Satish Verma, 12 september 2021
Not a single word was
written today, watching
the masks being perfected.
A nosedive, of what
I built without mercury,
without threads.
Sitting on a black
stone, wishing moon a
mist bath of absolute.
It again aches, my
roving heart, trying to
knit the harmony in black and white.
Satish Verma, 11 september 2021
I will write a very
soft poem for you today.
Moon had promised
to standby.
You cannot stay outside
your lips. They were frozen.
I will trap a ray of light
when you fall in a pit.
Such aplomb. I must
give you a gift of an Ariel.
Come equinox, I will wait
for the harvest moon.
The pure hymns. I
turn my gold ring for a miracle.
The scars were singing again.
Out of reach, a star winks.
Satish Verma, 10 september 2021
Very scary, I admit―
your vintage―
lovemaking with
a ghost.
Life in a crate was
creating nonpoems.
Water on the ice moon
was never there.
Unmasked you shoot a
songbird in flight.
The soft music went into
the barrel of the gun.
Come and meet my other
self. My penchant for talking
to flowers has made
me a martyr.
Satish Verma, 9 september 2021
It was not a jubilee,
but I had come to pay my debt.
Stepping gingerly in your
father's study, you open the almirah.
No I am not afraid.
I have come to visit my father.
The hurt has not destroyed me completely.
Days were numbed like by vespa stings― with
burning, swelling and soreness.
I slide the clothes. In
deeper layer a plastic pack appears. on the
bed of dried rose petals,
sits a singed, brown vertebra―
collected after his funeral.
My talisman. I touch it.
Turn around―
don't look back
and walk away.
Satish Verma, 8 september 2021
Like a walking fern, you were.
I was talking to you. Why
would you nose down to touch
my landscape and fall into my arms?
To protect you, I was
making a massive wall― encouraging
the revivalism. Predator
drones were intending to follow you.
The dirt― it will not
stain your innocence. Don't
stand on the ledge. Faceless
winds can topple you at night.
We are beasts, with no space
in between. Like sardines you
are packed without names. The
sea has dried up. How far
was the sun?
Satish Verma, 7 september 2021
Colored truth,
becomes a hot balloon
in denial mode.
For your own―
relevance, negativity will
not accept the defeat.
Between the stars,
anger erupts―
to reorient the gaffe.
Outrage and despair
are writ large
on the face of non-white moon.
Morgan, 6 september 2021
Moth To flame:
'Some other time.
I'm going home
Thanks all the same.'
Satish Verma, 6 september 2021
You went tounveil your own
statue, before being shot―
dead, for telling the fiction.
Day was stranger than
night. You can discern
the oblique faces.
Handcuffed, you pick up
the pen, to rewrite the name
of omniabsent divine.
Trivial rise of surface
temperature will melt
the snow-clad breasts.
A clove-scented pink―
in the hands of a butcher
does not bring a smile.
Satish Verma, 5 september 2021
In unblemished irish,
the vision was a link
in blankness of thoughts, when
I was weaving a dream
around you.
Your cameo appearance
in flurry of tears,
rips apart my landscape.
The other moon wails behind the clouds.
In androgynous past,
you want to separate the sandwoods.
Death comes as a long sleep.
Your thick braid moves
like a reptile.
I have stopped scripting
the letters. Words float on the
carpeted domes.
Rains would not come tonight.
Satish Verma, 3 september 2021
Constrained.
The starlings will
not fly today.
There was a hole
in the sky.
The god particles will fall.
Drawing out
the blood of fallen―
angles, on the street.
Can you count
the sins of man?
We still celebrate the hate.
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