31 January, 2016

Shadow Boxing

Find an auspice today.
The moon was coming back
after an abdication.

Lurching on cobblestoned stretch
of blue-black clouds; paring
the tall conical trees of
royal pines.

Heaped with roses, a man
with no-war slogan, lies
in the open earth.

You will not perceive―
any smell of smouldering pen and knives.

The body turns without
a comma.

Satish Verma

30 January, 2016


In fever, I will
always see butterflies
landing on your nose.

White, yellow, black.
They come and go and I am
sitting under a cherry blossom tree.

Stroking you, cajoling you
to drop the wings.

In grass the sun waits
in a dew drop.

The moon was not a poor thing.
Will come in white robes
to preach.

Satish Verma

29 January, 2016

One Turmoil Deep Inside

Resisting your wisdom
I want to remain, thoughtless.
Not bargaining, I come in the crowd,
to negotiate a stunt.

The awakening,
the trepidation. I pay honour
to the great stress angler―
my poverty of cruel jokes.

Like a fox to reignite―
the identity. I will move away
from the body of blood soaked denials
standing alone, against the genocide.

Was still hungry, eating
your violet-red― plums. Not was whole,
the controversy. Somewhere a
forensic evidence will say, mask was not real.

Satish Verma

25 January, 2016

Interlacing To Catch A Theme

With the tip in the center,
this is the circle of an iron will
undoing the circination.

You are moving in a straight line
now. The knots in the chest
will take you to surrogacy.

The needle's eye was watching
you― gauging your grit.
Can you take a prick?

Without blood? From an
urn you lift a red string to tie
on the hands of unborn thought.

You miss a line, a word
an image. Still it happens deep
inside. An angst constricts you in
pythonic grip. A poem becomes you.

Satish Verma

24 January, 2016

The Atrocities

Friends and foes
would have a scuffle
about, who was going to pluck the lymphoma.

A rainbow deflects,
from your eyes, making
me grasp for the breath.

Seeks apology, while
talking to trees, on boil
was the language, under the poverty line.

It does not make any sense.
The rain catcher was on trail
of a fugitive.

The sun. Always hiding
behind the veils of massacre.
I am not going to face the moon.

Satish Verma

23 January, 2016

Before The Sunset

I am trying to do my bit,
nonpareil. A soundproof doer,
erasing the palm from the painting―
drinking the nitrogen from the air
starving myself.

Cannot bequeath my eyes,
my thumb vision. You were always
asking about my sadness, emptiness.
I will not tell about
the acid times.

That killing instinct was not
there. I will give you the
unborn poems, that would not wear
the death mask, my unspoken
thoughts, peeling after the darkness and
I will let you go to find your path.

Satish Verma

22 January, 2016


The hunger was scouring
each house― in utopia―
daring you to open the door.

Weavers were ready for―
the moment― of encounter―
to spin the corona.

As if an asteroid was heading
towards the silent ariel,
to destroy its integrity.

Beyond good and bad, there
was an effigy of a designer―
in dancing mode.

It was a jinx in your
speed. You would not climb on a
walk without a rope.

Satish Verma

21 January, 2016

The Dumps

The words had started to fail me.
There was always an ‘if'―
before every war of hunger.

The candlewick has burned
out. I am collecting the―
wax from the eyes.

Wrapped agony, now lifts
the dead bird from the
rose bushes.

The frosted god
will melt to bare a
black stone.

I am not luck
I am not the future.
You know where this path leads into?

Satish Verma

19 January, 2016

Why A Poem

Unfazed you stand in―
a drizzle, to locate the
moon nestling in clouds.

The speed of bite was fatal,
showing the movement
of incompleteness.

I searched the identity―
of one anonymous, who
had fathered an illegitimate eunuch.

I wanted to make a
confession, looking at the
blue sky, about my waywardness.

The crazy thing of mixing
the flowers, winds, moon and birds
with serious chores of life.

Unmistakingly a poem.

Satish Verma

18 January, 2016

Be The Human

Not giving or taking.
I will share you―
in water.

Believing was not significant.
I was holding you
to implode.

Not your words, not
my script, will translate
the thumbprint.

A time comes, when
you become your own father,
to carve out the pure truth.

The duality bothers
a lot. You want to convert
the myriad into one.

Satish Verma

17 January, 2016

For The Heritage

For the beasts and men,
a transition will not work.
This was explicit cap―
the polar ice was melting.

He will not take the slights
for the moon. He will
not go far from the eyes
of stars.

Not enough, the astringent
microbes were peeling off
your mask. Sometimes you want
a frugal strangulation.

Incredible. The words
were making a mound, out―
of the space, left by
the departed fever.

Satish Verma

16 January, 2016

Taking The Odds

An amniotic fluid initiates
the moon to the thunderstorm―
as you climb the tide.

Like a stag― opening the
summer, browsing on
the daisies.

It takes sometime
to sink. This was―
the peacock hour.

A finch will land―
on my shoulder and
look into my eyes, ritualizing it.

The glow was real
in your hair,
borrowed from the sun.

Satish Verma

15 January, 2016

New Invasion

Nestling in the arms of
blue sky, a young moon was asking
the questions―like the pages of moth-eaten
book― why did the blood ties
are ripped apart with the passage of time?

