Satish Verma Poems

A nebula rises unfazed after fission:
after a fractured debate, greed crouching on
the wrinkled noses of rugged bouncers.
In remote history someone was burning itself out.
...

A fugitive chameleon sits on my window sill
daily, ceding the space horizon to thickness

of delusion; wants to decimate the infamous
...

Pseudoscrubbing was going on
the scripted drama, words apart.
The tears were denied to him
and the moon slowly made peace on the white
...

Death will not measure
the height,
from which we fall.
Not being,
...

A silent wrath sits in a pool
of blood, will start a battle
over the footprints of sponges
who soaked the history.
...

After seeding the clouds
they were going to buy wet lips.

Seven minutes to make a bomb:
...

And there was history
to map the terror. A neoplasm
was arising suddenly in the aching skull.
Chorus of wailing: the burning will not go.
...

There was a portrait under the landscape.
Whispering of clouds,
writhing body and
tense folds.
...

You go down in the dry pool
foraging for the political errors,
irisprints, a certain desire of revolt,
any skeleton to identify the victim.
...

Under the tree of learning
of another life, the primitive father arrives.
Casts a spell of wisdom, between sorrow and death
with a speck of tears in circle of beings.
...