24 February, 2018

For Whom The Moon Spills?

It was a sane apology,
for not forgetting you.
Concealing your tears,
you come to land
in my poems.

You are crazy―
trying to teach bloodless affinity
with milkweed butterflies.

I think of not anyone else,
when I am thoughtless.
You creep into my veins like
cobra love.

The scream remains trapped
between sharp teeth.
I eject the mercy of venom.

And I step down as
trooper of Magenta.

You throw me the rope to cross the river.

Satish Verma

This Winter

This truth was yours―
not mine. I was
fighting a lone battle.

Have seen―
the legends, tall claims,
of tumbling heights.

In my aloneness
I am searching myself
for the page of testimony.

Walked in pain,
to find you― O god I wanted
to believe in you.

Acceptance. The
world forgets. We talk of
paper dreams. There was no
green tree.

My hands were papyruses.
Who had drawn out
the mystery lines?

Satish Verma

23 February, 2018

Let The Sun Come Late

If you touch
slightly drunk moon,
at the sill of window, you will
alter the moon of November.

I wait for the earthquake to begin.

The carpenter had promised
to deliver the rocker tonight.

I will make friends
with dark room.

Your hands start shaking
holding a glass―

Time to shut the doors.

Satish Verma

Body And Soul

I will keep mum.
The spirit and flesh of
some words are dead.
The werewolf had become
an executioner.

A sample pang flutters
for a piece of meaning.
So long, I will say to my stars.
No light appears to be coming
from the moon.

The veil hangs from your eyes.
I will not seek your vision.
Only the sacred thought,
you had been hiding,
from centuries.

Suddenly a freckled hand
stabs the propriety. You
hold the rock like Sisyphus.
I stumble, walk in―
and break the pure gold.

Satish Verma

22 February, 2018

Studing Yourself

Over the shoulder
you fling the pang away
and move on with―
pockets empty.

Sitting aside a―
mausoleum― listening to
the songbirds.

Why do you build a huge
crypt for your love? In summer
noon I will keep on thinking.

From thumb to thumb
I will ask of the ambience―
while building this place.

In your land now grows hate
and anger. The finish is gone,
and finesse suffers.

The nude faces still haunt me.

Satish Verma

Waves Rolling

Come November―
I will wear the fall
of varied colors.
Crunching on withered leaves
of your memories.

There was no birthday.
When the world sleeps―
I write a poem, looking
at the rubble of life.

Opinionated, the time
suck like a beast―

It was a stunning defeat
of the dawn, of the nonviolent
sprouts under the scorching sun
of the gaze.

Trying to assuage the
realization. I am no more me.

Satish Verma

21 February, 2018


As if opiated,
something impossible, I was
asking from you.

I was very angry
with me, carrying the unborn―
baby-dreams, in my arms,
and leaving you behind- flawless.

Learning against the past,
I would commit the old fixation
in my sight, to clasp
your sweaty hand for a while.

And under the April moon
you were walking,
scattering the rose petals―
on the way to a shrine.

Do prayers heal a man
who preemptively
went for the assault?

I was, what I am not.

Satish Verma