trippy_potato

I just post watever I can think up. feel free to read and support ( i delete posts sometimes)

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  • trippy_potato 1w

    Rivers

    Branching, a thousand rivers
    Embracing sea, a silt address
    Given in montane tongues
    Being reimagined each bend,
    A script of motion and life,
    Fluttering, in motion
    To attain fickle constancy.

    The image of the mountain,
    Made poem, so grime soaked;
    Syllables the swaying steppes,
    Veering off into forest tropes,
    And valley lows, the ethos,
    The punctuation of gorges;
    The lingering memoirs
    In lakes cleaved off,
    Make portraits of sky shapes.

    The stone reduced to granules,
    Shingle beds, so much murk;
    And great glaciers, crumbling
    Beneath immense convections,
    Feed new birth
    Which tells, with great gush
    Of the ages, as frost numbed,
    Of the mountain's secrets
    That accrues in gold crumbs.

    And accrues more, life source,
    The great height, so low laid,
    Its soul speaks, in spring ease,
    In the bounties of fields laid;
    And the riverine poem,
    Being sung onto great ocean
    A gift of rejuvenation,
    From far away blizzard roosts.

    A script in shoals laced,
    A letter, in hope, in roar
    And in mangroves concluded,
    The mountain's gift,
    A flown poem.

    ©trippy_potato

  • trippy_potato 2w

    Froth of white, catching light,
    The spear tip, of seas arose,
    Struck with gale, pulling smell
    Of ocean salt, to gravel shores.
    Livid sparks, the leaping heart
    In greatest leap, flees lithic holds,
    Stirred palms, the rubble marked,
    Is telling way to the bathing soul.
    And naked thoughts, in ocean lave,
    By current caught, being forever pried,
    Has sought no more, than snaking shore,
    In summer hot, by palm thickets spined.
    And one and two, two leaping trails,
    'tween green and tides, like weaving vines;
    A love like shells, in a smatter strewn,
    To and fro 'tween shade and shine.
    And seeking nothing, but respite some more,
    No more afflicted, than by rhythm waves,
    A wane and wax, this ebb and flow,
    And sea-borne curios for the rest of days.

    ©trippy_potato

  • trippy_potato 3w

    In motion, all the gripping bond
    By which hurled we, one another,
    Sculpting intent, a trickling of April
    Through dry branches and vines;
    And afternoon stirs, nostalgia rustles:
    A past loathed to uncoil, hissing,
    Haze of remembrance, abstracting all
    That has come and gone by.

    In moving as we tugged and tore,
    In that too was the need to grasp
    To repel again, forever seeking.
    April, all ferocious and tiring,
    Veiling crossed thresholds
    In the greenery of meeting and adieux,
    And opening way onto greater summer.

    And in halting now, tired of noon,
    Crawling breeze, warm breath,
    I look one way, and you another,
    I backward, you to sky: cloudless.
    Abstracting beams, leave it a haze
    Of sunlit marsh and cramped grove
    On and on.
    And your sky, make it bleed,
    Make it bruise shut, April grinds
    To bone and twig and dried worlds
    Giving to May the promise of rain.

    ©trippy_potato

  • trippy_potato 3w

    Developing.

    Whorls of yellow, blossoms curled,
    From night's shadows, suns unfurled,
    And unfurling has made it glow,
    Has given womb to what never show'd;
    Nor had then the flowers' tint
    The fruit to feed, the roots to grip
    The planes of ochre, in warmth, in trust,
    The forest blows tomorrow's pollen dust.

    ©trippy_potato

  • trippy_potato 4w

    Choice for whom?

    A cloud in the sky, some fog swept dream
    The choice of land for the landless hand,
    Some taunting lure, a fruit scant reached
    The choice to live for indebted man.
    And choice expended, for those with grain,
    Storage and whip to keep it stored,
    The lords of land may choose and gain
    From the toiling folk who thresh and sow.
    And the wealth of Earth, forever giving
    For the price of toil, the transcendent act,
    Yet those who hope, for monsoon rains
    Aren't those with ample, worthwhile tracts.

    Choice then seems, some insult to me,
    A promise made, yet no fruition,
    The choice for all, to avail it seems,
    The choice of the few needs expropriation.

