the holy man understands he does not need a church to worship
he only needs faith, goodness, heartfelt humbleness and belief
he peers into God’s world, seeing the best for everyone,
feeling awed that He was chosen to be surrounded by such beauty
loving the feeling of being beloved that comes upon his soul
his angels rejoice, that he is a humble, beautiful human being
Beard bent over his walking stick
each step cautious
twitching side to side
left hand trembling, along for the ride
Tapping out the narrow path every morn
to the place his soul was reborn
The Lunatic Holy Man
Hole in the ozone layer
of his sense increases.
He mutters to the tomb
of his father, while
clumsy expressions
flash on his face.
A hundred fools
watch him with awe.
It’s paradoxical
they chant holy verses.
He has a big
sedimentary belly
formed from offerings.
He heals the insane,
rustics say,
patting on their crests
or tying black cords
around their waists.
There’s a panacea
for peace for many
in his absurd mantras.
He became a holy man
after his dad’s death
with the privilege of birth.
Lunacy adds charm
to his character.
Fame is sometimes
a friend to folly.
Even the distant mother
comes with her daughter
for a cure.
There’s a relief in belief.
First published in my book, "Kanoli Kaleidoscope" (PunksWritePoemsPress, USA)
He knew the Holy Books
He was a Holy Man
He spent his Holy Time
Roaming o'er the Land
He visited the sick in hospitals
Brought comfort to those in jails
Gave one and all a blessing
To tip the Heavenly Scales
He utilized every second
He never wasted a breath
Ever pushing and striving upward
From birth to day of death
And when he got to Heaven
The Holy Man, God Himself did greet
Saying, "Of all the beings I've created
It's you I've longed to meet"
The Holy Man then bowed his head
And shook it from side to side
Told God he was just obeying orders
~ As God broke down and cried
Holy Man
What causes the sound of
a crude sewing machine?
Its needle in contact
with its teeth or the
pedal or its wheel? A
tailor once said to me
that God listens to us
by wearing one of His: a
robe of piety, a sandal
of faith in pair. He
pulls the cloth I
brought and feeds it
with ease to the hungry
mouth on his lap. Faith
is without seeing and for
others a fantasy, he says,
when you come face to
face with Him is reality.
And in our lifetime we had plenty
of choices. In a shop of
multicoloured ready-to-
wear. Which one you’ll pick?
The polo shirt rushes its
way from his hands to my
torso. We exchanged views
till sundown, stitched his
thoughts into mine,
unthread the locks and
chains forward and then
back, as if to say that
life is so short without
a pattern or shape. If I
could only draw the
formless and believe. Out
the door with a coat
for my nakedness. The
weighing was not to
be found wanting.
There was a cryptic message
about a demise at the roof top
of a tree.
Blue sky would whip it up to a cock
on an ornate cloud of an ego
for a free fall from the moon.
Give leverage to the silence of a cudgel
to uproot the bristle from a face
of a fear; there was an ominous warning.
Ancestors of jar will pour out the honey
on emptiness of a truth
about the fiction of a planet.
Nose for nose, battle was on,
between tank and toe,
hand and pen.
SATISH VERMA
There was a cryptic message
about a demise at the roof top
of a tree.
Blue sky would whip it up to a cock
on an ornate cloud of an ego
for a free fall from the moon.
Give leverage to the silence of a cudgel
to uproot the bristle from a face
of a fear; there was an ominous warning.
Ancestors of jar will pour out the honey
on emptiness of a truth
about the fiction of a planet.
Nose for nose, battle was on,
between tank and toe,
hand and pen.
SATISH VERMA