24 March, 2018

Ethological Signs

A street sense awakens
the purple rage.
Ah. Bougainvilleas,
the winter has set in.

There was no encounter.
No bloodshed.
Only bloodstones were displayed
for sale.

A domestic brawl
between the religious signs.
Each sun-flower should
have a separate name.

The pomelos will not
come this season.
There was war between
the brothers.

Satish Verma

Crab Apples

Tree nuts and squirrels,
play a game, as the day climbs up.
The food chain moves swiftly.

Walking on dead leaves
I was trying to find the truth.

How do I take you,
when there were no steps
to ascend the future. There was
no history of time to come.

And we are always trying
to weigh each other.

A ceramic goddess was hit,
by pellets of frozen rain.
Decapitated I pick up the head
and place on the stump.
She smiles.

You float the words.
I catch them, and write a poem.

Satish Verma

23 March, 2018


A lone tree

The song of
flames.Dib. dub.
Dub, dib.

The ocean was
rising. Make a wall
of tears.

Nobody would
listen to the―
rage of earth.
Brown men still
drink tea.

A lone tree

Satish Verma

Whose Fault?

Coming of age―
the ruins,
now want to
dismantle the man.

A crypt
behind the crypt
will be opened to
invite the goddess
of wealth.

I remained poor
being a seeker.
Where did you reach
floating in
river of blindness?

Satish Verma

22 March, 2018


your tomorrow, to
bring you near me―
at eye level affinity.

As night breaks
for sun, you shine with
a strange beautiful poem.

The anklets
learn civility and vibrate
with a heavenly hum.

A pause,
then a rapture of the deep.

The questions
come on surface, for
eternal answers from the night's god.

truth becomes very elementary.

There was no piracy!

Satish Verma

Blood-Lipped Prayer

There was no beggining
no end.
Only an apology
for the credence.

The predators were
dirty. Peace comes
when you go
for war.

The angles guide
you to roil
under the stones

Satish Verma

21 March, 2018

Why This?

Truistic but
dry, a poem

You will not
find any lead―
in my bones, though
I have been eating
the pencils
while writing.

Truistic but
dry, a poem

Satish Verma