Strange
All night November,
I was searching the vulnerable
lips after loosing you.
Now fingerless hands
were moving the sun-dial
away from light.
The shroud was heavy,
I would not breathe.
Give me a blue moon before dawn.
You cannot engage in
sudden withdrawl. I will
come back for a kiss.
The paper that leaves a wound,
I will not sign for the bread.
My hands had stopped trembling.
Satish Verma
poem by Satish Verma
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Secret Wake
savage
running under the moon
selling the night
sanitizing
the hands
after the killing
truth
withdrawl
vaginae still inviolate
seeds wiped off
from the face of earth
ethnic cleaning
Satish Verma
poem by Satish Verma
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It Starts With A Kiss
It starts with a kiss,
That brings the world down,
A kiss,
That makes my body give in,
It starts with a kiss,
And your hands,
Slowly moving down my back,
And lifting me up to put my legs around you,
It starts with a kiss,
Our lips will do what they do,
My lips will part,
When yours do,
It starts with a kiss,
With my hands through your hair,
And with your hands on my waist,
Man this world seems to quake,
It starts with a kiss,
Man this is so fair,
Your lips feel so good,
On mine that just sit their,
It starts with a kiss,
That makes the whole room stop,
They see sparks fly,
And the room glow in a light so pure,
It starts with a kiss,
But when your lips leave mine,
My neck feels their company,
Then my body gives into you,
It starts with a kiss,
Your lips seem to know what to do,
Cause they are moving up and down my neck,
Once that ends they find my lips again,
It starts with a kiss,
And my body sub comes to you,
And once again,
The Kiss Is Where It All Begins! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! !
Scanning
When night will not speak
and shoes will float on the water;
legs of truth will not move.
Latched to absence
unreasons held the hands of time.
I stopped believing in myself.
The genome had come in a bottle.
when the virgin son was killed in a raid.
The mausoleum will not accept the shroud.
The priest will pay the moon,
for the price of the nightly stings.
Now the death will kill the clouds of bees.
And the green door shuts the house
of light. Moonlight has gone missing.
We will have to find the lips of dark.
poem by Satish Verma
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It Was Enough
Yawning of dawn.
I scribble a note for night
to come again.
And I try to write a triolet
in memory of moon;
who forgot to say goodbye.
A pigeon flutters in my chest
for a beautiful bride,
who was fond of pecans.
I have not much to show
except my trembling hands
which could not light the -
lamp in dark for once, to
read the face of eternity.
poem by Satish Verma
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Chaste Tree
A poem writes my name.
I am trembling
on paper like salt.
Flowing like moon
on the black wound.
The lamb and the skull.
I know the saint
invented by masses.
You need a fresh awakening.
A vastness from nothing to nothing.
Later the pebbles will dance
on the bay of death.
Sometimes the scales were jinxed,
sometimes the weight was light.
I was sitting under a chaste tree.
poem by Satish Verma
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Lips Of Moon Were Hot
Eggs went freezing in the sap.
Lips of moon were hot.
In the flare up, the
rebel had cast doubt
on cartridge.
Missiles were unique
but, hands trembled -
concept of sky was a lie.
Saturn and moon were coming closer.
Two way mirror of sun
was watching.
The fallen leaves on grass
refuse to be blown away.
They were waiting for the fruits.
Once in a blue lake
you had cheated the boat,
you may not be lucky this time.
poem by Satish Verma
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Foursome
A complex ego:
lips on a flame
like Kama Sutra.
Starless night
to probe a moon
going downhill.
A needle in hay
protects the wound
of a kiss.
Portrait was incomplete
without pilot
to fly a plane:
poem by Satish Verma
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A Monument
Wanting to feel your breath
in this room, in half-light, my hands
opened the window to let him in,
the green moon.
For so much violence in everyday life.
let’s break a poem and sqeeze its honey
and carve only feet, of invisible fear.
When I had run after a dream
the frills of your gown caught fire;
at the door a music stopped
to listen to rustling of a caged bird
longing for the green flight of a silent
morning joining a procession of a recent
mythical hurt.
Satish Verma
poem by Satish Verma
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On The Brink
I was trying to communicate
the poverty of words.
We were moving in circles.
Dark figures-
afraid of each other.
What was a shame -
in restraints
of narcissism? You are
not going to take a dip
in opaque waters.
A conceptual withdrawl
from the acrimony of hills.
Night was very cool but
moon will not come down
and grass will not go up.
I will never be generous
in jokes of a monstrous
nose. The stink was awful
but roses were white and
the meaning had no confines.
poem by Satish Verma
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Unending
In downy pink I watch you go
my sun,
at night you will pluck moon flowers.
