30 November, 2011


It was lack of contusion. 
The relief had not come. Hours 
were on after the nobility moved 
on faulted track. 
Methane was rising. 

It was white death: 
people were coming, people were going. 
Pure and muddy, the treachery was 
like trace gases in a mine. 
Anytime the explosion will take place. 

The children were shrinking 
I do not speak. Watch the flowerpots flying. 
All the celestial deities have entered the lake. 
Take a quick dip in the nude serenity. 
Time was slipping out from the aquarium.

Satish Verma

28 November, 2011


Don’t you agree with my ability 
to loosen up on our times in no night? 
A river thing was flowing 
through foliaged silence. 

In deranged hour of the 
neck tie, you throw up obscenity 
on road. What? Chicken hearted? 
Sickle cell anemia? 

Goat rioting before sacrifice: - 
the tiny feet will dropp from heaven 
to walk in blood and bless you 
for dispatching the head of unlove. 

The night hawk butchers the hope, 
if the baby owl cries again. Afraid, 
I am going to take a flight 
to yellowing moon.

Satish Verma


A preacher was shedding 
dirty tears 
for burning hills. 

Pinned up on tongue 
was a slogan. 
Death for all sunflowers. 

Draped in blood 
who was trespassing 
the sickle moon? 

I cannot raise the mist 
where you stand naked 
in sunlight. 

Somebody has killed 
the pathological god. 
I am starting a new kitchen.

Satish Verma

19 November, 2011


The restless legs take you, 
weightless, to marshes 
to find the stilts. 
The sea was rising. 

What was inside our tongues; 
such unclosing stink, 
we were afraid to spit it out? 
The wronged angels were waiting. 

A topless soul wanders in the 
rainforest.Amazing, the tigers were 
dead without wounds.You sit on 
the window for marrying a moon. 

The quick grafting of the roses was 
useless.All night it had rained. The hail- 
stones were as big as skulls. Eyes were 
gouged out and time was blind.

Satish Verma

10 November, 2011


O viola, 
go over the grapes 
and find an ageless green. 

It is difficult 
to be born 
again, undoing death. 

You swoon 
at the continuity 
of crossroads – 

with blue flags 
in your bowl. 
A rosette, 

without a winner. 
A birthday gift 
for all the failures. 

At seventy five 
you walk over a prairie 
to find a shade.

Satish Verma

02 November, 2011


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.

Satish Verma