Rival Entreaties

climbing on the umblical hill
ahead of the contours,
a denier
alters the chemistry of hate in negative space;
fauna of the earth springs black stones,
man made, on the glistening sex of
lotuses, a forgetfulness ensures
the conceptual withdrawl of the red bull;
hand in hand a sea walks towards the tender beach
to dazzle the hidden sun,

light was inside his body, but he was still
groping for the sleeping lips of a virgin,
into her broken promises; the debris throws up
the severed limbs to negate the will
to live, words must betray a step down, maintaing
a clueless trauma, there was fearlessness,
but no dignity, you have drawn a horizontal
line hugging the boundaries of truth
and lies, I recall buddha to smile in the

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poem by Satish Verma
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Cracking Of Dawn

Death was the beginning. My emancipation.
Death of pre-memory thoughts. I am ready to
enter the sound, without a shadow.
The fire from orifice, clouds, tears and
cascading blossoms in a humming night. Love,
clap and dissolution. The construction of timeless
energy. Flight of future. Your resistence
melting like lips, going beyond the chasm.
A sculpted freedom for prophets. False disguises,
some body else’s identity. Eyes were cool but
tears controlled by remote pain. Mirrors
spooking. A knife knows its job. It is better
to slice the sky. Great thirst for hip
graffiti, tattoos and sketches. To be seen
and admired by dregs of social fabric.
The thought surges like the heaving
breast, hangs on the face.
Death was the cracking of dawn.

poem by Satish Verma
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Tarantula

Do you need a sanitizer for contaminated hands?
They were busy in illustrating the ugly contours
of life.
Up and down you were out of joint,
and your feet were not fastened to the ground.

Untainted a shrill voice prepares to rise
from the sullen men
huddled on the floor,
for the sad demise of a grand master.
The green truth was nowhere to be seen.

People are getting down for a feast
to invoke peace for the departed soul.

I am miserable,
cannot blast the fake ceremony.
Year after year the doomed city performs a ritual
for the coronation of a new king.

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poem by Satish Verma
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Strange Relationship

Death has been my partner,
my best friend.
Every day the fear,
greets me in my bed,
and body starts dying.
I join the play.
The sun clips the clouds,
my lungs fills with aroma.
A golden bird starts singing
on the swaying leaves of palm.

Death smears me with ideas,
larger than pain
before and after it was foggy.
I sleep, half-opened eyes,
watching over with face
to the window.
Life moves from grief to grief.
A tiny seed pulsates
in the crevice of mind,

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poem by Satish Verma
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Pause

Pursuit of a desire
in the middle of philosophizing
life was an absurd idea.
I was drawing a relationship
between reality and death.
Learning from destruction brings a pause,
holding the hyphenating truth.
The energy flows in voices
of charity under the flowering words.

When you slur over a depreciation.
no one knows a bias.
The bridge was incomplete and walls were high.
The decay spilled out of the house, removing rotten beams.
The first and last economy
of throat sinks in
the mud of heavy propaganda.

It was not exactly a storm,
only hollow drums

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poem by Satish Verma
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Golden End

All I wanted was to arrive from the absence
of me, through the sluice of scars; life was
never the same again. Some inner birth took place;
awakening of sorrow for the attempts to take on adversary.

Pure disquiet, I shed myself, fly in grains.
Truth scares, stalks on the hot dusty road;
blinds the pinnacle, gives a call, needles in
eyes, a cult blooms in the rubble of fallen roofs.

The self betrays, does not reach the door,
within grief the sky blames the senses of space,
the flying bird sprays blue sparks of silence,
a cadaver collects the fire of neglect.

A spoken body loses the arithmatic of
stubborn cleft in the faith, pebbles on the beach,
each one for a fallen man, kissing a snake.
The memorial has golden letters on black kill.

poem by Satish Verma
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Insult The Death

Blows had blackened the mist,
fear of crossing the road, dented the veil.
‘Ism’ versus the boundary had a long rhetoric.
I was struggling with scars of learning.
Pain unwrapped the gift of rhythm with confession
bitten by skorpios, blue and cold.

Finding the cause does not solve the rigidity.
Entering my own genome, increases the panic attack,
where I am heading after all?
And today sun beats the unentered thighs
marrow, blood of a martyr, who pledged
to die to himself between enquiry and truth.

Fragmented self now seeks totality
and the mystery of staying alive,
when the hills are dead and green had turned around.
As usual I am meditating, to live or not to live.
The greatness of earth still impresses,
it does not insult the death.

poem by Satish Verma
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Terror Trail

Shedding the wholeness of negation
you arrive: fear was sweeping the floor
when smoke screen of love was hung on
blue morning, you groped for a hidden
coin, lost in the woods of mania. Distinguishing
a chaste word, without thought, ejected in a
traffic of terror, you want to join a primitive
tribe where a motherless fawn will harvest the milk
from the breasts of a women.

Talking of a global sorrow into the green
eyes of a snake, an awareness breaks, sucks
you inside the hole of a wronged motherhood,
the anthology of big nails on the walls of
understanding, where the traditional colors
throw up the wasted bodies, making you think
tall, and you were running in a dark tunnel
climbing and falling to attend the funerals,
of moon gazing children.

poem by Satish Verma
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Only Being

Walking the path with otherness;
not achieving anything,
I, condemned, to remain solitary, decline
to join the gods of a crowd. So that
my sun, remains shadowless.

No, it is not the final verdict.
I was always incomplete, unburdening
my cipher, failing against the blood
that demanded uninterrupted flow, blending
right and wrong. My words were too much

to say No. The melting snow remembered
the names of the trees. On the breast of
earth a signature theme plucks the
grass to make way for the rose beds. This
makes no secret of betrayal.

Less prudent, I blunder, try to untie myself
from future, and become little me, playing

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poem by Satish Verma
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Metaphysical View

Sitting between the knees,
I am being bathed by intense anxiety
and fear of harsh light.

A canopy of doubts
confronts the dignity versus anarchy
for a watchman
who will not dare open-

the vault of truth. A fatal
ire of imagination puts him
to dire need of salvation.

Was I moving from the wrong
side of history in my zodiac
to change the drooping eyelids?

Death opens my door for a shortwhile
and then walks away
after watching the transparencies.

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poem by Satish Verma
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