Satish Verma Poet I do not know?

Flowering of the Thought

Belonging
to unbelonging
was becoming a method
exploring the path.
In the backyard unpleasant fumes
were rising.

Nocturnal swoop of enlightment,
clearly becomes a festival
of yellow death.
Who was hiding the truth?

Flowering of the thought in sky
ripens cessation of grief.
Slopes and summits,
bring tears in eyes.

Solace of ancestral home
was gone. Bold ceilings were hung by ungodly fears.
Wet hands lift the body of past,
classical future was gleaming slowly.


 
SATISH VERMA

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Paul James December 10, 2010 at 11:07 AM A mysterious poem, yet at the same time sharply focused and clear - amazing

Sara Kendrick December 10, 2010 at 6:33 AM The line "Solace of ancestral home was gone"..That would be so sad for all traces of ancestral home to be gone as in the tactile place, people of that place who were older, or in a memory that is suffering from Alzheimer's or some form of dementia...Sara