Poetry by Brendan Tripp
IN SUBSTANCE OF DELAY
- against every tide and every dragging flow in
strange stasis active frantic in this placement run
against destruction the sudden wave of death which
hovers as a storm front on horizons of the mind
we lose all contact with the nature of the world it passes on around us and we grow unnoticed invisible, not clear somehow out of synch in time where nothing enters and nothing issues forth
locked within our madness the goal is always there we forget the pathways but drive our legs with need for reaching that pure context beyond the shackles of the "real" and the heavy chains of self which weigh us on this plane
too many doors surround days turn to switching points the platform spins and we know not where these vectors lead; seeking to blur out the core to touch all frames at once we burst apart and die
a drift enfolds as sleep a faintly hued mist grey which presses softness in and smooths out every pole till all is one and all is gone without differentiation lost within some void
PLACEMENTS OF THE VERGE
- at the doorway to the night standing dark
starlight lit
at the crumbled edge of space staring sharply to cut the mist
at the endless maw of time span the chasm without sight
at the open vault of sin none is left there none remains
at the window of the glade we reach for gardens that recede
at the darkness which intrudes we open portals streaming light
at the congress of the blind we scream out reason and see what stirs
at the rending of the veil what hasn't fallen what stays behind?
at the closing the end of days have we a structure a way to file?
at the final elapsing clue we're left with questing none to find
NORTH - SEVEN
- so much falls away that we doubt there's any left
returns are met with chaos crushing fragile dreams
not able yet to stand against such brutal force
memory does not suffice we are broken in too many parts never to be whole there is no healing what has been hurt
abysses beckon we grow so ill transfixed upon these depths and on the odds of failure nothing works no more and there is no retreat
everything that has been done fades away all that's built crumbles down all we need dissolves in killer tides
the thought of doom the sense of curse wells up again in life we are exiled driven out of all things once our own
no one will save no one will cure no one will aid us in our dark we wait in caverns biding whiteness on our bones
IN MAGNITUDES OF LINES
- so many tides pull at the core we are spun within
a web of intersecting orbits which twist in subtle
force against the fibers of the soul tearing us apart
where no one else might see
every path leads off without a hint to where each direction has a pull undifferentiated we stand at center zones and are buffeted by swells in this ebb and flow of leading that drags beneath the veil
we search through varied planes but find nothing that would tell which avenue should bear us on to final goals sensed distant held afar calling weakly past the rest in plaintive aching strains
no focus in we eat time's dust lost within the wake of events now roaring past we stand alone like roadways in the desert stuck without a ride footsore in hard sun
so many myths approach to beg us for desire so many lies are told expecting we'd believe the map is shifting swimming in our hands we can not read this or follow these beyond
TO FAIL, TO DIE
- taken away torn asunder ripped to shreds cast to
wind
it is error and collapse it is weight beneath the waves
who will know, who will answer? these are passed within the night
strive so hard nothing builds blast the walls no escape
older dreams remain the key nothing moves beyond this cage
chains are found in subtle shadow the light shines through and still they bind
huge wheels turn rusted cycles made of stone and stained by age
blood is spilled years progress what is changed in any day?
we stand now upon this scaffold targeted by every hand
Brendan Tripp is the author of several books of poetry and is the founder of Eschaton Productions.
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