Satish Verma - Page 95

Oldie

One day I will meet you
on a dirt track
and ask about back yard
where moon lives.

Will you give me a kiss of the clock?
I have forgotten the back years.
Autumn now takes care of my assets
and I keep on erasing the names.

O, harvest moon, don’t go away.
I was playing with the black thoughts
eating the yellow grass,
learning the alphabet of white pain.

It was a crystal midmoon, dark animal,
who has taken away all the tears.

Satish Verma

Paradise

So my absentism will prevail
over presence;
I will talk to you in space
between the moments
of autumn red
when nothing else was moving.

In classical pursuit, I straignten
the equation and we understand
the complexities of life, and agree to depart
unlooking at the moon, crossing
the river of silence, with no blueprints
on hands.

The random pain will eat the words
like a vanGogh painting.

My Diary

Unthinkable.
Lithograph of a malaise.
I cannot talk.

Will you abandon the thought
and care about
the drowning dawn?

The bandaged ego
of the book
threatens the reader.

Come and solve
the puzzle
of poetry.

Everything was quiet
except
the pulsating heart.

I will.
I will not scream.

Satish Verma