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Branching, a thousand riversEmbracing sea, a silt addressGiven in montane tonguesBeing reimagined each bend,A script of motion and life,Fluttering, in motionTo 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 memoirsIn lakes cleaved off,Make portraits of sky shapes.The stone reduced to granules,Shingle beds, so much murk;And great glaciers, crumblingBeneath immense convections,Feed new birthWhich tells, with great gushOf the ages, as frost numbed,Of the mountain's secretsThat 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 oceanA gift of rejuvenation,From far away blizzard roosts.A script in shoals laced,A letter, in hope, in roarAnd in mangroves concluded,The mountain's gift,A flown poem.©trippy_potato
Froth of white, catching light,The spear tip, of seas arose,Struck with gale, pulling smellOf ocean salt, to gravel shores.Livid sparks, the leaping heartIn 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
In motion, all the gripping bondBy which hurled we, one another,Sculpting intent, a trickling of AprilThrough dry branches and vines;And afternoon stirs, nostalgia rustles:A past loathed to uncoil, hissing,Haze of remembrance, abstracting allThat has come and gone by.In moving as we tugged and tore,In that too was the need to graspTo repel again, forever seeking.April, all ferocious and tiring,Veiling crossed thresholdsIn 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 hazeOf sunlit marsh and cramped groveOn and on.And your sky, make it bleed,Make it bruise shut, April grindsTo bone and twig and dried worldsGiving to May the promise of rain.©trippy_potato
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' tintThe fruit to feed, the roots to grip The planes of ochre, in warmth, in trust,The forest blows tomorrow's pollen dust.©trippy_potato
Choice for whom?
A cloud in the sky, some fog swept dreamThe choice of land for the landless hand,Some taunting lure, a fruit scant reachedThe 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 gainFrom the toiling folk who thresh and sow.And the wealth of Earth, forever givingFor the price of toil, the transcendent act,Yet those who hope, for monsoon rainsAren'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
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 propsIn the pomp of script in gold inscribed:The popular masses, like the hand of GodWho have created, yet as tools described.
Trembles field, tremble woods,In humble green, ensemble-youth;The Bengal heat, long afternoonA cascade with shade and sun imbued.And contending step on rivers driedFinds 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 severedAll the decrepitude in fear reveredWith fear too is cast aside,One disruption's lull brings newer tideAnd summer sun, in scarlet dawn,O'er an aged stage, in act so drawnOut to beyond the eye's reach:Groves where first the masses seizedBe stage again, be home and power,Be prow to that which midnight scours.©trippy_potato
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 endsYet 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 clerksAnd all conveyers and sources of the world's riches,All in hope, crowded, irate, or heavy with dreadFor having given even hope, for sale.No leash with which to bind that good lifeTo 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
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 aloneLittle streams which trickle backTo 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 twigFrom 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 wishFrom the fading rest of all mundane cliches.©trippy_potato
Middle class fear
A muffler snug 'gainst the consuming cold,A tinted glass too smooth to hold,Some inches kept to keep at bayThe question that can come and mayIrk some calm, bring the winter in,With mud caked boots, with cry and grin,And one must then of course dispenseWith the clutter orderly of civil pretenseAnd 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 piquedInterest much more than the biting of galesAnd 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 islandTiny expectations of dignity, survival,And in appeals to vague ideals, and idols,Demands felt anger left idle,And in kneeling, one's own mufflerThe cruel noose becomes.©trippy_potato
Happy reading❤Thank you for Editor's Choice#8 @miraquillThank you for the ♡ @writersnetwork#bygone #wod #pod @miraquill @writersnetwork @writerstolli #miraquill #writersnetwork #truth #shewrites #poetry #dark
I’d prefer to live in a bygone era of Unsophisticated innocence. I’d prefer to live in a bygone era Where there was no ideology of ideal idleness. I’d prefer to live in a bygone era Where there was no sense of conscience, No ken of moral nous and no subtlety of civilization. I’d prefer to live in a bygone era Where there was just absolute tenet of tenacity as probity in every inch of milieu’s existentiality as of Mother Nature’s intrinsic innateness.©nirvanabharga0
#mirakee #writerschallenge #writersnetwork #ericandwe
