Short Hoofprints Poems

At dawn I heard a baby calf moo,
the birth of vernal stock
and ripe spring tract,
where phorbs are sown for hungry mammals,
where pregnant skyline clouds are merely shepherds to those hoofprints on a landscape,
that patch for future issues
to run free...

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fresh blanket of white
     icing up the tender shoots...
           green grass is confused

windows steamed again
      blocking out the wintry scene...
              hoofprints in the yard

squirrels look for seeds
       dig in snow for something more...
                false alarm for spring...

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After dousing the bride to a nice flame,
in between the howls
there were songs.

On mud path the hoofprints
came out prominently. On bullock carts
they had come for a sit in,

to resist, rebel or kill.
All day the heat, dust & winds
blurred the vision.

Hills between us
to feed the hate.
It is nothing like the good old earth.

The nascent bleed.
Time of non-movement.
Shadows of snow-peaks.


SATISH VERMA...

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After dousing the bride to a nice flame,
in between the howls
there were songs.

On mud path the hoofprints
came out prominently. On bullock carts
they had come for a sit in,

to resist, rebel or kill.
All day the heat, dust & winds
blurred the vision.

Hills between us
to feed the hate.
It is nothing like the good old earth.

The nascent bleed.
Time of non-movement.
Shadows of snow-peaks.


SATISH VERMA...

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The horse was pale,
paler than the light off the mountain
that reflected back in memories long abandoned

Its mane was long,
longer than the struggle to save what 
fortune had vehemently denied me twice

The time was short,
shorter than the flashes of history
that hoofprints trampled in the disappearing snow

The trail was closing,
closing on one last intrepid promise
crying out for life amidst a stampede of death


(Valley Forge Stables: March, 2021)...

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