Satish Verma

Satish Verma, 17 july 2019

A Space, A Dot, A Line

The hesitant― 
dawn cracks, as the 
river of darkness squirms. 
 
The moon― 
was in last, to leave 
the howling bank. 
 
It looms large, a ― 
brain-dead future. I think 
I am forgetting my age. 
 
You must face the 
dying earth― sustained― 
on prayers only. 
 
This is the height 
of dilemma. Why― 
poems were hungry?


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Satish Verma

Satish Verma, 16 july 2019

Through The Ashes

Outside, a discreet moon 
was rising, breathing― 
dark. I was wary of strange clouds 
of unknown scents. 
 
Like a blue absence of nothing, 
from nothing to emptiness. 
 
The religion of unspoken 
prayers― I start the journey, 
to void. From there a turbulence will begin. 
 
Blinking eyes― will find 
the answer to a no-question, at 
the end of the conflict― 
 
when the face is lost to sadness. 
You will not take off 
your shoes.


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Satish Verma

Satish Verma, 15 july 2019

A Riddle Unsolved

Something novel: 
a good augury― 
creeping to augment, 
an esoteric fall. 
 
I repeat the mistake of knowing too much. 
 
Submodified. The man― 
still wants to bite the tongue 
on the name of truth. 
 
It was very unpleasant 
to see a hummingbird 
becoming a sphinx. 
 
No need to commit a suicide after homing, 
to a blazing icon in the urn.
 


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Satish Verma

Satish Verma, 14 july 2019

Again A Sheep Walk

I will be kissing in proxy― 
at the dark side of 
the moon, where my twin crashed. 
 
The cracks had emerged 
in the fiery zone― the flames 
reaching the zenith of blue, killer sky. 
 
A tamed hematoma, 
speaks― for the ripped open brain. 
There was nobody left to be whole. 
 
Survivors were the gift 
of miracle. A saint starts 
abusing the stars. 
 
The god’s temple lies― 
in ruins, buried under the sand, 
debris and the dead faith.


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Satish Verma

Satish Verma, 13 july 2019

A Discreet Failure

A midnight darkness― 
threatens the purple moon, 
standing in awe. 
 
 
There were two poems― 
in your hands― which you 
wanted to read in my face. 
 
One for the asking― 
and one for the moral defeat. 
Do you have anything else to narrate? 
 
A thunderbird makes― 
a landing in my insomnia― 
to scatter the dreams. 
 
The insane world returns 
the gift of the pagoda tree. Buddha 
will not come back.


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Satish Verma

Satish Verma, 12 july 2019

Future Tense

The reflection was never 
complete. 
I was trying, was trying 
to understand me, 
in absence of you. 
 
Looking into the persona 
making a saint― 
out of sexual surrogacy. 
 
The human gene― 
transcripted, on the borrowed womb? 
Will you now speak for the fear? 
 
I will never know you 
in dimlight― 
of suspicions. 
 
Are you a complete man now?


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Satish Verma

Satish Verma, 11 july 2019

Crash-Landing

The space in between― 
the mayhem and spiritual hour; 
was not much, but a spitting image, 
of swapping with sun bites― was 
evident without remorse. 
 
The ice storm was raging. 
Blueberries hang from your 
eyes, to bluff me. I draw the curtain 
and lit the fire to bring in― 
the bride of vengeance. 
 
A charitable act, to clear 
the needles from the doll: No black 
magic will work now. I am clean 
and pure, will not cut a 
slice of breast, for the red milk.


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Satish Verma

Satish Verma, 10 july 2019

The Sorcery

I can do it, hold the wasp 
in my palm― without grains 
and short of fructose. 
 
Layer by layer eggs 
will leak― wetting 
the vibrating stigma. 
 
Neat abuses, will suck 
the milk of nodding thistle. 
No marrow comes out to save the elixir. 
 
The hoofers, without 
stirrups were running blindly 
after the fallen apple. 
 
The sage sways sadly 
in the passive winds. It’s aroma 
enters the stream of sex.


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Satish Verma

Satish Verma, 9 july 2019

After Meeting God

You should not be present― 
everywhere, O God. Pull down, 
all the shutters of your temples. 
 
I am mortified, of a 
hidden hand, that gives 
spurious― sugar coated hymns. 
 
A hometown crowd 
assembles at the door of the― 
palace to hear the arrival. 
 
What was the natural 
descent made of? A cyber attack 
was the most desirable thing. 
 
A crypt sets you free― 
from the engraved sermons. 
All night I will sit on the vigil, for a vision. 
 
The book was blank 
for a goodnight deal. I will 
not cross any unwritten poem.


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Satish Verma

Satish Verma, 8 july 2019

It Kills It Kills

Eaten up, by wanderlust― 
I started my sleepwalks 
cheating my dreams. 
 
The grace of knife was there... 
it did not open in daylight. 
Night was the brilliant host. 
 
When do I meet you― 
behind the moon― when stars 
were not twinkling out of fear? 
 
The rare gift of footnotes 
was sufficient to explain― 
the meaning of abstract pain. 
 
You will not treat the stings― 
very unkindly. They were 
meant to awaken you from letting it go.


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