Posts tagged ‘poetry from voices’

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



Your desk is scattered with fragments
of half-finished poems and ‘novels-in-progress,’
the burnt-out
butts of smoky days, you cough
almost constantly it seems

you have half-a-hundred letters
to a former lover you haven’t seen
in a year or two (you don’t quite remember, honestly,
how long

it’s been: once you could count
the days): scattered books
clutter your soul, your rooms:
but, though you’re occasionally

tempted to self-pity: still
loneliness is far more bearable
than having to bear
company (or so you tell yourself).

Still: at times, in ways,
it would be nice: to tie some knots, finish a poem or
novel or two:
to clear this endless clutter.


I wonder why I titled the folder for this (computer folder, inside a folder [etc.] used for organizational purposes)…self-betrayal.

October 23, 2017 at 2:58 pm Leave a comment



I have so often
reached for your image,
like some child
for a candle’s flame…

But as i suck
my scorched fingers, i
find myself reaching
yet again.


October 21, 2017 at 2:15 pm Leave a comment

sudden wisdom

sudden wisdom

having thought, far too often
to love or know or understand
to name, to limit

confronted by the thought
of you, i’ve no response.


Very, very occasionally I think I approach what I mean.  But then that may well be sheer self-illusionment.


October 18, 2017 at 6:14 pm Leave a comment

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