some flights

some flights

in this silent, ending
moment, i survey
your scar-marked passage
through and past me
and wonder where
the meaning’s gone.

i’ve kissed the blade,
i’ve tasted blood, made
my last sacrifice
to the image
i made of you;
i can make no more.

you heard my song
my touch unfelt,
my name unknown…
i can make no answer
to the wind, the rain–
nor you.

i bend, pick up a stone
and throw it
i do not see
it land, nor care to:
i only wanted


Allegory or not it’s also true.  Pardon me, “true”.

January 7, 2018 at 6:34 pm Leave a comment

perception and preception


caught in a sudden moment
like some feather’s
paused flight, or an amber-
trapped fly
for one moment, passionless, you merely

perceive her and yourself. in some ways
you know the woman well: the pouting
curve of lip when she concentrates
on a book, or perhaps one of your
poems, or rambling letters: that breathy high
chuckle, which still strikes
your heart’s strings…as if she were

some sounding strum on soul’s lute,
or were desire’s summing…

have thought, i say, to know her
(and yet guessed
that lurking stranger, hidden
‘neath the skin)
and been astounded by a revelation
of the image’s illusiveness, Maya slyly for one
moment removing

the mask, the lent facade…

but then knowing your folly
you recoil from the knowledge,
and hide it away again, returning
to that dear stranger, your lover.


I haven’t modified this, although the main presumptions are both banal and egocentric.  The writer ‘perceives [his] self’, with the presumption that it’s rarely true especially but for the writer it’s simply evident that he can examine his self dispassionately while busily engaged in proving the reverse–unless the abstraction per se lends truth.

In retrospect this is written by someone totally self-absorbed, to the extent that his feelings are (literally) absolutely correct.  There’s no trace of even an attempt to understand what she feels or thinks; the thoughts and even the passion he feels is generated by her, and not his perception of her.

January 2, 2018 at 7:12 pm Leave a comment

A Short Note

During this month, my computer network was attacked once (didn’t work) and Lastpass was attacked, which lost most of my passwords that were recorded only online.  Someone was apparently in the feedback loop for resurrecting an account the password of which was lost.  [Oddly enough, new procedure.]  I could not find a way to consistently stay on and there was evidence that someone else had accessed only some of my info=wipe out ALL of it and recover later.  I’ll let you do your own research on what recently happened with Lastpass.


Anyway, I’m recovering.  I haven’t found anything as yet to replace it.  Combine this with sickness, being transport for someone for a few weeks [and having someone charge me for over $500, with “WordPress” in the heading of the entity that charged me.  I have a $99/yr contract.  I contacted WordPress and…it was an invalid charge.  The heading was ‘EIG’.  Moral of the story, make sure you check your charges.  Whoever EIG  was, I couldn’t understand their accents (I was a child and adult in the Far East, so that’s actually pretty unusual) but they paid the money back.

December 17, 2017 at 1:11 pm Leave a comment

false perspectives

false perspectives

i have known ire,
and its following rue.
i have known passion
–and its waning.

i have felt what i knew
as love, and known the bitter

known, too,
unknowledge. (at times words
can’t suffice.)

wisdom is not
necessarily joyful.

–your fleeting touch
and the fleeting yet undying

pain which followed.
(but if the antithesis
isn’t followed by
synthesis?) these patterns
form no clear mark
nor line: there is

no staying point.
(standing on a hill once
i thought to know
the world.) false perspectives


Very true and more painful than said here.


December 3, 2017 at 6:08 pm Leave a comment

A Brief Note and a Poem

Sorry, I’ve been out of touch and nearly writing nothing because I was busy with other things ranging from car breakdowns (just now recurring) to a problem with the heat, to frantically searching for various documents.  Right now I got side-tracked by yet another problem, so let me see here…





i have too often,
i must confess, been bewitched
by these shapely sways
and flowing falls
of shining hair; by

the graceful allurement
of eyes, hands, hips
and breasts: have
too often longed
to touch, unmoving…

these lines have captured
my life and meaning.
i have dreamed, to be sure,
at times, of freedom. but
it lies around

the next corner, after
the next line…knowledge
cannot free. I do not know
what can.


dedicated to John Fowles
*’freedom’ in Greek—from The Magus


This was shortly after my return from the Navy, just after the very end of the evacuation of Vietnam (the last Marines were airlifted from the embassy rooftop).  I yet reel from the things that were virtually inescapably fascinating and terrible at the same time.

December 1, 2017 at 5:52 pm Leave a comment



no, i really don’t
feel old. the years
have merely slipped away.
to youth’s eyes, i know, i’m only
an old woman, beyond desire,
weathered like some limb
or dusty brick; youth
is short and years
are hard.

and no, really,
i would not untrace years’
markings from face and body. these
are honorable scars. time
levels; life erects.
(i still stand erect)

these years have merely
been years, their shape
remembered my making,
my name
writ large in every action.
each step goes only
toward darkness
or the light, and all steps must
form a path.

grown old and somewhat
withered, i still
am two, fifteen, and thirty…
a multitude with one
face, one voice, one body.

and let there be no
quiet pity.
years are merely


Written when I was…15.

I had vanishingly little resemblance to my peers in my teenage years.

October 30, 2017 at 2:19 pm Leave a comment

The Final and Absolute TRUTH

The Final and Absolute TRUTH

In the spring of that year
we journeyed to hear
the great one’s song.
Many miles and desolate…
three died, on the way.
(We placed crude crosses
on their graves.
We crossed their arms.
We did not mourn,
nor speak.)

And freeway became
hiway became
road became…
potholes and dirt, horses…
on our way to the mountain,
on the way
to the Enlightened.

The journey
changed us.
I must admit.
become more grim-
set, stride
more unpausing…

In light must
always die…
night’s masks
aren’t morning’s, nor is truth
the drunkard’s cry.

…We strode on.
Ten thousand passers-by, ten
thousand strangers, faces
glimpsed and then


We left
the cities, their lands,
their people.
became crooked, perspectives
shortened, half

(Our feet became
We spoke little.
were for other times
and others’ truths.


When we arrived
we stood before him
speechless, joined
in his laughter
merely, and then

We would
our peoples, lead
them to
the sky.

…Excuse my straightjacket.
think i’m


Yet another draft which apparently has gone unpublished for about 4 months or more.  Being a Windows Insider on the Fast Track can make things quite interesting; perhaps I shouldn’t have selected my primary production machine for beta testing, but it’s fast and generally doesn’t affect core programming (as in IO).  This bore the mark of being interrupted by a critical update.  Whatever.  It was intended to laud the coronation of King Trump.

October 23, 2017 at 3:19 pm Leave a comment

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