D A Phinney
Biography of D A Phinney
Computer Network Security expert, living in VA.
D A Phinney's Works:
The Vile, a novel
D A Phinney Poems
I gave up writing, laid the pen aside; I put away philosophy and doubt; Scorned religion, passion's fire gone proud; Bagged all logic up and threw it out.
How he made her angry Was not how the story's fashioned Things are never as they seem The realest is most imagined
Now there are several dimensions to love; Seeing's inadequate, too much is missed. If only seeing were needed to prove, Eyes would be open and light would be kissed.
The Cost Of Every Tear You Shed
The cost of every tear you shed Was dearer than my wounded heart could hold. To keep alive what should be dead
Come with me Let us meet in transcendence Let us move up the spiral in a transcendent dance Feel the serpentine energy take us in a synaptic leap
L&O Svu: 'The Bouquet'
Violets are blue. Roses? Just dead. Our side glances ask: which heart came out ahead? And the wet morning mist somehow amps up the tone
If you could go back and start all over How much would you change and how much would you keep How much would you trade of what you are For what you could have been
Fear is the night enveloping our souls We light a billion candle watts to display our courage We travel from enclave to enclave Pretending we are the Sun's children
Lying in bed I sing slow songs into the microphone of your ear Knowing you're too busy filing to really listen
Fell into a wakeful dream Space was some space time Time was sometimes space I ran down the years
Time is a pretense which haunts the mind With past recollections of words and events Presumed to exist because we once were so Configured, involved, that a separate kind
The crystal-eyed illusion man makes shadows fall behind As all along the fortress wall the watchers see the blind
In Her Garden
Soft the cloud that O're the gentle rose Rains down, as down So gentle in repose
I see your face at the railing Among a sea of faces. Across, on another shore, someone has offered Flame to the moth
She could never get a grip on things
Nor find out who she was
Three husbands and divorces
One child confiscated by alcohol
Endless streams of things she had owned
Things she did
People she knew
She did not know
Everything impossible to hold