BTRIPP (btripp) wrote,

EIGHT more poems ... and we're done with that notebook!

Yes, with this batch the recent onslaught of old poems is over! I can hear rejoicing in the virtual streets ... not that anybody was bothering to actually read any of them ... you're just happy that these strange stacks of LJ-cuts are going to quit showing up in your Friends view. Anyway ... here they are:

                    EMPTY SPACES SET ASIDE

                    presented with a stance
                    we can only follow through
                    on what we can;
                    systems falter,
                    subsets decay,
                    leaving nothing
                    within the frame

                    some days the voices
                    take command,
                    we only step aside
                    and listen to the call,
                    and yet we fear this
                    as slippage too,
                    not having function,
                    much less control

                    everything this is
                    devolves into
                    empty spaces set aside
                    by hands uncaring,
                    senses of division
                    far too callous
                    to be allowed
                    the sorting role

                    the fabric of delusion
                    stretches taut,
                    covering the hours
                    with insane patterns;
                    none venture deeper
                    nor dig beneath
                    to feel the substance
                    below facades

                    we are driven on
                    without remorse,
                    the hand that strikes
                    has no regard
                    for any in our state;
                    our world has crumbled,
                    crushed under the wheels
                    of the juggernaut mundane

                             - Brendan Tripp

                    Copyright © 2003 by Brendan Tripp

... that's forty ...

                    ACROSS THE ABYSMAL DIVIDE

                    darkness is the issue
                    within the spark,
                    it feeds polarities
                    without demise
                    and sustains the madness
                    on which the web is raised,
                    driven ever forward
                    somehow without goal

                    no semblance has this
                    within the world,
                    no equal seen
                    in other guise,
                    no shadowed function
                    loosed within its frame
                    to murken waters
                    or becloud the mind

                    we have reached across
                    the abysmal divide
                    and touched the beings
                    found residing there,
                    we have journeyed
                    through ice and desert,
                    over mountains
                    and through the jungle heat

                    yet in this dim zone
                    none know the tale,
                    none have records
                    which would define the age;
                    the masses sleep,
                    lulled to dullness
                    by insipid fools
                    who would pretend to lead

                    ours is not
                    the common road,
                    our vision seethes
                    in realms beyond
                    the mundane muddle,
                    so hateful and hated,
                    this place so bound
                    by chains of faith

                             - Brendan Tripp

                    Copyright © 2003 by Brendan Tripp

... that's fortyone ...

                    SECRETS UNSPEAKABLY DIRE

                    formed of disparate legions,
                    encapsulated in the mass,
                    the travelers encounter
                    distant mystic lines;
                    forgetting's fog descending
                    without a zephyr's hand
                    to sweep away the cobwebs
                    and establish solid stance
                    enter the edifice
                    of the ancient abode,
                    destroy the seals
                    preserving the keep,
                    shatter the braces
                    supporting the crypt,
                    and exit with secrets
                    unspeakably dire
                    the ailing king alights
                    to move among the mass,
                    his vibration blurs
                    amid the tumult;
                    will the raptors find him
                    cloaked in sullen grey?
                    which facade survives this,
                    the golden or the lead?
                    not at one, you know,
                    nor united,
                    divergent threads
                    weave unwhole cloth;
                    unseen directors
                    guide the loom,
                    designing the seams
                    which leak the darkness
                    who becomes the balance
                    and marks the fulcrum point?
                    the matrix is too fluid
                    to predict where things will set,
                    kaleidoscopic shifting
                    complexifies the web
                    so none may know this
                    until it is too late

                             - Brendan Tripp

                    Copyright © 2003 by Brendan Tripp

... that's fortytwo ...

                    WARPED TUMBLES OF DECAY

                    it is not
                    the elemental spin
                    which twists the lines,
                    it is dark gravities
                    whose unsuspected sway
                    drags all things down
                    in spirals of descending,
                    warped tumbles of decay

                    separate portions,
                    yet are aligned
                    for those whose vision
                    eclipses the plain;
                    do you desire this?
                    do you aspire
                    to wider views
                    and unseen skies?

                    such is not given
                    freely or easy,
                    these modes must be won
                    in conflict's melee,
                    wrested from keepers
                    unyielding and dire,
                    uncaring of how
                    sincere is the need

                    now in desperation,
                    the basic form
                    shaped by absence,
                    maimed by poisons,
                    we lose the touch
                    and must revert
                    to ancient modes,
                    familiar memes

                    pulled along
                    in chaos wakes
                    we lose distinction
                    become too vague;
                    no paths abut this,
                    no means of transit,
                    only vectors leading
                    into the grey

                             - Brendan Tripp

                    Copyright © 2003 by Brendan Tripp

... that's fortythree ...

