Short Calcified Poems

hunger gnaws haplessly
harvestless, stark, earthen womb
sparse amniotic fluid
vacant calcified corpses
emphysemic ether blooms...

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Candle wax drips calcified tears, 
riptides of dreams burst boundaries;
Drops become circles never squares;
Out of the box locked in a freeze
with rough edges it aims to please;
There’s no hiding their benefit,
claws can rip apart arteries;
That’s the magick of a misfit.
...

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Crawling to each nanosecond
A descent calling to teach me
Another Plato lesson
Lessening the agony as for
Before what was aforementioned 
Fragments of talents calcified
And classified as otherworldly 
Unbelievable and that which walks
With Giants along the wastelands
Unwelcomed.........

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The day stretched out
 drained of liquid moments
 drifting into the calcified skies;
a moment in time to be remembered
 surreal in its own existence 
 clinging to the daylight hours;
the summer roses bloom and scent
 the stillness of the humid day
 nothing stirs or moves
time just is 
 now....

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I wonder
if all the poetry is gone.
I've stolen from fiction
and narrated outlandish 
but rational thoughts.

Where is the poetry?
So grounded am I
in acceptable habit I call
happiness that
the dancing doesn't come.

I don't see the longing posture of the trees,
and calcified the sad
memories. I almost want them back.
Maybe I need
another broken heart....

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Why is it the intransigent
find the intransigent
to be pigheaded, willful,
inflexible and pertinacious?
Engaging, as it were,
in an endless “tug-o-war”
neither side allowing
for consideration of 
the fallibility of the inflexibility
of calcified recalcitrance.

Stags, horns locked,
dying on an empty stage
bleach-white bones
rattling in an unfelt wind.


©7/14/2019


Intransigence Poetry Contest
John Hamilton sponsor...

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A moment of pause was needed
in the eerie lull after the
gathering of dreams, to enter
the corridor of voices.

We stopped looking through
our tongues, across the bitterness
of burning river, after the mud
in our eyes.

The black tar of the golden wood
between us was smearing the family
of crying pillows.

All the silver was tumbling
down from the stairs of calcified
faces of virgins.

The god was yet to be born !


SATISH VERMA...

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A moment of pause was needed
in the eerie lull after the
gathering of dreams, to enter
the corridor of voices.

We stopped looking through
our tongues, across the bitterness
of burning river, after the mud
in our eyes.

The black tar of the golden wood
between us was smearing the family
of crying pillows.

All the silver was tumbling
down from the stairs of calcified
faces of virgins.

The god was yet to be born !


SATISH VERMA...

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