BTRIPP (btripp) wrote,

More, more, I'm still not satisfied!

Oh, now this was interesting ... I used to write in the late afternoon when I was in the P.R. biz (usually the last thing I did before leaving the office was write my poem for the day), and I used to write late at night after that (usually fighting sleep). The following just sort of spurted out around lunch time today ... a very unusual time for me to be writing!

Got one other poetry-oriented thing done today ... I have been looking all over for these little tiny notebooks I used to get ... they were about the size of a business card, staple-bound through the spine, with "leatherette" covers. I loved those since they could go in ANY pocket and not be a bother ... all the notebooks I've been able to find at at least twice the size, and most of them have spiral bindings on them (oh, yeah, that's real comfy to carry around). Well, I had the big DOH! realization that I have a paper cutter, I have a saddle stitcher, I can fold paper, so all I needed was supplies. About $3.50 and an hour later I had sixteen nice little 48-page 4.25" x 2.75" grid-lined notebooks! Now I will always be ready to catch those ephemeral bits of brilliant phraseology that might otherwise slip back into the aether.

Anyhoo ... here's today's poem:

                    ONCE MORE THE MAGE

                    sought out
                    the missing acts
                    the absent tools
                    the unlearned stance
                    sought within
                    to realign
                    to form again
                    what's left behind

                    our systems falter
                    go for naught
                    amid the struggle
                    and our search
                    too many markers
                    stand amid
                    the swirling chaos
                    and draw at once

                    this dissolves
                    the focused self;
                    these vectors drag
                    at anchor points
                    shifting, distorting,
                    making unwhole,
                    topographies melt
                    and subdivide

                    in this corruption
                    invokes the storm
                    speaking words
                    unheard through wind
                    yet uttered still
                    upon the planes
                    where power bides
                    awaiting call

                    then the wielding
                    the gestures made
                    as all returns
                    and snaps the lines
                    out of the past
                    sweeping clear
                    the madness
                    and the empty age

                             - Brendan Tripp

                    Copyright © 2000 by Brendan Tripp

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