Ink bleeds whispers, secrets kept,
A story on paper, unslept.
Words like windows, veiled, and thin,
Reflecting a soul held within.
Eyes, unseen, guide every line,
A silent observer, entwined.
Their gaze shapes the moonlit tide,
Emotions in verses confide.
They watch as the reader takes hold,
A story unfolds, to be told.
Springs from the fresh eyes behind the poem
In the dampness of those unslept sheets I find my solace
between the linear moments when you held my breath
and the last time we said goodbye:
Awakened by the thunder every calm fiber
goes dormant as I toss and turn
searching for the memory of your warm body
The rain slips easily from glass to ledge
and so do my tears;
Life with all its poignancy, cannot reach me here
beneath thick blankets of denial.
As I pretend the night away death does not exist,
nor does it live here, anymore
In the dampness of those unslept sheets I find my solace
through poetry in flight,
although I leave it to the angels,
to whisper you, goodnight !
“‘til death do us part” the vampire once said
to his pallid bride, her throat blushing red.
The guests grew squeamish at what they just saw,
filled with great dread and primordial awe:
as the groom his bride exsanguinated.
They caressed, and kissed, and her life she bled
And rose as one of the un-wholly dead.
Exhausted they collapsed, their bodies raw.
“Mmm, ‘til death do us part,” he said.
Later that day as they unslept in bed--
a smell so fetid her poor senses fled!
“Drac, did you fart?!” “No, ‘twas just a crow’s caw.”
Suddenly she knew her post-fatal flaw!
“’Mon coeur, blah blah-blah.’ she scowled in her head,
Ugh! ‘til death do us part!” she said.
The day subsides, the sun descends,
A massive disc dipping into the horizon.
The tides ebb, waves lap the shore
Dusk holds sway: I fall into deep thought:
I wonder about the whys and wherefores
Of all the hustle and bustle of days of yore.
Quickly my thoughts revolve on you,
Deeper and deeper with yearning strong.
But now 'tis dusk and the orange tinge
Gives way to gray. The mighty sea calms
Like an unslept bed, its waves seem like whispers
Of days gone by: the ways of love,
The late goodbyes, the promise of the morrow,
And of undying love.
Dusk is now blackened like your silken tresses,
Dusk is now dewy like your luscious lips.
Still I feel your warmth, your exquisite fragrance,
The close embrace, observe with longing
The brilliant brown eyes as they stare into mine.
Now it's too dark, dreams fade away.
There is one thing left in this gathering gloom.
That's to wait patiently for your love.
From the edge of the ebon night sky,
under the engulfing clouds of gloom,
the promise of moon I’ve made to you,
I’ll keep before the eclipse starts.
The somber storm of smothering strife
drifts me away across the slate horizon,
the clouds melt in the torrent of tears
as my sky falls with the marooned moon.
The promise kept after the agonizing wait,
your fervent window opens on vista of hope,
ushers in the dislodged moon called heart,
rolling onto your satin bed long unslept
In the dark niche of your desolateness
glows the frozen moonbeam burst,
while the floating tinsels of silver dust
flutter like fairy over your silhouette face.
Holding the magical moon turned crystal globe,
you look deep into the illumined fortune
in kaleidoscopic images portending the future,
where my yearning paints dreamscape for you.
Written : March 10, 2020
June 9, 2020
Contest : Strand No. 790
Sponsor : Brian Strand
The meditation of an unslept night,
dancing to the music of silence.
Waiting for that unseen sight
and my visions to form an alliance.
To create the uncreated art,
searching in worlds unexplored.
My mixed up ideas to sort
and find a train of thought to climb aboard.
An imagination yearning to be set free,
unbridled senses waiting to take the lead.
Casting off fear and reservation to the sea,
but to experience truth dreams must concede.
No happy medium between wisdom and beauty,
can't balance the two in my troubled mind.
For some unknown reason, this has become my life's duty,
to search my thoughts for an island of peace to find.
A plan to stop this madness I'm willing to do,
to fall asleep and not sit and think the whole night through.
But rest just seems to escape my grasp,
tomorrow night I'll try again perhaps.
