Satish Verma, 31 march 2022
O my baby pain―
this house is on fire.
My body is going to war.
A lonely path, in life
and death― where does it
lead to― in wilderness of home?
The mob only loots.
Lynches and hangs you from
the lone tree of love.
I confess, there was
a chink in my armor, not
light but water seeps through it.
You start fearing the
windows. Not noises, time
was slipping pout, never to come back.
Satish Verma, 30 march 2022
After centuries of reverie―
a dream breaks, falls
like a mirror in ink, splintering
into thousand thoughts. Somewhere
words start flying.
Oh god!
your feet of clay are crumbling.
I wanted to write a new script
on your body,
slashing my wrists.
How much the truth was
lying? Ask the shades alluding
to moon. Patchy and opaque
in forest of maple, I was counting
the red-lobed leaves.
Your eyes were telling a
soulful tale. On beach were
sitting some youngmen in a row in orange jump
suits waiting to meet
their gods.
Satish Verma, 29 march 2022
Time
was moving without wheels.
Not a match. I
don't exist. Anonymous.
You were also not same
as I lost you.
Black walls.
You will kiss them
for a promise.
Your lips, wrapping
the wounds, like bandages.
The bruises smell
like poppies.
Not thirsty. Still
I revert to the theme of
dry lake.
Are you going to
shut the eyes of moon?
Satish Verma, 28 march 2022
Ah, in this―
culture of shames
you will need some divination
for mooning around.
You cannot mend the old
shoes, become an explicator―
of complex human mind.
Cannot face the sun to
catch my shadow. Father and
son were water apart.
The things become no-things
inestimable. I keep on intuiting..
First came the rains,
then winds. I stand for nation.
I fall for you.
Satish Verma, 27 march 2022
I will never be able to―
tell the full story. Winds
are changing and―
the innocence has ended.
Centuries of recital now
starts the inquisition. It haunts
my psyche. In deluge―
the ferry will ever come?
Yesterday you had seen me
in a very vulnerable state.
Even gods weep.
Do you know what is muse,
goddess of art and an inspiration
of a poet?
In one of the poem I had
asked my muse, can you prey for me?
This is my style of conversational
or confessional poesy.
What do you say?
Satish Verma, 26 march 2022
Talking to moon tonight,
in windless night.
You begin― to reflect― the past.
I pretend― I am gifting you
my poems, while bleeding―
from the eyes.
You will not read,
even once, the steaming tears of stones,
when the volcano―
spews its molten grief.
I am gifting you today, forever―
my summers.
Snow will rush into my veins.
I freeze at once, in memories
of the lone, stark naked, yew tree
laden with red berries.
Not poisonous, I am gifting you
my death.
Take me in your solitude!
Satish Verma, 24 march 2022
It was too loud
to become a savior. You
longed for― only a
flower weight.
I wanted it to last―
my pain― lying to myself.
I will wait for the
sanity to reappear.
Too raw― the codex.
It burns the author. I
will have to learn―
a new alphabet.
The bell tolls,
bell tolls.
Take me to crypt in dark.
I have to read the walls again.
Satish Verma, 22 march 2022
It was an explicit "I"―
deeply flawed.
You had started hitting
your peers, asking them
to hate you.
Psychopath?
Mea culpa, who would not say?
Kindles a tender feel―
when you love a pink rose,
not uttering a word.
Scared, my tremors
start like a leaf. Cannot hold
the pen. Very quietly
I print my tears.
Thirst, mouthless―
I drink from eyes.
Earth beware― the crop has failed.
Rancher was going―
to commit suicide.
Satish Verma, 21 march 2022
Moon was walking
like your shadow,
grabs you from behind
and drowns you
in water.
This was a battle cry
for a beach murder.
This will a become a talk
of the crowd.
Light enters a bone
and you start glowing.
Was it a realization
of the awakening? The
pain becomes your angel―
of skin.
The cuts and wounds become
your words of unknown poem.
Why you want to play
hide and seek with strangers?
Satish Verma, 20 march 2022
A maverick―
neither tears, nor scabs
I wanted to cheat myself.
Confection may go awry.
I prepare the new text
of wearing the pain.
I want you to stay
beside me, when I am unseated―
holding the clouds.
Discarding golden viscera.
This was my last journey
for taking revenge.
Undulation over. There
will be a vertical
drop on the nails.
On the black stones a fig tree wavers.
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