Life

You Won't Return

Folder: 
Satish Verma

Even light will not
find your black hole, beyond
the resolution.

The mass, volume
in your eyes, measure me.
O god it were you?

Sitter was rising.
Portrait will not complete.
Artist has swept again.

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Like A Hermit

Folder: 
Satish Verma

Wading in tears
you want to catch time. Sun
will bake your eyes.

You undid my charm,
weaving a web, wearing the
threads of wounds.

Do prayers help the
cobalt valley of cleaved
breast in moon?

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Good Old Mother Death

Good old Mother Death

For at the ends of our troubles

We can run into her arms

Sleep the endless sleep

And dream of better things

 

These harlequin masks I've worn for so long

They won't come off of my face

Every day, with different people

A separate reflection looks back at me

 

I do so many things

That I don't want to do

“Oh be careful little eyes,

Oh be careful little ears”

For what we've experienced

Will never leave us

 

Why do I want people around me

When all I do is push them away

Why do I build myself up

Only by tearing others down?

Author's Notes/Comments: 

This was on my phone since forever, wanted to post it so I could clear up the space

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My Dream: Confront with My Death

In the night of sore darkness

In the thunderstorms,

A hungry plant lapping water

Till it’s too stiff to stand.

 

Striving to nap against my hand

In my own bed

Blinking my memorable eyes

At someone totally engaged in

Carving the night into figurine

That blows out midnight candle.

 

The wind wearing the curtain

In my room perceive the tree

The soundless howling

Of faceless ghosts

Digging the ground by its toes

Into my back to be in hurry.

 

When these ghosts came

To drag me out of my bed,

In the other world, my beloved

Beading her hair and

Plucking butterflies from cactus plants.

 

I shrieked from inside a fountain

A mermaid warned me to be silent.

 

Alas! I dreamt of me

Walking into the fast moving cars

And waking up with the wrecked arms

Just in the next morning.                                    

*

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Excavation

When an eve elapsed by,

A chilly pallid half-moon

Sets below my lip,

And the other half-moon

Lies inside my mouth.

Tearing the flesh apart

Out of its body

Tastes the veal of craving,

Emerges out the spits

As the heap of soils

After the digging the earth

To unearth another world

of eternal bliss and ecstasy

I longed during my life.  

 

Never sentient I’m of

My spit spilling steadily

Out of my mouth

Like the fizzy blood,

The tint of my craving

That fiddles in

The heap of the words

In which my pen as the shovel

Shoves out the metaphors and similes

In the poetry of my essence.

 

During the lifetime,

I’m hectic in exploring

The ultimate truth

Of immortality never existed,

Not aware of the mortality of

My life and my existence

Only a fraction of a second

Appraising the life span

Of the earth I subsisted.  

*

Supermarket (January day 21)

You couldn’t care less,

I’ve never cared more.

 

I care about

the oranges that get picked over

at the supermarket.


I almost tell them

I am bruised like you.

 

I toss them into my cart

I will give them a home.

 

They will live better in my house than

the stale that has taken over my heart.

 

They will live better in my house than

the things I can’t wake up to anymore.

 

They will live better in my house than

the dust I keep wanting to shape into memories.

 

I need to fill this space with

new

so I don’t

keep looking back.

 

Someone passes and

they have your voice they have your touch they have your name they have your name

 

I take my oranges

leave the cart

leave my cares

walk home.

Author's Notes/Comments: 

Written 1/21/21

supermarket

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Things We Carry (January day 1)

we are all just

a collection of the things we carry

 

I have a honey-gold rope that ties me to all the places I come to and can’t leave

I have a vanishing trunk full of smoke and shells

I have a sudden urge to kiss you

 

I have a broom closet trapped in my head

it is where you might find her sometimes

I have a voice that is sometimes the icicle & sometimes the melt

I have a heart still splintering

 

I have half a coin I have split and spent with you

I have too many heartbeats held in old fraying boxes

I have pockets filled with pieces of us

 

I have a sound that pounds through the walls like silence

I have the quietest storm of hell in my head

I have all your syllables-

I will mold them till they’re mine

 

if I come to you on a broken sled

do you think it’s worth it to take me in

if I come to you on broken fingers

will you still call me your greatest success

 

will you make room for all the things we carry

Author's Notes/Comments: 

Written 1/1/21

things we carry

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Sines

 

Mountains and valleys 

Holding chill and sweat. 

Deserts and oases 

Lacking and flooding life. 

Nightmares and dreamscapes 

Of terror and wonder. 

 

Up then down

And up again. 

Pillaged and 

Plundering yet. 

Exalted 

And salty still. 

 

Ups and downs,

Backs and forths,

Joys and pains,

Peaks and troughs. 

 

Frequencies 

And wavelengths 

Not only of 

Life and death, 

But of here 

And after,

Before here,

And hereafter.


Sines of life. 

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Tell Me, Tell Me

Folder: 
Satish Verma

Under the cosmic
dust, an elite existence
wants to close the waterhole.

Hostility was increasing
between the same species.

But evil and good would
always co-sleep.

O Buddha
I will make the tree
walk and come to you
where you used to sit under.

And ask some stingy
questions. Why you want non―
violence when violence
would always exist?

And the light
hesitates to shine in pitch dark?
And the words remain quiet?

Why it was so impossible?

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