22 March, 2015


It was in reach for,
a chilling sensation.
A flame of the moon.

The world shrinks.
You become ready
for the direst consequences.

You deserve to be hurt
in the arms of truancy,
without a trace of remorse.

The wounded breast.
It wanted to disappear―
and come back in dark.

Frozen, the repeat hymn.
It lives in my heart.
How can I forget you,
O, my tormentor!

Satish Verma

20 March, 2015


The falcom rises again.
With pointed wings.
For a name unknown,
that deemed an incendiary.
Falconer sits faraway.

Cliché. The offence goes
unnoticed. Your shirt
was bloodied. Your
lips sealed. The barbs
stuck on kisses. Death smiles.

Water overwhelms, you
are drowned in the lake.
Eyes blink. Cannot
heed to light. The skin
burns. You will watch a medusa!

Satish Verma

18 March, 2015


A name without
a face. I am an ancestor

A shortened height,
difficult to exult
in honors bestowed.

The light hurts, in
earthen cave. You write
on wall of conscience.

The mud clings.
Stink covers you, like
serpentine arm.

The arbor has many
colors. I will choose
none in dark.

Satish Verma

14 March, 2015


Between life and death
a photo finish race
will decide the relationship.

There was intoxication
at heights. Your throat had
become hoarsed, sliced
after a scream. Matchsticks
were thrust in the
gnawed mound of kneaded
flour. The kitchen
was going to explode.

Barehands you were
picking the black beans;
parting me lip by lip
caressing me thumb by thumb.

Satish Verma

08 March, 2015


The heritage
went for a sale. A tree
stands denuded, after
a nudie.

An orange land hides
the broken remains of terra
cota. I wanted an earthen
inkpot and a reed pen.

There was a wounded word
on the tongue. A
dragonfly leaves the voracious
appetite and skims on milk.

Pulsating cleavage
gets a prize. The salt lakes
are full. A caged bird
will not sing.

Satish Verma

07 March, 2015


Let me write a signature
theme, without cubic

A dove takes a dive.
Your body becomes a poem.
Multiple dots leave
indelible marks.

The livid kindness
has exhausted, interlocking
the planes of separation.
I am still lurking
in black air.

I am the mirror
and I am the face.
A brick thrown at me,
does not reach the target.

Satish Verma

06 March, 2015


How much honest you were
while climbing the stairs,
to inherit the shame of century,
invoking the remains?
A hip will not move for the voidance.
A notch below, the
exhumation will prove the Taser
attack, stunning the history.

Let us sit and take over tea
under the depressed moon, pondering
on the nature of man. When
you reach the top, you become
a lesser rich. Groping the lonelier
grief of poverty, I become
more humane. The water swells
very often, I see the world
now by closed eyes.

I walk with my shadow shrunk
under my feet. I become
the world.

Satish Verma

05 March, 2015


When hunger becomes
a little god. You start waiting
for a miracle to happen.
Like a grandfather clock, you
had stopped moving. Time
becomes a scoop from your ancestor’s
skull. You start digging
the floor for broken pins,
holding the secret prayers.
You watch yourself now
buried in words, picking up
some flowers with numb
hands, waiting for the ants
to come, to open the
curved in, corona of narcissus.

Satish Verma

03 March, 2015


Sexism was chasing a
gibbous moon whole night.
I ask the virtuous dark,
will you be a hangman?

Targeted love was a bliss
for a dying man. You need
to walk on a fine line to
attain the liberation.

Despite the coveted prize,
killing was more convenient.
There hangs a tale, you
cannot play the tune again.

Without the hyphen, the
other side becomes blue.
A belief starts the tremors
in the sleeves of a headless moon.

Satish Verma

01 March, 2015


With tall questions I am
alone, waiting for the
tomb robbers to come.

Truth was no more a religion.
You wanted to consecrate―
the illusion, sealed in myths.

A graffiti appears on the
waiting trees. Who put―
the curse on swaying blooms?

The dialect of the moon will
not listen to heart beats of sun.
The grammar was in primitive state.

Yes, the music of lake has
a meaning. The boat will carry
the wreaths for the wilting words.

Satish Verma