                    DELUGED BY DOUBT AND DREAD

                    these battles intrude
                    in the saner sense,
                    we can not fend off
                    the sweeping fear;
                    we are deluged
                    by doubt and dread,
                    dragged down by currents,
                    unable to breathe

                    wires are crossed
                    frames mis-set
                    no context flows
                    but jumps between
                    points of being,
                    focus zones,
                    realms of voices
                    and the pits of pain

                    days become trials,
                    rollercoaster rushes
                    of terror, angst,
                    and vectored drives
                    now crossing time;
                    no one sees
                    the motion here,
                    we suffer it alone

                    blocks have fallen
                    out of our day,
                    they stand defiant
                    towards all intent,
                    crushing the ancient
                    and tainting tomorrow;
                    no one can predict
                    the next onslaught

                    we must regroup here
                    to deal with death,
                    no plans bear fruit
                    where the reaper waits;
                    we feel the fingers
                    bony, sharp and cold,
                    tracing incantations
                    on the hairs behind our neck

                             - Brendan Tripp

                    Copyright © 2003 by Brendan Tripp

... that's fortyfour ...

                    INTO MISTS THESE DREAMS

                    nothing entwines
                    minus dark current,
                    nothing impedes
                    like insanity's web,
                    nothing decays
                    the impact of intent
                    like the sleep of the mass
                    and the weight of belief

                    so much becomes
                    transparent here
                    as into mists
                    these dreams dissolve,
                    veils removing
                    their occlusion,
                    mirages fading
                    before our eyes

                    no stance remains
                    from that connection,
                    too many truths
                    are now aligned
                    to give false words
                    any credence,
                    to mesh with daytime
                    when geared for night

                    battles form
                    amid the dark,
                    they set their lines
                    on ancient rifts,
                    seeking dominion
                    over the now
                    and history for
                    the future day

                    lost we are,
                    cast to conflict
                    yet unable to compete
                    or to flee the game,
                    in dark distress
                    we ride the stormfront
                    churned through chaos
                    and thrown to the abyss

                             - Brendan Tripp

                    Copyright © 2003 by Brendan Tripp

... that's fortyfive ...

                    CHASMS OF PERCEPTION

                    too many channels,
                    none provide
                    clear signal,
                    we flit between
                    static-cloaked words
                    unable to cull
                    definitive lines
                    from any voice

                    one-time connections
                    fail us today,
                    we spin the dial
                    in frantic searches
                    for the arcane phrase,
                    for that stance beyond
                    which lifts away
                    from ruts and mire

                    too deep our descent,
                    even these wisps
                    of other worlds
                    can't be obtained here,
                    we slide again
                    into old modes,
                    unable to attain
                    that outer reach

                    broken from context,
                    set within senses
                    evoking a past
                    long gone, near forgotten,
                    how can we shift
                    so far apart
                    on hints in the air,
                    echoes in the mind?

                    the self, subdivided,
                    is unable to span
                    these chasms of perception,
                    we are strewn in
                    our various isolations
                    and find no method
                    to reunite
                    and return to one

                             - Brendan Tripp

                    Copyright © 2003 by Brendan Tripp

... that's fortysix ...

                    THE MARK OF THIS DESCENT

                    massive levels of decay,
                    reason is unseen here,
                    purpose falters, fails;
                    we take up masks
                    to hide our bile,
                    but these dissolve
                    at the moment of attack,
                    leaving us naked, prey
                    torn across time,
                    battered by hours,
                    denied all rest;
                    always behind,
                    dancing on the edge
                    of the abyss
                    where failure waits
                    with eager maw
                    dark forces' sway
                    drags currents down,
                    we are ensnared
                    and have no escape;
                    within and without
                    all is tainted,
                    all bears the mark
                    of this descent
                    stunned, mid-flow,
                    we face an absence
                    unexpected. unforetold;
                    how to reach
                    back through the ages
                    to find a contact,
                    a point of synch
                    to make this whole?
                    ripples spread,
                    waves transmit,
                    a vector forms
                    out of the haze;
                    in this only seeking closure
                    in the warp of history,
                    unsuspecting what might be
                    emerging from the dark

                             - Brendan Tripp

                    Copyright © 2003 by Brendan Tripp

... and that's fortyseven, and we're done!

Just in case you're wondering, there are 48 pages in each little note book, but I typically used the last page for notes and phone numbers, etc. (and glued in a small calendar inside the back cover) so they all have a max of 47 poems.

I actually sort of feel bad about "dumping" all of these out like this ... "back in the day", when I was putting out a "chapbook" collection every couple of years, I'd only really be "showing" about 1 in 10 poems. Back then I wrote 250 poems a year, so over 2 years I'd have 500 poems, from which I'd pick what I considered to be the best 50, and put those out in a 52-page book (title page, copyright page, and 50 poems), so a lot of the "dross" was not getting wide circulation. Just in the interest of completeness (and copyright), I also did a comb-bound annual book which had all 250 poems, but I typically only made up a dozen or so copies of that, with two copies going to the Library of Congress, a couple going into my files, and the rest going out as Xmas presents to a select group of friends and relatives. I have considered doing something like that via LuLu ... not that anybody would buy an annual collection, but it would nice having the more recent stuff out in non-virtual form!

Visit the BTRIPP home page!

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