Dirty Time

Dirty Time short poem

Photo by France1978

Depth of a bruised sea
rising from the surface
overwhelms the dumb shore

shining
for impossible tomorrow
golden sand, the locked door.

History repeats amnesia
for a depressed meniscus
shifts the nameplate.

Here was laid the image of
priestlees god of dusty face
small dreams.

The book remains incomplete
who wrote the contents
for blank pages?

Rate the poem
1 Star2 Stars3 Stars4 Stars5 Stars (2 votes, average: 3.50 out of 5)
We are posting your rating...

Have something to say about the poem?

Profile photo of Satish Verma

Satish Verma

Signup / Login to follow the poet.
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 kantasatish@gmail.com. 5-A ii, Mayoor Colony, Alwar Gate, Ajmer – 305007 INDIA Mobile +91 9829071468
Poems you will love

Give your feedback / review for the poem

2 Comments on "Dirty Time"

Notify of
avatar
Sort by:   newest | oldest
Rebecca Lyle
Member

A lovely write, very thought provoking. I enjoyed it very much. Thanks for sharing it.

David Bokolo
Member

I sort of imagining the wave of time shifting through the ordinary layers of my thoughts to get to the depth of the purer golden imagination buried deep in the recluse of the human mind. He kept on writing till he’s filled all the empty blanks pages, and he has not yet even started. Rebecca this sure provoke a chain of thoughts. Thanks for sharing.

wpDiscuz

Our Time

Our Time short poem

Sometimes it seems like life rushes by No time to laugh, no time to cry Good times come, bad times go We’ve learned to love, and we’ve learned to grow My friends and I have become as one But when

Reema: A Child Girl At War Time

Reema: A Child Girl At War Time prose poem

At evenings, Sun puts off her light as usual and goes behind a curtain woven by sea, rock and trees, so to have a break. Meanwhile, those with black heads and scattered hair go to warm themselves at the ember

If I Could Rewind The Hand Of The Time

If I Could Rewind The Hand Of The Time ballad

One beautiful Sunday afternoon, down by the valley where the waters cascading down the rocks upon the stony bed I sat, lost in reverie on my life continuous struggles when His shadows appeared, silhouetted against the fading sun upon the

Time To Say Goodbye

Time To Say Goodbye short poem

I cried a dozen times When it was time to say goodbye I felt like smoke But you were my fire I knew you couldn’t come back But I still wished so I knew you couldn’t hear me But I

A Small Time

A Small Time prose poem

When I was a little boy, I used to run up to the end of the earthen road and run back homeward; in my hand an open-lipped astonished fig berry, a few apricot stones and some body-scars. At those days,