Stanley Pacion A BIG BOOK OF MY OWN: March 2009

Thursday, March 26, 2009

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AT THE HARDWARE STORE,
Love Story

Hey! Dad,
Try as hard as I can,
I wont be able to finish the inventory.

I'm not able to count up the boxes of screws,
Can't get the details straight,
The length, the head type, the number of the thickness,
It's too much for me to do in my present state.

I'll never enter the correct numbers on the sheets;
The accountant will have to wait, until I feel better.

Blame Aphrodite,

Soft as she is
She has almost
Killed me with
Love for that girl.

BLEEDING LOVE, How Divinity Empowers

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BLEEDING LOVE,
How Divinity Empowers

In comment upon a poem,
I had previously uploaded for world view,
A fellow writes,
A man my age ought to stay content
Gardening and tending to grand child, or two;
Wonders how my moments be misspent,
Wasted in romance,
Stuck upon heart-rending verse?

Yea, sure, but grant me life, and frankly
What do I care about minor-league opinion?
No sad thoughts ever block my way;
I celebrate love and how divinity empowers!

Hey! Anyways, no problem here,

I thank him for the time,
Acknowledge his response.
Give the commentator appropriate due,
Yet I insist, no fear, no worry of rebuke,
I have no problem when I proclaim.

I keep bleeding, bleeding in love.

I take delight that my little finger know,
Have more command of Word,
More vocabulary than in the head,
Though there be mighty army of negativity.

I keep bleeding, bleeding in love.

Once Son of Man lost life,
He was crucified and nailed upon a cross,
And when He rising from dead,
He fulfilled the Holy Writ and dies no more.
And we ourselves after Resurrection,
Shall be Ever with the Lord,
And lo and behold he who loves,
Not necessarily wisely, but well,
Remember the promise,
He shall be with Him today in heaven.

I keep bleeding, keep bleeding in love.

Thursday, March 19, 2009

LEDA, After Rainer Maria Rilke (c. 1910)

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LEDA,
After Rainer Maria Rilke (c. 1910)

Zeus, always needy for sex,
Readying with whatever trick at hand,
Any ploy he thought might work,
He wanted that girl,
He wanted her real bad.

Yet when he became swan,
The landscape of his attire, the white,
It blinded him, and for the moment,
The god stopped, he had to orient himself.

And she, she knew what was in store,
Oh yea, some gal! No question about it.
She desired the experience,
She always sought a role in history.

Her vanity, big time,
She lived in era before acknowledgement,
She had no idea, the seven deadly sins.

The swan suddenly returned to his purpose.

He lowered his neck and his head,
Right through her open arms,
No resistance there, and his bill,
After it kissed her breast,
It easily reached around her neck.

His wings encased both her arms to the shoulders.

Once he entered her,
When he released himself,
He recognized oh how delightful
The feathers, the feel of his feathers,
And verily he became swan in her loins.

Sunday, March 15, 2009

OH CHICAGO! Suite White City

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OH CHICAGO!
Suite White City

Chicago I see you,
Though to be there I must tap root scenes,
Now, very long ago, what I share
Might be more dream, fiction,
Than actual history event, my life enfolds,
I see it in pictures,
The lake front parking, a make-out spot,
Way down at east end of Foster,
The time me and my son’s mother,
A woman who in future time to become my first,
My one, and only wife, today,
Almost thirty years, divorced,
That fellow, from within the bushes,
Came out with a length of metal gaffing hook,
Then with a big overhead swing,
Punctured the hood on my Dad’s Chevrolet,
Brand-new, 1960, four-door, hard-top, white,
And we survived the attack,
Intact, secure behind the doors and car in reverse,
We were lucky, I guess.

That time in the high rise, near North Side,
Where up on the 18th floor me and my buddy,
We laid that cop,
Oh, Chicago, she was great,
I remember her, only fondest delight!

I liked fact that her 9MM slept with us,
But under the pillow, the uniform,
The belt and boots, both on her, and
When they latter scattered and heaped,
Clothing and leather accessories,
They looked good, I recall
They were piled on the rug of the bedroom floor.

