Satish Verma, 19 july 2022
It was restless mind
and I ask you something.
The grammar.
When something big―
happens, I find an excuse
to say small things.
O invisible!
how do I resolve the puzzles
of life. It had become a big
traumatic event.
The rain―
of inflected words
backed up by silence, keeps
me running―
to find the import.
Tell me―
how do I remember you.
Satish Verma, 18 july 2022
Washed-up your
facial nuance, like jellyfish
at abandoned shore.
I was collecting shells
today, to write a poem for
your brown irises.
Pink chrysanthemums
will not say anything, but were dying
when you were away..
In rains you take a
figure, like a blue black bird
ready to fly away.
Satish Verma, 17 july 2022
You were not a god―
in panic, seeking an asylum
with two little hands
holding a golden book.
There was a potential
threat of complete annihilation
from the foul writing on the walls
with spurious titles.
A political blitzkrieg
takes place in glass dome,
drawing out bad blood,
from healthy limbs.
Where would you go, now
in dark? Fleeing from the violence
of men, being migrant without
a temple at the end of the earth.
Satish Verma, 16 july 2022
A rose on your name shines,
like a mural painting.
You had wanted
a deathless dying.
Does it happen to everyone?
Living on water,
still abrasive?
When you walked on the nails,
was it corrosive, like
acid on face?
I am visiting the death room
to start a vigil, like
a hummingbird gone mute.
And the lovebirds will show
no more the open affections.
The moon will heal the poem.
Hearth will keep on throwing
the crackling blaze.
Satish Verma, 15 july 2022
In your painting the
silence of death was very loud.
I will call a poem.
Hold it down, your horse
power. Floodgates will open to
let out ugly ducklings.
In moonlight― I may
sit on the sand dune to listen,
the silent, inner voice.
Lines on your forehead
are getting deeper. May I
call the nightingale?
Satish Verma, 13 july 2022
Belong to yourself in―
green flames and wait for
the hibiscus of September.
Meanwhile you will
break the silence of deathless
moon. I will watch the dark
night till then.
The yes woman walks
on water. I stay on the shore
to see the bones drown.
It was great worthy of the
digitalis. Fingers of gloves
will measure the beats of heart.
Attending the funeral was
waste. You will rise again
from ashes to beat revenge.
Satish Verma, 12 july 2022
After euthanasia,
I was conversing with a ghost.
Foam-born, he
wanted to shrink in a ring.
To cause harm―
a knife, apologizes,
for playing with fire.
That is the life,
of a mortal― to keep his
god, as a prisoner
of books.
And yet, you are called
a great warrior of words.
In your prime flight,
when the sun is setting,
you want to drop dead
like a sparrow, on eternal greenness
of silence.
The horses run in full alacrity.
Satish Verma, 10 july 2022
You evoke the desire.
I break like bougainvillea leaves.
Wind sweeps the floor.
After tarantula bite,
I pick a peony― ambling
aimlessly in rains.
Until the seagull
lands, I will stay on the beach
waiting for sunset.
Waves scramble before
the moon rises. I will hold
the flowers in palms.
Satish Verma, 9 july 2022
In final journey, there
was a collective guilt.
To find an opus, I reach out
for a carbon pit.
It was not your grief
not my miracle. Collecting the
cadavers to sleep with―
for warmth.
Ashes, you poke at the
art. Except self-elevation
and grandiosity, what to discover
in the heap of refuse?
You start nibbling at your
clothes. The scream melts at
the stitchs. Style wavers,
you become naked.
Satish Verma, 8 july 2022
A very crude question,
I will ask. What kind of
bestiality or a war―
you want to start, after a
little infidelity?
It was not a dumb
pleading. The orange moon
burns every night.
Some virgin deaths,
and conversations about
this side of murders are needed
to be addressed.
Water and earth, both
were becoming hot and cold.
Nothing was good,
nothing was bad.
The white gowned ghosts
wanted to become benign.
Who was playing God?
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