BTRIPP (btripp) wrote,
BTRIPP
btripp

Another poem, another reading ...

Still working through those last few poems from 2004 ...


                    TOO MUCH GONE WRONG


                    1
                    unexpected loss
                    falls into an absence
                    which we can't defray;
                    intent falters
                    beneath the blows
                    of these inabilities
                    and the mass
                    of too much gone wrong
                    2
                    only portions bide
                    against the dark,
                    we are scattered, shattered,
                    splintered and unwhole,
                    yet we continue,
                    flesh on vectors,
                    far from oblivion
                    no matter the decay
                    3
                    we watch the cycles
                    of the aeon
                    as they spiral,
                    sink and spin,
                    tornadic flowings
                    into depths,
                    the downward focus
                    of the age
                    4
                    seconds into minutes,
                    minutes into hours,
                    hours into days,
                    days into weeks,
                    weeks into months,
                    months into years,
                    each collects corruption
                    and accumulated pain
                    5
                    nothing good, then
                    is unveiled
                    with each dawning,
                    each newborn day,
                    just survival
                    and sensate input,
                    more despairing
                    and crueler ache


                             - Brendan Tripp
                                09/27/2004

                    Copyright © 2004 by Brendan Tripp
 
 




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I actually have sort of been intending to have some new stuff for y'all ... I mean, I've stuck a spare piece of paper in my pocket when heading out the past few days, but have never quite hit that "itch" to write, so you'll just have to deal with "old" stuff for the moment. (sigh) Back in the day when I was writing 250 poems a year, I was driven about writing (OK, maybe "obsessive" is a better word) ... I feel like such a slug under the new "who cares if I write?" mind-set!


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