Echos In September

Under a sickle moon,
the effect was colossal.
The mute words
were floating like vespae.

There was no―
promised nest of paper.
You cannot land
without ink.

The grey beard starts
weaving a web of
lies. Larvae will―
feed on blessed water.

Very warm, very hollow.
The globe turns. You stand
on the surface,
cannot fathom out the human mind.

Satish Verma

What September

Ceaselessly,
the September moon
was sending poems
in quick succession.

Life had come to a grinding halt.

The walls,
wait to end the race of
stings. The heat was
a dirty yellow.

You will witness the fall of a titan.

The genome of red
wine grape was
similar to a forgotten
verse, after the―

rage of ageing cells of a sage.


Satish Verma

Deterrence

This September. It is
going to be very quiet.

I am trying to caress
the mimosa, which
always said,
touch-me-not.

The spontaneous probe
will start the construct in love
of philosophy to mimic
the animal plus
the femineity.

A clock was moving
without hands. Time was up
but legs were amputated.
How will you walk
towards your truth?

Satish Verma

Recounting

Uncannily sanguine,
wounded by biting gnats―
you return home.

You would call the
family for a final―
drink and
drown the moon.

You have come very
far from the inviting
shores in deep sea―

to be sucked into the
whirlpool of silence―
to end the sounds.

You will not put the
bread upside down. Who
will provide the priceless again?

A small saga of unheard renegade?


Satish Verma

Eaten By White Ants

Downy mildew,
blinks. The sun
will not come back
to rein in its own might.

The temple gold,
has come for sale―
in bazaar.
On the balcony, stand
bystanders to witness the free fall.

The black door,
plays hide-and-seek
with light.
Green eyes will now
bargain for hips.


Satish Verma

I Will Not Be Silent

Overlooks the juvenility.
The shrinking genitals.
It was the militancy.
The freedom, brought
about by the guns.
Now indiscreetly firing at the sky.

This deadpan delivery
of the shut doors. Economy
has failed the toads,
the croaking minions. A raw
poem speaks now
for the unopened coffins.

The run, the run of the
century begins. Some one was
running, non-stop, from
sleep to sleep, away from the sexual
assaults, from rapes, from
man-slaughter.


Satish Verma

Smoke Signals

A severed hand, after
the blast, working on a script
writes about the
musicality of blood.

Blood of moon and trees;
of poems and bees,
contributing to making
of republics of grass.

The roots know the secret
of god and grief of humanity.
The sound ot truth resonates
with the art of dying.

Between the sun-and moon―
under the sky sleeps a
shimmering axe.


Satish Verma