In half-moon eclipse
the morning glory will wake me up
in dew, alighting whole night
on the rose branch. I still smell
your lips. The head aches in
singing dark.
Welcome again, my ghosts of new year.
Satish Verma
poem by Satish Verma
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Unmade Future
A golden cave was afraid
Of a blue thrust.
Hands were not able to console
the mirror.
Let us step back for a
last laugh. You were talking
to yourself when the canary was
set free from the house arrest.
Ah, the paradise, after all, was
a myth. You had to beg for a violin
for democracy and stoop to pick
up a horsehair bow for playing the anthem.
You had cut your fingers in a fake war
with the moon.It was a miracle
knocking out the stars. A self-made
wound will never need the sutures.
poem by Satish Verma
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Stoned
It was a mid night knock.
A cloud laden sky
had sent a message.
The moon was trembling
like a collateral pain
in the blue.
I had not slept the night,
if I could bleed.
A toddler had drowned head-on
in a half-filled bucket
and some rodents had sheared
away the toes and ears of a sick child.
You give me hurts, for glassy eyes.
The claws on my neck,
I can hardly breathe.
The severed paws and intact canines
of a skull morph into a roaring beast.
There is no water in my eyes.
poem by Satish Verma
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The Predicament
Joined by the funeral, we sit down,
under the blue sky, fire watching, sequentialling
the processions. Ultimately one by one they come,
to dust, hands turned down. After close of the rainbow
there is an explosion and a transition
censored by stone age. They flee from the shrapnels
to swathe in bioluminence of death. The penury
makes a fanciest atrocity.
A pockmarked moon stands there to listen
the scandalized whispers of crulest legends
in century’s hopelessness, guilt’s bleeding.
You never chained the voice of booms. A god
mourns in fading light.
SATISH VERMA
poem by Satish Verma
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What Has To Stay
Like I want to erase the fear
before I light a remote fire
in the blue veins.
Actually this was the crisis of self pride
in manic depression
seeking the anonymity of toes
tracing the footpath.
Becoming a paper-boat
in the winds of flesh and fancies
on the choppy sea of death.
No spinal pain for candles
to burn in courtyard
of sunken faith.
Red grapes in a tiny bowl
leap to lips of sun
for sons and daughters. Ajmer, INDIA
SATISH VERMA
poem by Satish Verma
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Birthday
Shot in the face an insider
tells the story of withdrawl
of the vision thing.
Crooked hands lift the
frozen lake to drimk
the elixir of death.
Lonely home inspires
the dark bird to land
on the window of mountain walls.
Should have left this day
untouched by lips.
I am counting the bridges.
Age will tell the bones
to bend like strings
for a velvety song.
poem by Satish Verma
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Dignity
There was existence,
without space.
I was afraid of my unborn child.
Inheriting the stammer
of history
I could not think of any brand abuse.
On the contrary, fumes
throw you off the road.
Full moon rising on the cleft.
I was, as I am, never being
to any threat of drowning
in contradictions.
A dignity in withdrawl
and coming back after sunset –
to walk in night, alone.
poem by Satish Verma
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Recapitulation
Let us talk today
of crazed times,
so that the trade of
ethical falls runs.
When dawn breaks
on the stunned silence
of moon, I start unfolding
the black sun.
Ah, a poetry wound
aches my world, knee deep
in blue veins, to find
the lost river of tears.
Give me a song, a word
a phrase, to grow old.
poem by Satish Verma
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The Finale
Sometimes horizon roams with moon
I pluck the stars
night drizzles from the dark clouds.
A shadow falls on the door
without struggle or rumor
I know he has come, my guest
the survivor of genocide.
He has come a long way
a message on his parched lips
he rubs hands.
Inferno he says. Holocaust he
murmurs. It is here again,
whole world is under siege.
He tells me, do something for the grass.
Ask your god to come back from domes.
poem by Satish Verma
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Conversation
There was no end
to looking inside.
I was crumbling.
Unnamed homing in
of anguish,
not knowing me.
The wasted questions
of revival.
A depleted dawn of a failed sun?
A river war
between two hills
for a moon?
Time to ask
motor neurons,
why night had failed at ending?
Satish Verma
poem by Satish Verma
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Teasing
Tonight
when I come back
clad in wounded memories,
one seed deep
the pod would lie in the forest of hands,
I will wake you up in between
the kisses of moon.
The hawthorn lamps –
let me light the last unlit
of empty night, for a farewell
to a black rose, who had collected
the unpraised thorns.
The fugitive wind shuts the smart tears.
poem by Satish Verma
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