A silent wrath sits in a pool of blood, will start a battle over the footprints of sponges who soaked the history. The flow of endurance, lava on the tongue triggers discontent for a riot of spawned hunger. One transparent self under the rocks moans, falls to explosion, sways in dim smoke. For the authenticity of future we are killing the serpent who drinks milk from your hands and protects your treasure. The tranquility is little bloated like grape seed extract.
Satish Verma is ferociously original. You feel resentment, outrage and violence, cannot pin it down but wonderfully spin your brain. Satish has the greatest sensibility which sweetly exploits the delicacies of human conflicts. You are taken aback. This is magic, profoundly soulful. In a lone, long journey Satish Verma is still discovering himself. Beaten, betrayed, felled, he comes back with fierce velocity. His childhood was traumatized by India’s partition. Terror, violence and death were witnessed which built the morals of poet. Becoming defiantly recluse Satish Verma pursued his value based life on the path of truth. Teaching Botany for 35 years he was writing poetry, privately and solemnly and published twelve collections. Worked silently with social causes. His scions, doctors and engineers are living in USA. He chose to live back in his beloved country and resides in Ajmer (INDIA) with his spouse Kanta running the Charitable Holistic Institute of SEWA MANDIR FOUNDATION. He can also be reached at email@example.com. 5-A ii, Mayoor Colony, Alwar Gate, Ajmer – 305007 INDIA Mobile +91 9829071468
I’m alone in my room Wondering where I went wrong Mind is cloudy My thoughts are uncontrollable But who can you call When the depression hits And the pink pills cant drown your sorrows away No One I’m alone in
Like a snowfox it stampedes. A mass panic of legs after the flame festival. Language moves like a landslide, without vocabulary. A love sperm will not go into the test tube. Baby was waiting, looking for mother. The wetland was
A hand without fingers draws a self-portrait. Faceless, only eyes glaring like bucketfull of burning coals. Was it not enough to call ‘wolf’. The pain scorches the compound where the blood of innocent flowed because somebody was burning woods. The
A golden bullet will bite the adolescence for the sake of prudence. Inebriated everybody wanted to go in a state of bliss. It was a targeted killing of a dream. Redolent of a prophet who will not answer the call
Like a double edged knife That cuts deep and rife Like a cold winter breeze That makes everything freeze Like the sting of a bee Excruciating it would be Like a hot summer heat Unbearable it could be Like an