Satish Verma, 26 february 2020
In blood and grass
lies the snowman.
I must not look at it twice
after the spring melt.
The black magic has failed.
A mooned night will―
not reflect the real intent
of song's proxy in dark.
A lethal mix of twilight
and solstice, squats in gloom
to listen the surrender
of shine.
The glorious name, ultimately
drops the hint,
of profanity, written on wall.
Satish Verma, 25 february 2020
I hear your voice
coming from within.
The disconnect, the cultural clash,
from river,
from tree,
from the golden nest.
The circle was complete,
breech birth,
the explicit insult.
The parched moon―
will bring the cold
tears, to extinguish the sparks
going home.
The roadway leads
to nowhere land. You will
again meet the wounded
cuckoo which will always sing
the hurts.
Satish Verma, 24 february 2020
It was just my time.
To become responsible for
me and I had become recluse,
to lose my memory,
to pay back my debt.
I am returning
the gifts,
of night, birth and
sacrifices.
The wheels―
had pulled me to slavery.
I am now floating,
wingless,
weightless,
for I cannot see―
the parental fall.
Satish Verma, 23 february 2020
Indicted,
the firm grass―
will start a fire. I was trying
to find my path in smoke.
On fingertips, was at stake,
the creek's departure.
I would wear a mask
hiding my emotions.
We will wait for the spring.
There was still a mound of snow
at the door.
The rape of the moon
was not in cards. We were ready
to sit in moonlight, reading
our hands.
Philosophy of death
has many questions. Religion
of birth has many answers.
Satish Verma, 22 february 2020
Vespa,
the live wasp
of paper house,
feeding the insects
to little ones.
Silicon valley.
The oranges were very sweet
and carpet beetles
eating away the fabric.
I have come from a faraway place
to taste the blood-stained raisins.
Do you know why we bury
our truths? The ancient gods
were very pleased to eat them.
The hymns don't tell the lie.
Satish Verma, 20 february 2020
Not reaching somewhere,
I was not today,
what I was.
You seek a hand
for a handshake, and I watch
the dirt gathering
on the nails.
Sky does not give you
an award.The soot
collects on the windows.
The blue skulls dance
to defy the earth.No forehead
was formed.How would you
read the destiny?
I swear, I did not fathered
the deity in a-
monotheist gathering.
A black hijab covers
the moon.
Satish Verma, 19 february 2020
I
The blend of gene and name.
How you carry the
legacy?
II
We are losing the war.
You are winning
the birds.
III
The sparrows have left
the nest of man,
in search of moving homes.
IV
How do you spell the ruins?
I have never seen
a perfect shape.
V
Chicken-livered.
Why did you try to
confront the wall?
Satish Verma, 18 february 2020
Lion's tooth, dandelion
in dead winter,
holds on to your dress.
*
for warmth. The oranges
are not meant
for sale.
*
The obituary was short
and sweet.
When would you die for me?
*
Wolves in white,
were very smart. A rose,
red rose for every martyr.
*
Behind the bars
you try to catch the sky
for the lilies.
Satish Verma, 16 february 2020
Handcuffed, you digress
from the vacuity. A bucket
full of hymns, will not―
erode, the fog of winter.
Let us start telling the
unsaid things of monstrous life.
The milk bath, the roaring and
the panther in the dry well.
The cortical pain, seeps into
the medulla. You will not find
a single soul, who will talk
about the fall.
The clocks are being moved
to save the light―
which splinters into myriad
faces, when you scream.
Satish Verma, 15 february 2020
A firefly in a jar
will not fly.
Presiding over the genocide
how can you count the dead
children of god, on the street,
by your forked tongue?
The roving eyes. Chameleons.
With folded hands, they
throw the snow on your
disheveled hair.
The morals are marketed
daily on the dais. I deny myself,
something which I can give
you. O hunger, don't go back.
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