Short Scripting Poems

Silhouettes set sail on stylish sofa
silent soundscapes stoke a stoic parlance 
memory’s sweet shelter sinks slowly when
scripting stress-free similes on sunsets
soulful strains sashay over scenic spots 
that stick in stubborn shadows so serene  
seclusion a stillborn starlit skyline

Date posted and created : 10th April 2021...

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Outside my window life moves slow…
But inside the glass a different show…
Past the frame a blue sky kisses the trees…
Behind the curtain a poet’s pen bleeds…
Scripting nature from beyond my room…
Where the lamp is my sun and the voices my tune…
The shade pulls down as the horizon takes the day…
Shadows fill the spaces into tomorrow’s yesterday…
What’s left on paper is for you to perceive…
Behind the words I once conceived…...

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(Rain is wreaking havoc in our land due to depression formed in the Bay of Bengal)


Over me 
a grey dappled 
cloud ridden sky
no one yearns to gaze at

below me,
rushing rivulets
of water!

between, 
needles of rain
that sings 
to nobody
but pricking 
every heart,
scripting tragic tales!
___________________________

May.11. 2022-05-11

Placed Fifth
A Brian Strand Premiere Choice Poetry Contest...

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Told me he liked
the edited version
so I never bothered
to wise him up
spent my time between the two
I laughed knowing
I was the only one who
knew what was
up
but when he said
when he said
Even though I love you
don't think I can take your hand
you get off on tricking me aint no way
to treat a man
gathering words
and scripting things
like we don't know whats
going on
we aint got know commitments
you just need to think
you doing wrong...

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It took me years from now to see
I loved the same rain that was drowning me
My early days were filled with joy,
I used to bloom and grin in glee
But O' see how lost I am now!
Why is everything so blur and bleak?

They see no hindrance, no scars
But no one knows what's behind the bars!
Years ago I lost myself and haven't found me yet
I am not who I used to be
And still I am tenderly scripting myself wrong-
To find back who I once used to be.

...

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scape without a name
scepter of a colossus
merge in a yellow boom
between hunch and a knife,

to keep shut the glassy lips
from red stares
a secret of an anonym
scripting sunset

the stacked neurotransmission
of millions of texts
with quietus
not to return back without the foe’s skull

a hollowness reverberates
while indifference talks
of moon’s lair
nor a dwindling shoulder –

and the tigers have disappeared
from sanctury



SATISH VERMA...

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scape without a name
scepter of a colossus
merge in a yellow boom
between hunch and a knife,

to keep shut the galssy lips
from  red  stares
a secret of an anonym
scripting  sunset

the stacked neurotransmission
of millions of texts
with quiet us
not to return back without the foe’s skull

a  hollowness  reverberates
while indifference talks
of moon’s lair
nor a dwindling shoulder –

and the tigers have disappeared
from  sanctury


SATISH VERMA...

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Cognisant of what’s absent
signals we are not present, 
for it is but negation
of manifest creation.

Thus mindfulness of absence,
say of scent of bliss incense,
relies upon memory,
scripting another story.

Awareness must be sans thought,
free from forms ego begot,
with no anticipation
colouring meditation.

In such vibrant being-ness,
we’re one with the that oneness,
in a mode embrace-release,
flowing with nonchalant ease.

27-December-2022...

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