Unfettered for a little while, I was catching the sleep visitor. It hurts when the dream ends and a poem starts. An eucalyptus, drinking lots of water, throwing the aroma incensing the air, I pick up the fallen seeds of light in winter solstice, befriending the home traumas.
Fireflies leave the scorched marks of daydreaming. I talk to moon for sometime and leave my address with him. Tomorrow he will come to inherit the pain. I wanted a sunless garden to commit the sin of forgetting you. The night will find me undying till eternity.
In my words I carry the charred remains of time which smells the hunger of tomorrow.
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
Decorative floral arrangements along the sinking coasts Separative morales deranges my song and inkling notes Charrington’s coral courageous and strong linking two boats His passion lays in the rubble of ruin, up in smoke She’ll cash in roaring winds and
Be my soul in outrageous sunshine of knowledge. I need a shade of tears. The barrels were still smoking after the war. I will not wake up in morning. Lightless the day will mourn for the fallen moon on the
Spring time and rain blooming of flowers purple haze of a storm on the horizon gray is mixed above the cloudline memories of you and me becoming one as A Storm of Fire passion melting like fervent heat butterflies in
THE WHIRLING STORM OF EVIL From the dark recluse in my thatched mud hut I barricaded myself; with the palm of my hands pressing tightly against my ears, vainly trying to shut out the mournful tune of the dirge playing