Reviving The Schism

A mentalist does not feel
secure, when you start
jaywalking in the empty street.

What was the need to
rescue a predator, when
the river was dry?

The ducks were crossing
the road. Stay put, till
the kids want to make a halt.

It was a renaissance
connection, when a clan is
sentenced to speak softly.

Satish Verma

Unbecoming Of The Poem

The fat moon
rises, when the bland earth
gives a call.

Like the black magic
of depression, in fall,
overwhelming the silence.

Of not becoming, what
you wished me to be,
or not to be.

A conflict always,
climbs the wall to overlook,
the pain of separation.

This winter, I am not
going to witness, the death
of night birds.

Satish Verma

Avoiding The Virtue

In moments of hubris,
of artificial hip,
the most unknowable thing was
the blood thought.

An invisible ink, of late
marks the error
of autumn. A lone survivor
of leaves of time, would not
break the word.

The donated eyes will not
see the dreams. You can
boil the bones to get the truth.
Somewhere a guilt prospers.

It is what you don't think.

Satish Verma

Ultimate Tongue

In praise of body
like a bow,
shooting arrows of clemency.
But I have come to deny myself,
the nemesis.

There was no penitence.
Unacceptable, in the light of
broad-day murder
of democracy.

Freedom to arc was a personal
style, writing poetry
against the art
of manipulation.

I am ready to become
human, after inferno, started
by you, to burn
the story.

Satish Verma

Song Of Promotion

I am not going to touch
the meaning―
of nativity for unknown
guests.

A cameo appearance of some
god, does not take away the
most recent fears
of death.

The ghosts have their own
defences against scars,
bruises and unstitched
bones.

Give me a piece of unleashed
poem, my odyssey
has begun in
earnest.

Satish Verma

With No Apology

On the mount
a broad-leaved tree was preparing
for self destruction.
It was too cold
under the sun.

A small Christmas tree
with its needle leaves
waits for the snow,
to draw a self-potrait
in bitter winter.

Snow fall makes it
gold, when rain comes
and my hand knives the moon.

Satish Verma

Phenomenal Defeat

A wine taster was
ready to begin the birth
of night.

A wrinkle displays
the absurd mediocrity
of the charter.

I will not play
in the hands of unknowable
I have my own map.

I am shedding,
my skin, my color. Only
a truncated god will speak for me.

Satish Verma