    ©trippy_potato

  • trippy_potato 5w

    History blows, this grating wind,
    Over heaped mounds, by tallest peaks;
    Over the scare crows, the hovel rows,
    History buries, and digs up too deeds.
    And makers of times, so oft made props
    In the pomp of script in gold inscribed:
    The popular masses, like the hand of God
    Who have created, yet as tools described.

  • trippy_potato 6w

    Welcome brave

    Trembles field, tremble woods,
    In humble green, ensemble-youth;
    The Bengal heat, long afternoon
    A cascade with shade and sun imbued.
    And contending step on rivers dried
    Finds autumns shed on timid tries,
    And mulls it over, learns its notes,
    Its stories that its crackle holds.
    Yet not quick, the tigress' tread,
    The tigress which stalks that right to bread,
    And dares gore with claws of steel,
    Strength such that barrens/barrons bleed,
    And flow of life, that rivers blooms,
    Where claws rake, there green resumes;
    And glows red the vein in wrath severed
    All the decrepitude in fear revered
    With fear too is cast aside,
    One disruption's lull brings newer tide
    And summer sun, in scarlet dawn,
    O'er an aged stage, in act so drawn
    Out to beyond the eye's reach:
    Groves where first the masses seized
    Be stage again, be home and power,
    Be prow to that which midnight scours.

    ©trippy_potato

  • trippy_potato 7w

    Market forces

    In silence, this eternal plying,
    No bottom too low, this slipping climb;
    A barrage of darkness, the reality of hunger,
    A hounding uncertainty forever on and on.
    In silence, another day, pulling at ends
    Yet seldom they meet, want and need-
    In the trying it melts, a service, given or taken,
    Into one hubbub of toil; and justice? A dream.

    Goes the train, with hawkers and clerks
    And all conveyers and sources of the world's riches,
    All in hope, crowded, irate, or heavy with dread
    For having given even hope, for sale.
    No leash with which to bind that good life
    To one's calloused hands, the shredded throat,
    The ebbing sight....
    All this service, taken more so than needed,
    Is speculated away from them by more jewelled hands.
    And the tiredness, in thought permeates,
    When a step-up is over another's head,
    An escape, or entry is to be jostled for, before departure, again.
    Uncertainty sinks its venom'd fangs,
    Direction is withered by a thousand cuts,
    And before one knows of the horizon,
    One is moving to the market place,
    A product of History, on sale, this wealth of mind and sinew, ripe for industry to pluck away.

    ©trippy_potato

  • trippy_potato 8w

    You, among all desires.

    The ocean, can it write to you,
    In tapestries of spotted shells?
    In motion, can it confide in you,
    What it held in anchored depth?
    By shore silts, do you see alone
    Little streams which trickle back
    To saline depth, this maligned wish,
    In wanting spurred, by fate retracts.
    And infer some, that ruin's pain,
    In which some love I tethered mine,
    The taut sail which went in hope,
    But in tumult of dread which bottom lines.

    Could seagull flocks take the blemished twig
    From dying depth to distant shores,
    To leave some withered rust,
    A shrivelled dream,
    Of tropic reds now seed alone.
    Could my letter, ever reach,
    Across this gulf, this mozaic of waves;
    Could the wind, parse for you my wish
    From the fading rest of all mundane cliches.

    ©trippy_potato

  • trippy_potato 8w

    Middle class fear

    A muffler snug 'gainst the consuming cold,
    A tinted glass too smooth to hold,
    Some inches kept to keep at bay
    The question that can come and may
    Irk some calm, bring the winter in,
    With mud caked boots, with cry and grin,
    And one must then of course dispense
    With the clutter orderly of civil pretense
    And realise the empty in satins cloaked;
    The walls of hollow, to remain asleep, evoked.
    But sometimes the glass is tinted too thick,
    Sometimes perhaps that comfort has piqued
    Interest much more than the biting of gales
    And all that uprooting that justness entails,
    But come what may pass, in open, in glass,
    The worst of winter comes calling at last;
    And takes even this one's island
    Tiny expectations of dignity, survival,
    And in appeals to vague ideals, and idols,
    Demands felt anger left idle,
    And in kneeling, one's own muffler
    The cruel noose becomes.

    ©trippy_potato