Best Swanking Poems
The iciness of his smile
seeped like osmosis through the crevices
left on my face by the squint rooted
on fires of a loud and angry sun.
A tempest stormed across the dusty, red sky
following the wake of his Packard of no color.
His eyes with their misted askant look
found us like the rain
and the dark clouds took cover.
Unowned feathers fled the frightened fields
like tumbleweeds amid superior dusts of sleep
wielding easily the pale club of the wind
and swirling the soul of a flower strike.
- an utter-able chill -
Where lurched the deeds of green thrilling light
with thinned new fragile yellows?
Spoiled and stale like the scant and stunted ears of corn
not able to sprinkle the acres
that had fallen into battlefields.
Picket's Charge in woods that stuttered and clapper-clawed
songs that stirred the few scrawny birds that stayed on.
Sharecroppers in the Dust Bowl
walked on loose strands of primitive tightropes.
One could hear the blast across the Great Plains
all the way to Boise City.
Blood oozed from the side of my palate,
decadal fertilizer at long last leaching the dry ground.
As I lay dying -
he reached toward the heavens – swanking the deed
and cackling like a hexed slime eel.
Staples were traveling on the
epiderm, thanking the wounds.
The dust, the eternal ugliness
were growling.
Riveting drama:
a royal swanking for a macabre
heist. A bizarre charisma
overtakes the cozy lips.
I was green,
and I was a cloud
where the sunflowers meet
beneath the sun.
Blind poppies assert themselves
unfurling a flag of milky sap.
The wasps were going-
to become stingless.
Satish Verma
Have you ever eaten an apple
By sitting on a speedy bicycle?
Difficult? Sympathy is like sizzle
Shouts when not got in coddle;
Smiles if given in time subtle.
Shrewd! With poor does giggle
With rich it does struggle.
How can I, Poor Soul, entitle
Sympathy with me in puddle
Of sadness which hardly ignoble?
My friend, Hardik, never finagle
Stood by shoulders to face unstable
Time, with me, removing a pustule.
Sympathy can’t be won at a raffle.
They’re virtues divine which ripple
With love of God even in middle
Of sufferings, and appear in bubble
Lasts for few moments in swaddle.
Sympathy, moves slowly like turtle
But reaches surely like Rakesh recycle.
Hardik or Rakesh will never diddle
You in need, let it be Prafulla baffle.
I found sympathy for peons little
Swanking abound in both to fiddle
Sonorously growing quadruple.
Wearing a sable-tinted hood, dressed in dark, despondent hues, swanking about with a spine-tingling gaze and an eerily menacing cape, littered with boldly bonded skulls. Stalking you outside your window, peeking through during the pitch dark. Attempting to rob you of your soul, trying to mug you and drag you away, take your essence, and feed off of it, like it was a bag of candy. While a dragon puffs out clouds of smoke and breathes tentacles of bright roasting flames, Death huffs out wisps of frigid air and rifts of frosty shreds, for it has a black heart and a besmirched brain. It collects the skulls of its victims, displays them as trophies, and jars them away, for they are specimens, studied and researched for the conjuring of preternatural and ghostly potions and elixirs. It hovers above the ground, for it traded its legs with the devil, exchanged them for knowledge, for power. It desires to squash life, to squeeze out its quintessence. It's eyes are empty circles, desolate holes, for it used them to make an concoction that will grant it immortality. It is ravishing and avaricious, for it wants to tip the scales, push over the boulder, draw its own line, granting it more space, allowing it to suffocate everything and everyone's spirit.