https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jjZL5a6PeGo
Why are people so afraid of running out of toilet paper
it is not a cure, a vaccine, nor a rose pill for its taper
It has disrupted our lives, a scoundrel settling like vapor
threatening our lives, as we in disbelief and stoic stupor
continue to be vigilant citizens in a world of honor
It has become a world of hand sanitizers with no peer
now only a higher power can somehow draw us near
Despite footbumps and eye noddings we are all dear
as human beings we need a solid cure, and no not fear
lets hold fast in solidarity across the world and adhere
Why is this happening we ask, ourselves and others
all I can tell you is that we are all sisters and brothers
we all need to do our best to help, and stick together
we need to eradicate IT , for its HEALTH that matters
so remember in fragility , IT is a wind, we are feather
ITS NAME? COVID-19, and its not going to win the fight
as long as we remember, to pass that torch of LIGHT
we can win this thing together, drive it out of sight
be patient, stay calm, and your going to be alright
this is Mystic Rose , wishing you, a good night !
Categories:
noddings, hope,
Form: Free verse
Was it sacrilege to reenter the bones of knuckles
thinking of your primrose, a backlash of twigs
in garden of homeless birds, a high-profile
sweep starting a mad rush of blue winds
in the confused landscape of life ?
my hills are strewn with bones of eaten, half-cooked
lines of defence, the diplomacy not working to mimic
peace; dead words grip my truths; must you
kill the surgeon who has severed the wrist
of a thief.
I am falling unbidden on Pole Star, the terror
on the wings of flying swans, a child sits
on a chair with enormous head shaking involuntarily
and the cyclone breaking on the dumb noddings
of failing light.
SATISH VERMA
Categories:
noddings, art,
Form: ABC
Was it sacrilege to reenter the bones of knuckles
thinking of your primrose, a backlash of twigs
in garden of homeless birds, a high-profile
sweep starting a mad rush of blue winds
in the confused landscape of life ?
my hills are strewn with bones of eaten, half-cooked
lines of defence, the diplomacy not working to mimic
peace; dead words grip my truths; must you
kill the surgeon who has severed the wrist
of a thief.
I am falling unbidden on Pole Star, the terror
on the wings of flying swans, a child sits
on a chair with enormous head shaking involuntarily
and the cyclone breaking on the dumb noddings
of failing light.
SATISH VERMA
Categories:
noddings, adventure, allegory, angst, animals,
Form: I do not know?