Color And Shades Of Punta Cana

Satish Verma


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. 


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. 


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? 


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. 


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. 


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. 


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. 


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. 


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. 


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