Satish Verma, 7 listopada 2022
Water has no feet.
With cupped hands,
I will pick up
the crying baby.
When stars
go to sleep, I hear you
in dark, wandering
like amusk deer.
In a book
I will keep your eyes.
When you cradle in
Selene's arms, my thoughts
will catch a poem.
Once your mind
was not occupied with
my image, a fly of poison
bit me.
I was never the same again.
Satish Verma, 6 listopada 2022
No time was left
to call you to bring in
black rose to ward off
the ill omen.
Garden was burning.
Between the dense
smoke and golden flames,
blood moon was disappearing
like brisk pain.
Nothing matters now.
I had kissed your
hand only once, before
the door was shut. The
lips would count the poems
we didn't share.
Clouds come, clouds
go. The story ends
of rags to riches. The riches
of knives become blunt.
The Beekeeper was dead.
Satish Verma, 5 listopada 2022
The footman was
unseen. I assume, the
new democracy comes
into being.
A steady stream
of thoughts, spread wordlessly.
You feel only the plodding.
The river knows
the integrity of banks. They
won't cave in dry spell.
The rainbow digs in.
There were no arrows
to shoot down the moon.
Time will teach you.
You can't hold on
the realization alone. It
was late to pull back the strings.
Trying to become you.
Nonplussed, still wanting
me to hold on.
Satish Verma, 4 listopada 2022
When the hurting
fails to speak, tribalism wins,
without a shine.
When I hold your
hand, you wanted to know
the ethics of our sins.
Then you bend in dream
like the circinate frond
or maidenhair, to kiss
my bleeding toes.
For you someone
would be falling apart. Take care
of him to the death of night.
The body will meet
the dust one day, to understand
life and come back to
unload the virtues.
Not you, not me
we all are superficial.
Satish Verma, 3 listopada 2022
Do not punish yourself
devastatingly;
as long as I am not
turned into stone.
The display must
not be invoked. Go gingerly
in the lake of two wills.
Grief should not be
grey. In wilderness you
will find the support
of thick-lipped ghosts.
Pithy muscles
back the yellow rocks enigma.
Moon always comes to sleep
in the arms of blue sky.
Not the pathfinder,
I would become your path.
Satish Verma, 1 listopada 2022
Will you maintain
fidelity in a time of war,
when the stars were burning?
Extravagantly, I paint
the moon blue
on your pale face.
Unspeakable was
the terror. You never had
the nightmare to
frighten the sculptor.
The race will never
end. Nobody wants to
be defeated by a savior
in the province of clovers.
Who would forget the black rock,
from where we
jumped onto the flames?
Satish Verma, 31 października 2022
Playing the double life,
coming apart at―
the seems.
I was thinking aloud the death of a
supernova, and here
an araucaria burns out.
Hands unknown,
someone mixes the cards
of your fortuity, and you
become very rich.
You couldn't carry
your happiness and crashed
on stairs, like embedded
in quicksand.
I regard this a
slaughter in broad daylight.
Sun was pierced by a
blistering eye.
Satish Verma, 30 października 2022
The yellow jasmines
are dead. My ache returns.
My language does't
speak. My agony will describe
the authentic death.
It is a long prose.
One eye sticks out from
the socket to read clearly.
The see-through veil
leaks the story, which can't
be taken to the beautiful
end.
First you grill the
moon, then ask for the
slanted answer. Love takes
off the makeup.
How long the poems
will cry?
Satish Verma, 29 października 2022
I always walk
a thinking moon. One day
I will ask him how to release
the destiny encased
in amber of your eyes.
One day you should
paint me blue, when the
sun sets on the lake for
a final dip.
My grey skin
melts in your hands to
interpret the viscosity of
trembling heart.
Don't give any
testimony against the unseen
murder of a golden deer
drinking water from
your cupped hands.
Satish Verma, 27 października 2022
I refuse to underrate
the fog, its arithmetic,
bleaching the dark
words in twilight.
Indelible memory.
You don't behave yourself
writing furiously the names
of god in air.
Song was tongueless.
You could hear the nuances
of cords in rhythm.
Without listening you go
into bliss.
The blue rocks. Black birds
come in groups to commit
shared suicide on the
burning earth.
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