I met a boy, a man, a friend;
I knew his face but not his name.
I recognized his eyes;
the man behind the clown.
The clown gave me a heart balloon.
The man gave me his name.
He gave me his love.
His life.
His happy.
I gave him my heart, my soul, my days.
He didn’t guarantee the balloon wouldn’t pop
or that it wouldn’t deflate.
But it didn’t.
Our eyes made promises,
our touch fulfilled them.
It was poetic, romantic, a dream.
We flew, cushioned on its magical air.
We soared through trees and bounced on clouds.
We found rainbows, we saw sunsets.
On the grass, the sand, the rocks -
in the skies and deep underground.
We created a fantasy, a fairytale,
an Us.
A We.
Our heart started beating.
Love.
All from one heart balloon.
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ON THE NAME OF ……………….
By: Satish Verma | 08/12/2009only the half-truths engage the nightfall the thing of dawn asked to wait in pouring blows sponsored by sin of brutal torture burning the genitals pushing sand in mouth blood rimmed stool I become you sit on eat your dinner howling the election time you come hands folded me a hummingbird suspended in air
INNER VOICES
By: Satish Verma | 08/12/2009traveling backward in dark to meet my father I held the hands of my grandchild
SANDPAPER
By: Satish Verma | 08/12/2009let me start a * bid for the right to light the pyre of the bond; who would not believe, the benign bony fingers had written off the desires
HALF-CLOSED LIDS
By: Satish Verma | 06/12/2009This nothingness was overwhelming. When words fail to tell the facts, only silence talks.
MOLTEN TEARS
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IN REVERSE
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DARK PRISON
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HAND GLOVES
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Love Floating. Love Fragile
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2,991 Days our Lives Changed Forever
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Reflections on Being Fired
By: Galina Nemirovsky | 10/12/2008 | CareersI was walking near Lincoln Center about a week after I got fired. The weather was glorious and I felt like every breath I took brought me higher and higher. I wanted to hug everyone harder and harder. I had a glow. I was in love with every morsel of life and I finally had time to taste every bite. My six-year-old son and I were skipping down the Upper West Side when I noticed a familiar face walking beside me. It was Mr. G, a seasoned weatherman (couldn’t resist the pun). I don’t watch the weat
How Old is Old?
By: Galina Nemirovsky | 01/12/2008 | Home & Family"How old are you mommy,” my six-year-old asked me recently. I’ve told him before but it must have been in another context. He’s asking for another reason. I’m not sure why. “34,” I answer. “That’s old,” he says.