10/28/18
The rain pon the windowsill
The pounding of my heart
The sound that looms round
the empty room
And rends my soul apart
The pillow next, not damp like mine
unslept on lo these many years
yet stained a bit with drops of wine
Spilled along with bitter tears
That beleaguer me and always will
Like the rain upon
...The window sill…
Leave me visible like a vagrant dog in a deluge...
I'll hear your whisper in the wind, embrace your essence
in the rain, and see the secluded skies..
When the rain is subtle I will know that something
has tempered you... But when the rain rages I'll know that
something has imparted panic upon you!
And in this inherited intellect lacking eyes, ears, hands, or lips...
Our limp lumber would enternally rest in Earth's clay.Envision, the squall
streaming through a patch of wildflowers...
In my disorder gardens of myself flourished. Buds of curiosity burgeoning
from my eyes! It would be our knuckles, rigid, prancing pebbles meant for
progienies' play, and the sinful sun weaving it's way through your missing molars!
Countless days go unnoticed and nights unslept... We'll speak with our soul
through breached bones, where our tendons once thrived!
Imagine, your cranium and mine both mitagated to matter. Both refined from our
faults, and our skins going young again, disregarding the reason we ever wrinkled!
A chance to cleanse our aura oncemore... May I bceome dust with you?
My trembling tree...
Sky-clad, you are going
to meet the nemesis,
digging the street to?
find the nails. Do not fret.
Nails had burrowed deep in the
flesh of unknown. When you have
nothing to say, what are you
going to say ?
My heart misses a beat. Takes
a pause to look at the
spring of songless birds. I watch
myself ruined amid the legless run.
Soon they will be coming to wash
the stones with tears.
Do you smell the pungent smoke
rising from the no name tragedy.
Tonight the gas will not burn
in the kitchen. The beds will
remain unslept.
Satish Verma
The lighting, it was over-bright
blinding my unslept,red, tired eye
white sheets shook me with dread and fright
the lighting, it was over-bright
oh! on the stiff body drained white
tattoo of my name on left thigh
the lighting, it was over-bright
blinding my unslept,red, tired eye
Written 06/15/2016 for Julia's contest "First Line Prompt-2"
Memories:
Sometimes I wonder if this all is worthy the fight. Memories still so real etched into my mind. For they will not leave so I can have peace.
Nights unslept, tossing and turning. Days gone by in a daze of confusion. All disrupted by agonizing memories.
Memories that torment every fragment of my soul. Memories that are still so real even though its been ages ago.
They never fade away and are still raw with each passing day.
Will these memories ever diminish?
Knowing there are
many words for night;
mightwatch,nightshade,nightfall
but none for the space
of a halved bed,
an envelope starched,
flat with white,
unslept in
and hands devoid of
a trace of perfume or rest warmth,
a gentle curve.
Let him cherish the lost presence
of a drowned moon
of darkness long
of standing time.
Tribalism:
You break the rules
and become a renegade.
*
Do not know
any god. All the
deities were man-made
*
In dark, you
will recognize the faces
of unslept poems.
Satish Verma
Unslept-
hangman, flees from the noose.
The day had come to execute.
A thought had become a fear
but fear was not a thought.
Naked in the moon
a wolf wants move of something
leaning on the hills of thirst,
bitten by the views of cemetery.
The landscape
was changing. You want to cover your head
with a topi, standing on the edge
of a lake before you are drowned
under the burning eyelids.
A Buddha smiles from
the shelf. How can you fill the emptiness
of a bowl, which has
hundred holes ?
Satish Verma
Put off the lantern.
I am waiting for the moon’s
primal face. The lesser flamingoes
were going to shed the pink color.
Nude as a python, the kiss
of pomegranates, kills by asphyxiation.
I suffer in the hands of protests.
The black ice now enters the eye of a needle.
A barefoot noun feeds the junta.
The butter babies will serve the poetry
of poor on the mats of principles.
I will remain unslept on straw.
A newspaper eats the story this side.
After the bloodbath surgeons weep.
An armless lover hugs a priest
for not calling the gods.
Satish Verma
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