HUMMING NIGHT

The enlightment drops words, things
I am at peace with the light,
the sand, the river.
The thought of non-being is subtle,
touches a cord.
Hours slip, silicon hardens.
Grains of truth move towards essence.

The thought of emptiness
was very powerful
I sit by myself, swallow a stunned voice.
My hands become white.
Inside of me was a book
holding a past. I hid nothing: my faultline.
It was a strange poverty.

I could not plug it,
a hole in memory.
The voices drip.
A moon-knife slices my room.
Far off a poem drifts, in blue nothingness.
The day was very ill
and night again humming
a tune of rising sun.

Satish Verma

WRITING ITS DIKTAT

Beyond the thoughts,
nothing I mourned,
nameless death was writing its diktat.
The dirty epithets were accepted for collage.
Simply a prayer was needed
for a childless truth.
Rudimentary terms owned
a beautiful diction.

The ultimate pain makes you dumb.
Words lose the vision, you walk in a hollow city.
Now is the time to remember the movement of truth
in a jungle of drums.
Eyes must find out the old path.

Huge crowds collect at the door.
Human connections are at strain.
The questions are never answered flawlessly.
Life should not burn like coal,
but be a tree,
in praise of sky,
wind and earth.

Satish Verma

HOLDS ME GREEN

The cult
catches you
like a black hole.

You cannot scale the walls -
slide back
in a crucible.

Like fried insects
crisp and dry.
Witch-hunt starts.

Sky was blue
in eyes,
winds will divide the space.

Do you need a mediator
to read between the lines?
To cross the fence?

Who sucked me dry?
Who leeched me white?
Death holds me green!

Satish Verma

TRACKS WERE OBLITERATED

The spirit of hollow ideal
was not the thing,
I remained inconsolable.
Truth demanded endless pursuit.
The helplessness of the beaten days
was unfit for the night of terror.
The false paradigm could not ignite the flame.

The shadows collapsed
and thoughts walked in dark
into the trap.
Perfect splash of impulsive drive,
and movement of matter
created hallucinations.
and the conduct of freezing moments
had no parallel.
Cutting edge was evident.

How truth saved its pain,
of telling a heart
the death of a silent dream.
The vision went blind.
Faithful figures did not write the wrong texts.
Escape from territory was complete
and tracks were obliterated.

Satish Verma

HISTORICAL GRIEF

A perpetual war between
frame and content feeds
the fire!
I step outside the house of thoughts.
The death begins the counting and
jasmines start crying.
I hear the over-worn desert
blowing the sand.
A raw stone throws up a sculpture.

Midnight knocks on the door were loud.
Rain was banging, moonlight drifts in.
The huge cloud outlines
the ceremony of deluge.
Abstract ideas have to be clothed again.
The naked truth stops the clock.

A proxy death shatters me.
I also die in a dome.
Night melts in hissing sounds,
time becomes a paper weight.
The splender of quartz cracks.
Demolition is complete
historical grief now takes over.

Satish Verma

UNTITLED MONUMENT

Beyond the self,
is the freedom, unchained dawn,
I am in a crowd of voices.
Lifted by songs,
a bruised truth becomes a rose.
Choice was limited,
I desired silence, middle path in night,
under the lunar ecstasy.

Nowhere to go
I searched for tranquility, peace and light.
Failing hopelessly.
Love migrates back to old memories.
White days are pruned,
I would say the mirror was wrong.
I did not choose my life.

Dream of final
release was extraordinary
grandeur of pink moon
hanging on the trees,
the divine shower.
Life did not alter the genes,
it shifted the flow.
Untitled monument was submerged.

Satish Verma

SEPARATED OUR LIVES

Shadows were talking,
we arrived nowhere.
Text was smaller than life.
Millennium hung on our eyes,
rattling the long distance calls.
Our house was ruined,
multiple windows
turned into walls and poems died.

Your face has become an empty vase.
Dismembered cast off
in the corner of the house.
A dreadful ruffled
body of the past glory.
I was nearly buried in quick sand.
Now I talk to trees, the carpeted clouds,
and move again.

My hands suffered
lifting the polarities.
Random tears disturbing the heart beats.
Knowledge was painful
and diminutive people spoiled my collections.
The stones, flowers
and wings separated our lives.

Satish Verma