
In favor of my brutal truth
or virtue of my failure,
I do not want any comments on my trauma.
Morality has a dubious equation
with power, provoking my anger.
The days were full of abandoned kilns.
No more shaping of containers
in which one can put the moon,
and honey and roses.
Everything was turning brown
with infinite, sulphur smelling teeth
ready to bite into golden flesh.
Convicts behind the walls were playing
with mirrors to throw the light on slick
towers. Death was laughing, waiting on the trees,
eating black berries.
And I was forced to taste the blood of sky
with sodium –
in sanctum sanctorum.
Satish Verma, 10 january 2015
A pink rose was set to strip
letting the leaves fall.
The roots were jealous of a thorn
for stealing the blood from heart.
It was the last page of a book,
no more commas, no full stop.
The dead tongue now seeks syntax
of the lips that smell like enemies.
Two hard little breasts start a dance
like geraniums on bush.
Between the shadows of thighs
slept the pride.
Satish Verma, 9 january 2015
They manipulated the words
to cross the corridors of essence.
Crib was empty, child was stolen.
At blood stained altar
there was no clue to mystical death.
The contents now matter. Time
displays tools of murder,
snaps the sheet from the bed,
kills the neophyte at water hole,
unsucked breast swells, weeps endlessly.
Apes are coming.
Duplicates look brilliant like novae.
It was becoming crowded. Becoming
was destroying the matter. Fear
moves in water, on the earth.
Faraway a cuckoo sings
a saddest song.
Come, belong to my tears, drops
of my soul’s vessel, kiss the eyes
of planet earth.
B.Z. Niditch, 9 january 2015
(for Tadeusz Konwicki
22 June 1926 – 7 January 2015)
Perhaps watching
the Konwicki film
"Salto"
with Zbigniew Cybulski,
the Polish James Dean,
last night,
brought back
the times
after lectures
when we would sneak
into art theaters
for two foreign films;
then afterwards
how we would lay
on warm blankets
intertwined with
the grass
by the Charles River.
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