# #betrayal #life #forgiveness #suffering #sadness #pain #mistakes #madness #let me be

Inundation

Folder: 
Satish Verma

Standing on black stones― 
in water death, 
I let it go, my pride 
at the end of bay. 

No obituary 
no elegy, 
will erase the thoughts of coming and going 
of moon, when night 
starts crying. 

The smoke-filled eyes 
will speak of the burnt house, 
when the sun was 
telling the truth. 

Setting frozen tulips 
at your feet, I bring the 
river of tears 
to start the day.

Afloat In Words

Folder: 
Satish Verma

Would not move the things. 
They had moved me. 
I will never be the same. 

Probably a time to learn, 
listening to yourself. The 
sensors didn't go wrong. 

More often I will unroll 
my candles and burn 
them with my life. 

Ripening old, in dry 
fountains― waiting for 
rains in songs of sorrow. 

History does not repeat. 
I am preparing myself 
to start again writing my book. 

Will not commit anything. 
Standing in morgue 
searching for my unclaimed face.

Autodidact

Folder: 
Satish Verma

Will not donate 
my bloodstained shirt. 
It divides the cuffs. 

The alphabet turns 
around to watch the fall 
of syntax. 

Everynight I wait 
for the moon to rise 
from the crescent of golden eyes― 

for another encounter 
with a god, who 
would not listen to soliloquy 

of a rich begger― 
sitting in the ruins of a temple, 
he built of dreams.

Color And Shades Of Punta Cana

Folder: 
Satish Verma

1. 

Memories on edge 
one after the other― 
salted, dried and smoked. 

On green sea― 
in a sail boat. 
You do not know, where to go. 

Hot and humid night. 
Half moon, sitting 
on a royal palm. 

2. 

A violent sun 
was rising. Knocking down 
the unending music of night. 

The purple flight 
of fish, clams and crabs, 
overrides. Tomorrow they would be 
on table and white sand in your eyes. 

The waves, come one by one. 
To die on the receding shore. 
Your hands tremble, holding the sea. 

3. 

China rose. Evergreen. 
You will find its glory 
petal by petal 
at every step. 

On a tropical beach― 
at sensual dawn. 
You come out 
to pick up the poems. 

Love is the arrival of carnations. 
Do you mind the nameless pain, 
When you walk Matilda? 

4. 

Earth breaks here 
into palms, like spread hands 
and hibiscus blooms. 

I find the red lips 
on burning globes. 
of honeysuckle shades― 

the sand, sky and moon. 
They will meet tonight 
at beach for parting kisses. 


5. 

Something climbs your bones 
like an invisible wave 
of primeval lust. 

A blood feel― 
from the pricks of Duranta, 
the secret of land's native instinct. 

6. 

It falls like a quivering leaf: 
the sultry night. 
A salty wind slaps and tickles. 

Walking under the royal 
palms, escorted by 
lined cycads. 

Full moon hangs 
overhead, watching the sensual 
dance of light and shadows. 

7. 

The absolute stillness, 
hisses. A vicious assault. 
Your hands fly to ward off the evil. 

A savage storm 
of whirling thoughts― 
uprooting the dream of wholeness. 

8. 

I spread rose petals 
on your frame. 
You smell― 
like a garden. 

Around the moons 
I will draw the Caribbean sea 
with a roving eye. 

The lush green, your body 
of domes and hairless seeds. 
Skin starts burning like a peach. 

9. 

The flames 
now leap. Sabotaging the surging blood. 
A subtle and delicate presence begins. 

The ism has a silent 
fall. You can hear the turbulence 
before the poem is born. 

10. 

The age 
unwraps you. 
Listening to the sounds of sea. 
You are ready to face the ageless. 

Time takes its 
pound of flesh. 
You bleed in grass. 

Wind smears the pages with dust. 
You were writing― 
in praise of absence. 

And when the full moon 
gives a call, you 
become speechless. 

I have lost my home 
again.

The Thick Skins

Folder: 
Satish Verma

Anointed truth 
had no path. Path 
was the truth. 

Not a play of 
emotions. I am talking 
about the transparent 
leaves pressed in the books 
of fake religions. 

When there were 
fireflies, you deleted the rains 
and sapwood saved 
the lip's blues. 

You rolled around 
the burning pyre. Flames were 
embracing the dark lies, 
about the brailled poems. 

Perfectly in harmony, 
Bach was being played by 
a blind artist. Did you know it? 

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Lake Huron On 4th July

Folder: 
Satish Verma

Sun breaks 
on green lake- 
into myriad of white birds, 
fluttering their wings. 

In wet grass 
you sink, inviting the black clouds, 
to hear the echoes. 

You follow the sunset 
in a glass of wine, 
to become complete again.

Grafting The Lichens

Folder: 
Satish Verma

We are going back. 
Let it be. 
I will never know― 
when will you arrive. 

In the aloneness, 
going blind to the playing 
light, you prepare to drink 
the darkness of noon. 

Becoming dishonest will 
not be possible for me. 
The times are revengeful, 
come back in black to fix the smiles. 

Like water hyacinth, the 
disquieting worries will grab 
you and hound you to the white bones 
and turn away. 

Where the blood and 
nerves went down? It was 
no sin to rise and 
stand against the sun. 

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Unknowing The Real

Folder: 
Satish Verma

The founder will not find 
the copper to cast the history. 

It has not begun to hear 
the farewell to summer. 

Arms were coming out 
to end the war, to seal the fractures. 

Not my pen, not my tongue 
will know the secret deals. 

Frontiers are being redrawn, 
between the guns and the books.

Collapsing

Folder: 
Satish Verma

He wants to revert 
back to mutism. 
No thyme-
no secrecy. 

The half-baked pursuit 
of non-violence, 
accepting the violence, 
on other way round. 

The otherness. 
You want to identify yourself 
with a new religion. 
Terror of anonymity? 

A night blooming cereus 
wanted to avoid the sun. 
And love, must you 
play desert?