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
“Innocence looks through a window of crystal clear glass, there is no reflection, just perfect vision of clarity….. For it is through the eyes of a child that truth is captured, no shadows of grey…just pure simplicity. A child’s soul
The birds, trees, sky , and sunshine A kiss for him ’cause he’s so fine Playing on the beach, on the sand Wearing sailor striped knit clothes And holding his hand Swirling around I let go of him To smile
How far? How far the goodness will survive? Born to suffer, a troubled mind was punished, for melting down. Livid with revenge sun bleaches the man-made God, a personal anger. Executioner was on the street lighting bonfires of your principles.
Innocence of those eyes Innocence of those eyes, will never disguise , their dreams will fill their blood, with joyous thoughts, and gifts that love has brought innocence of a child is a blessing, which makes him see the beauty
When falling off the cliff they cry, hurting the iris of their eye, flying before they learn to fly, whose words will kiss their tears to dry? I am the Catcher in the Rye. The Fallen knows the Catcher’s dream