Later, in the back seat, police cruiser unit,
I joined the convergence, while she drove
And her partner sat shotgun, chased the culprit,
Down the alleys, fast, 30mph,
Galvanized cans popping, their lids flying like saucers,
Garbage was raining all over the concrete.

Riverview Park, my first high school,
Down the block from the Ferris Wheel,
Reader excuse the free thinking,
I leap here to insight and meaning,
Back to the time my great grandfather,
All the way from LaSalle, came to see the lights,
The white city, magic, and when he returned, home,
Told tales about the city, twenty-years after the Fire.

He ignited my grandmother’s lust,
She sold her soul to abandon the narrow,
Woman’s common lot, early twentieth-century,
Hand laundry, drudgery, the great bore, small town life,
She married to, iterant painter, my grandfather, John.
He went from town to town painting church murals,
Wayward man, by all accounts, if there ever were one,

He promised her life, incandescent, a part of history,
The new town rose up from the old, up from ashes,
And was there not real truth,
Behind the story, the Whites, the miracle,
How they had been rescued at Fort Dearborn?

She sought energy, electric, the moment
She wanted city burning, burning bright, resplendent.
Oh, Chicago, it is from you that I have my life!

Monday, March 2, 2009

RATNA, You May Laugh At Me

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RATNA,
You May Laugh At Me
An Adaptation of a Poem by T. Wijaya

Ratna, you may leave me,
But the blanket on our bed remains.

Sometimes out from the shadows in the street I hear
A chattering; I push open the drapes, look from
My window, but see no one. Because the event
Reoccurs regularly at fifteen minutes
Before the bell of the day’s ninth hour,
I imagine children, who hurry, hasten,
Not to be late for school. It’s a collective voice,
And it seems to capture -- as if the these youngsters
Recite my poem, aloud, though they mispronounce
The words, and slaughter the meter --
How the poem means,
The love burning, the fire in my heart,
My love for you with excellence matching,
Were the poet himself to read the lines.

How strange it must be when in class they learn
The language of science yet my textbook has taught,
Reveals nothing but great passion, the grand affection,
A knowledge no amount of everyday, timely attendance
Might bring to reason, or be sufficient to
Realize with easy, algebraic, chalk–board formulation.

My feelings, the terms of my endearment, dwell
Far removed from any chapbook lesson,
It reminds me of the hapless task, trying to reason
The abundance, all the great gifts, God bestows
Though we may be merit less, and in no way deserve
That grace, the bounty which freely falls upon us.

Ratna, you may laugh at me, but when I awaken
I pretend to have coffee percolated for you,
Or that soon I receive your telephone call,
Your voice at the other end, you,
No longer at business, but here, now,
The distance between us breached,
The gap closed, when I hear your vocal timbre.

Ratna, you may have gone, flown from my arms,
Yet I remain deeply enamored,
My thoughts of you, our life together remain indelible,
My desire for it, anew, once more to live its glory,
It burns within my mind’s eye, and warms my soul.

Remember the tree I planted in your garden?
Its fruit has become property of another,
And each and every time I think it over,
Your departure, the awful pain, my life without you,
I find myself back at desk and write verse,
Hoping to explain how over burdened my being,
The splendid images, the endless cacophony of words,
The visceral weight, the compulsion to relive,
My life returns to vision and sounds, the chapters,
Which comprise the big book of our history,
Oh, how I wish you had never left me.

Ratna, in your heart love for me may be dead.
But each day I rouse in that blue room,
That blue bedroom, where we started the day,
Each day I wake to the same blue sky,
Which houses our Lord, to Him I pray,
And ask that His Will has you returning some day.

Ratna, my lovely light, the dream which floods
Across this room, down upon the key board,
And propels my fingers to write how my heart aches.
Do not fear me; do not fear this verse.

Darling, listen not to friends who claim misgivings,
Who believe I have taken leave of my senses,
That my ultimate design contain harm to you.
You know that is not the case.
I write the moment but mean it for the ages,
World and all posterity to see,
My good fortune, the gratitude I feel in having
Loved you and making your acquaintance.