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?
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.
Poetry
Prose
Photography
Graphics
Video poems
Postcards
Diary
Books
Handmade
