29 April, 2011


In the cavernous mind 
a thought becomes 
You go straight for a snakeroot. 

A flat cluster of white flowers 
spurs a stigma 
at the white moon 
for floating rumors. 

This was my native pain 
of brilliant tapestry. 
The threads had a weaver’s knot 
of rare beliefs.

Satish Verma

24 April, 2011


That satanic streak 
of tireless undressing 
of a hapless monarch. 

Wings were gone. Cannot fly 
across the tree 
of hypocricy. 

A footmat for the suicidal jump 
from the elegant hierarchy 
to grainy lies. 

Why are you turning ungreen? 
You will dig up the temple 
without god?

Satish Verma

20 April, 2011


To wean away a tigermoth 
from a bell jar 
for a journey of faith 
against ebony of illusion. 

The caterpillar has restrained 
the roof, 
of future accidents 
to coming of age. 

You do not know 
the speed 
of nakedness 
on silvery path. 

the ending comes? 
You know 
we only watch the heels of forerunners.

Satish Verma

15 April, 2011


That targeted sleep will not come 
at once 
in the tamed night. 

A shifted pain 
lifts the irretrievable word 
shamed at edge. 

The godwings 
weave the rhyme of flight 
for the wedding of death. 

You are born again 
in sleep 
for another journey.

Satish Verma

10 April, 2011


A name breaks on the tip 
of a pen. 
Like a wildflower after a 
violet end. 

The yellow stripes will 
enter the past, 
retracing the path 
of failures. 

I pick up a broken thread 
to weave a shade of blue flag 
to open under the weight 
of a guilt. 

A cluster of doorknobs. 
I retrieve my future 
to lock the death 
in erotica.

Satish Verma

06 April, 2011


Watching the externalism 
I was playing a squid in deep waters 
to save the raging sears of life. 

Was it a soft intellect to believe 
in goodness, when rains had ceased to come 
and seeds were covered with mildew? 

The farming of words 
had overlooked the fires. 
The smoldering was inside the anthem. 

This fall I will not see the colors. 
Sun had eloped with the moon 
and leaves had curled like a promise.

Satish Verma

02 April, 2011


I will need 
some new words today. 
To say what I did not want to say, 
scratching at the surface of truth. 
I do not fight with meanings. 
A shade between two borders of lies 
between right and wrong. The eyes 
will speak for the fierceness of hurts 
carrying the fear of unknown. 
It is, or was it drifting? 

The declining time or sliding years 
whichever was true, 
will find a fallen tree 
in a flowing river, 
when I was still searching the sandbar 
My sane world has no desire.

Satish Verma