Of the same poles, at the
axis of rotation― two celestial bodies―
would not come near each other?

Following the heels of the
hunter, a small dog star sniffs at
the earth, a pale blue existence?

The entropion overwhelms. The
lashes were scarring the

The all was not one. I am
still standing at the gate,
bleeding like sun.

Satish Verma

14 January, 2016

Old Maxims

This was a twisted ladder
for reduction of poverty,
which climbs the steps during
methane breach.

An absent presence will
snatch away, your unconscious
surrender. The scent had
made a wall of its own.

A summer fall incites the
book makers. The naming was
a secret bet. The dead will
never recall the skeletons.

Spawning an army of robots,
will you go to the volcano mount
to offer a living bait?

Satish Verma

13 January, 2016

No Demagogue

This was not a witch
or witchcraft, striking
a pose to entice the sleep.

The grass will not―
listen the earthly
eavesdropping on moon.

Some extra neutral
wine for a resilient poet
who will refuse to die.

My color was not black
nor white. It had the
golden hue.

Your nails were very sharp
digging for a *Digambra
on my bare chest.

Satish Verma

12 January, 2016

Dog Days

Why do I give you the bliss―
of my poverty?
The burden of asking, was light.

Not like the unquenchable
thirst of a desert. I will be a
night blooming cereus.

In exile, I will remember
your sky, tying the stars in
my poems, to recall your shades
when the moon moves away.

The sunlight throws the voiceless
profiles of clouds, motionless
suspended, waterless― dead.

There is no traffic, no history
of any scandles. The corners of
my prayer book have―
become dog-eared.

Satish Verma

10 January, 2016

Sting's Betrayal

Not settled anytime
between a beast, an angel and the man:
who was indebted to whom.

A cyclic ritual it was, to pay the debt
to the eternal dancer, who
was, harbinger to catastrophe.

Not wanted to be judged.
Fatherless, a shadow moves―
in the womb of justice.

Why do the moon was in distress?
A catmint will improve―
your vision.

No artificial insemination was―
needed. The pungent smell
would put you off.

A taste of triangle, lying
next to the moon
in bed of water.

Satish Verma

09 January, 2016

A Fracas Goes On

Remarkably steadfast, the
mighty oak was standing up, as
the thick rain was pounding at it.
I had come a faraway to unleash
the tenacity.

The flesh and the moon.
It was the anniversary of ropes
and shackles. You should not have
adored the distant dreams
without touching them. The transcript
was not ready. No template
was perfect.

I would not know most of you.
That was a bliss. In blue and dark―
I will sail for nothingness. No more,
no less. The chirping, synchronized trill
of crickets, encourages to stand still, I listen
without hearing.

I have come back to zero.

Satish Verma

08 January, 2016

Sheer Expanse Of Tragedy

Staring into nothingness―
the body clicks.
Smells the pungent fumes and/
cedes the suspension of tears.

Quenchless, you drink
the white phosphorus, glowing
in dark, of
stark reality.

The barrenness will put
up a Harappan seal,
to come back.
The stomata bleed.

The blue salt was naïve.
Will not leave the ocean.
You cannot swim,
you cannot drown.

Satish Verma

05 January, 2016

Frost Was Setting In

No moon tonight
I had to find―
my path along the hedges
by fireflies.

The river was in haze,
not wearing any scent.
Some invisible hands were
rowing a boat in midstream.

At this time a god jumps―
in, to sort out the memory of dark nights.
Not dementia. But I will
try to remember your face in moonlight.

Once I had lost my way
to your home. Now my
home has lost me for ever.

Satish Verma

04 January, 2016

Matter Of Fate

While ascending throne,
you cover up your tracks―
by putting up the somber demeanor.
I don't find myself happy.

No stings visible. The world
is savagely beautiful, always
indulging in finding a goat.
Can you see through a person?

Wooden legs cannot take you very―
far. What you need was your intent,
to scramble and make a kill
of a subtone.

The crowd goes in a tizzy.
Tortoise in a bag, was moving
faster than the man.

Satish Verma

03 January, 2016

Blood Stained

For a long time
I will look at you
to find my image.

In the grainy morn―
the frivolity,

Thrown from the roof
a cluster of flowers
for vanity.

Satish Verma

02 January, 2016


Brown eyes:
little things―
I ask from you.

This is the holy land,
you can walk, without
offering anything.

I will not surrender
an alter ego
for a price.

The walls scoop
the shadows
for future skin.

A small pilgrimage
for the
dying god.

It hurts when
my lips will not touch
the flame.

Satish Verma

01 January, 2016

It Was Not Vicious

Digging deep into
the body of moment, you have
to find out the roots/of dopamine―
blend of dopa and amine,
circulating the gossip. It was
a prelude before a personal take―
into the consciousness of guilt.

Do you need to bring in
the demigods and tree nymphs―
for fertility? The arboreal pain
sends the apology of the shade.
There was no need of any limbs to
walk. Standing on the brink,
you can reclaim the pyramids.

The precocity of non-existence
appears, when you start confronting
the blue lake of tiny eyes.

Satish Verma