Best Artblue Poems
Colour
of the heavens
and ocean waters too-
but rarely ..is a flower
sky blue
Inspired by the Russian Blue Rose Group 1906-1910
mamed after Novalis poem The Blue Flower
Blue skies and butterflies
Accepting blues clues with heroine blood
True blue occurring once in a blue moon
Smurfs snack on blue raspberries at the blue dog café
While blue and magenta attend a wedding
With something old something new
Something borrowed and all things blue
Blue collars and Canadian dollars
All with a cold blue tint
Cold blue steel and sheet fire engulfing
The blue green earth while
Indigo flowers shall blossom blue
No more
A blue ski, purple outskirts and and a blue green in the vast horizon
The sky wept that frigid night, icy winds paved the streets, homes and ways
Fireplaces lit from home to home
Source of warmth that can always be counted on, a heat that feeds even ice-cold hearts
A talking door sees it all, tradgedy lurks all around
A pause, then thunder rocks the heavens
Not a birds cry is heard for miles near
Roaring winds cry out loud
It stomps on the grounds, like an angry crowd
Again the sound of clashing rain drops drippings from the edges of the roofing
Fill the open, and a howling thunder strikes the sky again
Ignorance walks the streets, ignorance drives in the roads
Anger smiles in the open mist
Joy hides undercovers, it fears the coming gusts
Death too takes to her feet and walks along the highways where ignorance is the gateway
She lurks in the most trafficed places where one mistake can allow her to take
Spirits laugh and sing, for they praise His majesty
Its over, the sky wepps no more
A sigh for the pains is all that remains
The rising sun, yellow and a fire that warms the earth
It sings, his melodys we all know, its touch we feel
Great he is for it blinds the eye
I awake, what a terrible dream, I imagine it true
All in an outter realm, of imagism
Weaving fine fibres of unripe
beliefs, from a fire base, a blue bird
scrambles, shading the stone valley.
There was no thrift for the cadavers.
The burnt relics were eating away the greens
of tearful eyes. Sun was slugging again.
A gag, a prison, a list; the trial was not
ending. A smell of burning leaves from a
guilt of smouldering garden, seeps through
the procession of thoughts, something which
cannot be questioned. Red blossoms of
clouds distract the blue flames of stars.
SATISH VERMA
Perhaps you know,
that you do not know,
the moment of truth is here,
and we are at the cross roads.
Night is without a cloud
and crescent moon is questioning a star.
Ghost of strayed peace
has slided back in dark.
Pure chemistry of love is boiling.
Planting the tender flowers on lips
I find nothing. I think I will go
for a new lover.
Strawberry was your choice,
but I always craved blue berries.
Pulpy red and blue black were teeth apart.
Your eyes are unreadable,
a watery grave of pain.
Something impossible should happen
Poetry is waiting for symbiosis.
SATISH VERMA
Tuning out everything
Except the sounds
Of burning candles
And the flow of black ink
Above a notebook page
Distinct sizzles
As the flames consume wicks
And letters converge upon the blue lines
Is life anything like
Writing in the dark?
The sun has set
The bright beam of the blue pen light
Allows poetic listener to record
All forms of fire music, allegro or acappella
The harsh scratch of the wrong word
The soft sneaky spring of a closing sentence
The almost inaudible sighs of orange hot wax
The up tempo sputters of flickering light against glass
Self – immolating silence
softens the pain, an art of solitude.
Evening drifts to come closer to moon.
Night is summer washed.
Small stars are trembling
on blue waves.
The night climbs down
from the brown hill.
Agony of life filters
in your eyes.
Unspoiled tears leave a trail of liberation.
Sorrow was insipid in your dark book.
Possessing a blue surge,
a nothingness bloomed
into a smile.
Space fills the dreams,
coarse picture and empty memories.
The vacant frame holds only the waiting.
Centre was gone.
The boundaries have captured
the colorless fragments of thought,
dry bones.
SATISH VERMA
Self – immolating silence
softens the pain, an art of solitude.
Evening drifts to come closer to moon.
Night is summer washed.
Small stars are trembling
on blue waves.
The night climbs down
from the brown hill.
Agony of life filters
in your eyes.
Unspoiled tears leave a trail of liberation.
Sorrow was insipid in your dark book.
Possessing a blue surge,
a nothingness bloomed
into a smile.
Space fills the dreams,
coarse picture and empty memories.
The vacant frame holds only the waiting.
Centre was gone.
The boundaries have captured
the colorless fragments of thought,
dry bones.
SATISH VERMA