What would have pumped life to a dulling heart
What could have been the realization of a dream,
What should have made better tomorrows than today,
Came a little too late, so it seems.
Give it a rest
And be contented.
For who’s to know what there is today
Amounts somewhat much lesser
When there is naught one righteous
To judge which is better,
And in thus may regret be unhanded, set free
When things are not meant to be.
You shall read me
when I am gone
in green pain.
There had been gifts
unhanded.
Unwrap them in dark –
when moon was
yellow.
The beams will rub your body.
A bared stasis
will stop the fluids.
Wash your face with tears.
It seems a long time
when I touched your eyes.
My clouds would not find you.
Satish Verma
WAITING FOR THE BUS
At the metal pole with the “transit logo”
Line of six, then rapidly me, and now twelve –
All looking in the same direction- down the street-desert.
Like apostles awaiting the second coming of the saviour.
Straining eyes to see the number as a vehicle approaches
No, a mirage - it’s just big truck.
Wrist watches are consulted, handbags runmmaged in
Newspapers glanced at, and folded.
Children whine and struggle to be unhanded.
Rain starts and umbrellas are unsheathed.
I duck to protect my eyes from a lethal woman
and shiver as her droplets run down my collar
We all turn at the sound of a bus going the other way
A dozen cats all watching a grounded bird
No one is certain of the bus times
A man with glasses consults his pocket timetable
It comes once a day at 5 30
But only on odd dates in months with an “r” in them -
Or some such formula.
Might as well consult an astrologer’s handbook.
It comes at last. Only the first two please. Full up.
There’s another right behind…yeah, right…….
Should have walked.
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