BTRIPP (btripp) wrote,

... and more ...

(sigh) ... Part of the problem with the "mood" of these poems is, I'm sure, due to my writing more in the early morning. I have never been a "morning person" and my current schedule which involves my waking up at the same time that I had been going to bed for the past 8 years has not helped. I've been finding that the time I have to write these days typically involves waiting for the bus and riding on the bus to and from school and going up to pick up The Girls from daycare. I guess the mornings are the worst time of day for me, since everything looks so damned depressing then ... by mid-day I've typically gotten caught up in whatever I'm doing and I fall into the illusion that stuff isn't as dire as it looks first thing in the morning. Anyway ... here's another lovely little poem ...

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                    THE ALWAYS CROOKED GAME

                    each new day
                    crashes in
                    with fresh foreboding,
                    its own brand of doom;
                    we can not take
                    advantage of the dawn
                    when the gallows
                    say it's hanging day

                    every factor
                    of that outside world
                    builds up the weight,
                    we are but ants
                    before its blindness
                    which drops upon us
                    grains of sand
                    which strike as boulders

                    so much dread,
                    so much terror,
                    we have fought the grey
                    for decades now
                    and can show nothing
                    for our efforts,
                    no gain attained,
                    no mark on history

                    what remains for us?
                    is there a tomorrow
                    of drastic change,
                    an unsuspected doorway
                    which opens into light?
                    or will there be more failure,
                    another length of chain
                    to drag on through the gloom?

                    what use is struggle
                    against the mundane pall?
                    their game is crooked,
                    stacked against us,
                    with odds too great
                    to tempt the play;
                    we've grow so weary here,
                    near unable to go on

                             - Brendan Tripp

                    Copyright © 2002 by Brendan Tripp

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