Satish Verma, 7 july 2022
Again you took a wrong path
to meet the angel.
Like larkspur, you had
the dolphin's back.
Tears will not stop in the―
eyes of the moon. The
eternal itch remains. You will
not drop your smell like musk.
Like the Nazi salute, you
raise your right hand to bless
the crime of telling truth. Now
people listen― when you are gone.
The poesy suffers. As
also the ink. You want your
dark spots to come back. In
contrast, the sun will shine.
Satish Verma, 6 july 2022
It was your weapon.
Nobody else would have given in.
Sucked in by the eternal faith.
Undying love
makes me dumbfounded.
Can you make this world a better
place to live?
What you had done to
my religion? Love does not
begets love now.
You know― what I
do not. Even the barbed
fence will allow the lies.
A gift of rape.
Why life has so many colors?
I will ask the sea.
Satish Verma, 5 july 2022
Beyond the moon
spirit, I will wait for the
holocaust to disappear.
Spruced up stones were
becoming idols for pagans
of muse.
The singer is gone. Only
the fluted men will wear black,
till the moon arises.
Sitting near the feet
of saints, the fronds unroll the
untidy sins, as a homage to sun.
The vigilance increases.
Nobody will write one's name
on the growing trees of palms.
There would be no
preface, when the violence
starts without lips.
Satish Verma, 4 july 2022
Your roses drink the
sun in dewy dawn. I catch the
speed of dying moon.
The rains bring in new
asterisks to anoint the verses
before their burial.
One more mercy to let
the shadows of swallows fall
on my blank pages.
Your lips are like hinged
leaves of Venus flytrap. Become shut
when you trap the words.
Satish Verma, 3 july 2022
The horses run like―
tiny dots, on horizon, to
meet inevitable.
A celestial dance
ensues for skulls uncapped
to hear the echoes.
How far was the house
of god, where you will receive
the revelation?
My tribe was hurt. I
cannot stand indeterminate
end of the slaughter.
Satish Verma, 28 june 2022
A fallout from your
waning smile, parades
a naked wound.
A slice from a wake―
remembers me.
I was sitting in lotus position
ready to go for abdication.
Your message was elegantly
subtle. Not to lose conscience,
remaining the first lover of death.
Exiled from guillotine,
you don't see holiness in
the talons of eagle coming down.
The tree and a river
were old friends. The scarves
tied to the old branches, will
tell the collaborated suicides.
No sane hands will break
the knees of moon.
Satish Verma, 27 june 2022
Today you are moon,
tomorrow Miranda.
I will call you by different names.
To atone the travesty
of justice, you pull down the flag
from atop of the fort.
Nodoby else was there
when you hit the planet.
We join our hands to drown
without a lake.
The king of sky, now
waits for the tempest. When the
daughter will come to wipe out
the tears of snowy peaks?
Satish Verma, 26 june 2022
For the memory of palms,
the pretence lives on―
the blade of a saber.
You run on the sands
barefoot― to catch the waves
returning back to sea.
You had stopped
talking to me― wearing the
mystery― I loved.
On skin you print the
anthem. Somebody kills the lamb.
The pathos went quiet.
Becoming cold turkey,
absolutely white. The pilgrimage
over, you break the coconut.
Satish Verma, 24 june 2022
Touching your
glacier lips with my poems.
A splinter thought
has hogged the center stage.
There was a double
meaning in relaxed posture
of rebellion. Doves of peace
were not visible as yet.
The poverty of freedom
to defend the talent of embracing
death without bullets of shame.
Stones in limelight, left
and right, hitting the walls
of silence. The fat people with
golden hair will decide the hard core burns.
All night, I was
changing sides. Moon was
sending the messages in gaping holes.
Let the skin of hands,
hang like salt-and-pepper!
Satish Verma, 23 june 2022
Not thinking of you
in vacant mood.
Sometimes you want to put
questions to yourself.
Touching the bruises, like
a lover, not to feel the pain. You
want to wipe out the hurts,
trespassing the area of darkness.
Changing the script, you want
to etch out your name―
on the trunk of a fig tree. Under which
a Buddha wanted to meditate, but did not.
The hands print will tell the tale
of a masterpiece built by them after which
they were chopped off.
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