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Drunk at
midnight, playing with
moon squibs.
*
Hearing─
a nocturne, the spirit soars,
when you are drowned.
*
A galaxy
invites me for a night vigil.
Some elixir will rain.

Satish Verma

LAMENTING

For unspoken answers,
there was always the─
question, why hawks
were needing the peace?

Tied to innate fringes,
I want an explicit display.
The prologue was very
misleading.

War was inside and
outside. Were you a hobbes-
ian? I am not afraid
of death.

Reacted so violently.
The colored shirts should be
taken off. Let us see
the scars!

Satish Verma

A LOVE SONG

When the intellect was
defiling the unwritten book;
half-read, you reach for epiphancy.

Why you had to kill yourself
on the swing, before reaching─
the peak? Searching for escape?

I cannot know you, O flame.
Do not go beyond the sky.
My wings twist like nasturtiums.

Last night a city wept in─
my arms. There were no roses─
left and, no cut glass nudes.

They bleed, when you dig
out the roots. The croci were
planted by me when snow had melted.

Satish Verma

UNFINISHED SCRIPT

Your hands were chopped off.
How will you write
the poem now?

*

Truth was─
an alloy. Need to mix some
lie in pure gold.

*

Why did the
roses cry? The saint was
not in the tomb.

Satish Verma

Climacteric

Tonight when you deploy
the pillow to block the doors
and the skin fails; a moon
will enter by sealth from
the window in virgin black night.

I will bring forest flames from
where, adoration never stops.
There may be a disconnect─
when you kill the time; yet
turmoil rises with sensuality.

A fluid design appears
in blue dark. There was balka-
nization in the limbs. I grab
the waterfalls, climb the strings
and reach the bliss of a poem.

Satish Verma

Recollection

After the prank
call, the death returns to room q
for her friend.
*
You were drinking
moon in dark. A door opens
for the guest.
*
There would be
no elegy. A poet will die
today, anonymously.

Satish Verma

YELLOW ROSES

Have not written a single
word today, for you.
As if I was fishing
without a line.

Mixing the precursors
on the hills to invite the
mustard moon, for a─
dance with kingfishers.

There was no grief, no
scars. My hands becoming
empty. Parrots are gone.
There was no speech, no goodbyes.

The book is blank. Un─
printed pages. Nothing more
to be said. Only a smoke
tracing a face inside a face.

Satish Verma