I often contemplate glaciers. Miles wide, miles deep. The largest reserve of the substance that makes life possible and yet unable to truly sustain life themselves. If they were all the melt, it would destroy the world as we know it. Surrounded by salt water that would kill you to consume and yet contains most of the life on our planet.Sometimes its how I feel about loving you. Like I'm an ancient river, lifeless and useless made of needed substance that sinks and melts slowly into the body of the most perfect someone who has ever existed. My body so dense that my transparent exterior appears blue to the eye. I want to have value. Not just potential. I want to be beautiful for what I provide, not what I may represent.I want to do more than sit still.©ericandwe
I am the fall's music in winters silenceSear leaves in tarnished credenceAnd I'll read in the bleak mid-winter tooThe stories of the birds who flewBut how far do you think these birds fly?Switch countries or return as their children cry?©hallucination
I played amongst the mud,The inheritance of pauper's blood,Digging up a past of fools,So trodden down by servitude,Laid bare, those historic lies,That being poor, enriches lives,God saves, but man won't listen,Suffer still, his tortured children,These hands have grown, with time,But still can't hold a truth that's mine,Because we're steered away by greed,From what we always truly need,The trust of faith, our redemption,They won't teach you this lesson,That you're already bathed in love,And you're more than good enough.©foreverseptember
Woman Of Substance
You may feel that my subjects,Fall apart under the gaze,Of credulous scrutiny,My resolve never stays,But I'm a woman of substance,Though some days I resign,To my darker obsessions,That clutter my mind,And if you could see me,You'd wonder what you had found,Bearing no resemblance,In either vision, or sound,To the girl that you imagine,When you read all my words,It's only there I am perfect,Elsewhere I'm a creature, absurd.©foreverseptember
So much we place on the wealthy,As if to be so, must make you wise,Asking opinions of them, daily,As if they could enrich our lives,Having security, brought by money,Is the perfect dream for some,But there's no perfection anywhere,There's nothing new beneath the sun,We consider fortune heavenly,How their days must be so glad,Those who have no financial ties,Who can just ask, and they have,Their no different, only human,With the same outspoken flaws,It's only we, who forgive them all,For their slights, and pointless cause.©foreverseptember
And then there are some days when we are reminded of the blatant disguises we are. We sleep embracing the thought of never looking at ourselves again.Ofcourse we are forgetful and it's not as black and white, so we play with words and confide in nothing.
So, you better dress in lossand call that fading moon, your lovercause I hear they compare painsand only if your suffering outweighs theirsis when you earn a smile.Laying out confessions on a sheetnot knowing what color guilt is,leaves unfilled spacesin the canvas of righteousness.Even if you're sorry for the misspelled day,you might still be mimickinganother reflection of night.There's an ugliness to this perfectionof edgy dramaswhere we catch the visceral vibesthrough subverted empathyand tragedy is like the comedywe couldn't laugh at.©_transient
We Wait (So Long)
So long we wait, my friend,So long, and still we fight,Between these broken buildings,Fall so many, as a winter's night,Frozen in their final moments,Through gun sites, immortalised,The victims with their arms aloft,Seeing death, through sightless eyes,Stand strong yet, my friend,Stand strong, to face the coming storm,Burning black, those empty tanks,Hulls blown open, jaggered torn,Will God know us in our final footsteps, Running into flying steel?Or is ours the fate of far too many,With wounds too deep to ever heal?©foreverseptember
If this is a life that you're given,Then who made that final decision,That it was you who made the grade,To be put up front, centre stage?There's an audience of billions of others,All fighting themselves, to discover,That fate is as random as chance,And we're all maimed by our circumstance,If this is the only admission,One direction, one palpable vision,Then why is it we cling to superstition,Or conspiracies, like a religion?There's an empire of death, that awaits us,Whilst we sell ourselves for pieces of paper,Numbers, we've made perfect prisons,But, nobody thinks to ask why we're in them.©foreverseptember
Fungus wrapped wreaths,All green and dark grey,Slime covered bathroom,Nature made it that way,Roots put cracks in the ceiling,Twisted hard, through the wall,The long drop of silence,Has the answer for all,Double dipped pneumonia,In hacking bedrooms of filth,Stained mattress artwork,Draws the dank to its hilt,Rotting carpets glistened over,By slugs, courting webs,From the husks of old spiders,Who capture the blissfully dead.©foreverseptember