You and I, we are,
two polar petals, laced with
arctic blue moonshine
of soft sweven-hymns
and sunburst apricity
of aqua-gold tides,
reminiscing mauve
hours, when our love waltzed in teal
faithful lakes hued with
ivory ink of
coral kismet, shimmering
in wine-auroras,
but now we just trace
poisoned pixie-dust, upon
each other's frail fate,
sinking in folklores
of shaded red canopies,
as I bleed stardust
in ebonies of
hellfire heavens and we fade
like smoked-ash comets;
for you and I, are
we Hemlock and ivy, swathed
in swan-shaped ballads,
floating like hail on smudged graves?
The spotless swaps are filled with bright hemlocks
Slaloms brighten the looming metal fence
Footsteps ring in the darkness of airlocks
The spotless swaps are filled with bright hemlocks
Under a load of plants, gates groan and shock
A moment when nothing pleased your senses
The spotless swaps are filled with bright hemlocks
Slaloms brighten the looming metal fence.
Written: March 22, 2023
As Socrates calmed the council by speaking up,
Í, slow and aged, being sentenced to drink from the cup.
Being condemned by truth as guilty iniquity,
injustice phenomena throughout antiquity.
Í abide my sentence and so will you all,
perhaps it ought so to be, by a greater call.
My prophetic voice as guardian deity,
must warn you about trifling affairs of society.
Laws of nature and reverse equality to action,
will cause your spheres to become the sanction.
Death for me is impossible by mental discipline,
privation of all senses is the sleep without dream.
A passage from soul to soul in the eternal night,
prayers with respect to death, turning of the light.
I bear no resentment towards my accusers,
intention caused by fears belong the losers.
As long you care more for power and riches,
or anything else before virtues above, which is.
Time to depart for me to die, for you to cheer the live,
knowing that my journey as soul has no deprive.
Some would say,
the danger portends
Some would say,
it all is pretend
Some would say,
the past wears a shroud
Some would say,
the quiet is loud
Some would say,
all love is for fools
Some would say,
to break every rule
Some would say,
today is unsure
Some would say,
tomorrow the cure
Some would say,
the hammer is cocked
Some would say,
the target is locked
Some would say,
the reasons persist
Some would say,
all logic resists
Some would say,
the lies are astute
Some would say,
more voices to mute
Some would say,
the weight is too much
Some would say,
to look but don’t touch
Some would say,
their talk cheap and vile
Some would say
—death kills with a smile
(Villanova Pennsylvania: November, 2020)
What killed Socrates.
a weed or Aristophanes?
What caused an end so dire?
The law or just satire?
The cries of ignorant crowds.
or something in 'The Clouds'?
Juniper prevails where hemlock heathen dine
As breeders of the weaker worlds increase
A persuasive drink, the final glass of wine
Spiked by grand deception ruined Socrates
Slither those who slant to slander
Bodies styled from a wicked Cain
Betrayed by his honesty of mercy kinder
Of universe, a mind for generations slain
Still the breeders slither loose among us
Full of fruits from hemlock juice defying
Prerogative of pith, they launch another strike
Freedom of your voice, the final passage dying
“When the debate is lost, slander becomes the tool of the loser.” – Socrates
When fog creeps in to sheathe
the point, obscuring paths
among the brush, unseen loons,
hallooing one another,
map out this realm
of hemlock, rock, and water.
Loon cries vivify fireside
conjuring, old camper’s tales,
for the point’s new children:
they glimpse fabled elders,
conveyers of craft and lore
who made a mile or more
of winding roadway through
cut and cultivated trees.
Loon cries reassure us
as we sit in circled peace.
The birds know where they are
and so do we.
His last kiss cast poison upon my lips
Wine of sweetened hemlock I'd taken sips
With little time left for pain and sorrow
I write of what I shall feel tomorrow.
In life I never knew what my heart held
A master of deception, he cast spells.
Too late did I see what he made of me,
A porcelain doll that death will set free.
My fingers grow weak as darkness sets in
I should forgive him of vile mortal sin.
but as my sad heart now withers and dies
I leave this poem for his guilty eyes.
Near death, these warning words I leave with you.
Beware lips of wine made of hemlock brew.
The image I imagined,
Alas! It has not passed.
For I am afire with carnal desire,
unquenched and dying fast!
My sweetest bane, I shan't complain-
you are my Love, my Death, my Pain!
Through my heart, a stake! Oh, do indicate
the grave where Love was lain.
all but one lonely soul
hangs from limbs of tired trees
in a dense forests of hearts,
and endless flow of blood through leaves.
under one sky,
under one moon;
a canopy of hope
set atop a floor of dreary dead,
laid to rest in a damp field of dirt
walked upon by careless feet.
hollowed eyes stop and gaze
to see,
endlessly;
a sea of worried beasts
stomping through a muddy path.
and through the weeds
a breeze shall breath
a quiet call,
and put to sleep
a lonely me.
Sleep my dear, sleep my precious
Everything will be just fine
Embrace this moment
Breathe, give in to this
Just one more step
To your place of rest
Just one more breath
Sleep now, my love
Close your eyes
It will all go away
Hold onto me
I will protect you
Just one more mile
'Til we make it home
Just one more sunset
Sleep now, my one
Lay your head down
I will sing you to sleep
Everything will be just fine
I will make them go away
This is the last step
The last mile, the last struggle
Embrace this moment
Breathe, close your eyes
You're home at last
Just breathe, give in to this
Give in
Give in
Everything will be just fine
I will protect you
I will make them go away
Sleep my love
Sleep my precious
My lips are black,
I am drunk
on the hemlock, proferred by you –
my life. I am still in love with pain.
What not, the trial
tried to break my resistance.
I will walk on my hands
paraplegic legs lifting my eyes.
Why did you want me to fake a death.
She was my lover, my shadow
always walking along with me.
So, you did not authored the article
on my demise in ravines
watching the son eclipse?
Extinct, headless, corpse of a
thin warrior, obliquely refers
to the pygmy moonrise.
Grey plaques in white mind
like snakeroots, glittering
in dark gulleys of time!
SATISH VERMA
Hemlock Taken
Hemlock Taken
Socrates in Prison making mention of the time passing “the time is passing” eye
am Socrates
The maid forgot to clean my cell again the kitchen sent the hard old rolls again
and the water bowl is fetid eye can not wet my weinersnitzel properly the boy is
never with me now the boy is absent from me the boy is not so close beside me
eye miss the sex with boy “the time is passing” eye am Socrates in prison
making mention of the shadow on the farther wall it seems to be an ANGEL three
feet tall the shadow on the nearer wall is only me
Eye miss the homosexual sex the things he does to make me bleed eye miss
the way he wants to kiss the places and the parts of me
“time is passing” eye am Socrates in prison the rags they gave me to use for
clothing have long since worried themselves to loathing they can not be worn to
any ball or dance party now
“the time is passing” eye am Socrates in prison
The food is leering the wine is made of lead
Bring me the hemlock Socrates is dead.