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THE WORD,
A Lover’s Exhortation,
Rewrite
Well! Was sagst du?
I believe I say it right.
Still it is only God, Who knows,
The one dimensionality -- the real tragedy --
The empty when we call upon the soul.
But, sweetheart, Hey! I tell you now.
Forget it! Fly straight!
Think of the Frick with its fabulous El Greco,
Small though the painting is, it amply captures the fury,
When Jesus castigates the money changers.
Das wort ist klar!
No man may serve two masters.
God loves the prisoner, the downcast, the lame.
He loves the lilies of the field.
Grass need not care how it may clothe itself.
Though great it may be to be King, what profit in it,
When the first shall be last and those with least,
Most, and beggars shall inherit the earth,
And children be fountains of wisdom,
And priests and magistrates know not the Lord
When He stands before them?
Monday, November 29, 2010
Saturday, November 27, 2010
RATNA, You May Laugh At Me, Rewrite, November 2010
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RATNA,
You May Laugh At Me, Rewrite,
An Adaptation of a Poem by T. Wijaya,
November 2010
Ratna, you may have left me,
But the blanket on our bed remains.
Sometimes from out in the street
I hear chatter; I run to the window,
Open the drapes,
Look from our second-story flat,
And I see children.
Because the event more or less reoccurs daily,
At intervals, fifteen minutes before the ninth hour,
I imagine the youngsters are students,
Who hurry, hasten, not to be late for school.
The sound runs major then quiets,
But before too long it returns, again, to loudness.
Beneath its ebb and upward flow,
Within the clamors' swirling expansion and contraction,
Underneath it all, I swear to it, darling, I swear,
I very clearly perceive,
Throughout the commotion, a young, collective voice.
In my mind the cacophony
Amounts to no mere happenstance of noisy play,
But is itself poetry,
It seems to capture a lyrical composition.
It is as if the youngsters have gained access,
Know the words and meter of my heart’s declaration.
I feel the children have taken my verse
And boldly recite it for the public.
Their voice expresses every splendid feeling and thought,
I hear my love for you said aloud with excellence,
A match, as though the poet himself read the lines.
2.
Ratna, think how strange it seems, paradoxical when,
These self-same students learn in classroom,
Study the language of science,
Yet my own textbook teaches at odds
Against current curriculum, revealing solely
Great passion and affection, a knowledge that
No everyday, timely attendance might bring to reason.
No matter the hours, whatever time devoted to lessons,
No amount of homework or study reduces my soul,
Its lyric, to easy, algebraic, chalk–board formulation.
I am reminded of how hapless the task, trying to reason
All the marvelous abundance God bestows,
Although we may not merit, no way deserve
His grace, the bounty which freely befalls us.
Ratna, you may laugh at me, but when I awaken
I pretend to percolate coffee for you,
Or I imagine that I receive your telephone call,
Your voice at the other end, you,
No longer at business, far away, but here now,
The distance between us breached,
The gap closed, and that you have called to tell me
You are safe and have arrived home.
My emotions flutter when I hear your timbre.
Ratna, my dreams of you are constant,
And possess warmth and overall good feeling.
3.
Consider it. Once I recount my story,
The story about you,
You the woman, who has abandoned me,
Would anyone accept this tale,
(Suppose we search the whole wide world)
Would we find one, one single person,
Who concludes, who believes,
If even for a moment, that I am a happy man?
Ratna, I do not regret a single day.
My thoughts of you, our life together, remain indelible.
And when you promised heaven and earth to me,
Those moments in which you had sworn
And ardently acclaimed your love for me,
My remembrance of them, carry me to joy,
To boundless fervor and contentment,
They fire within my mind’s eye, and propel my being.
Ratna, a big smile inhabits my face.
4.
Remember the tree I planted in our garden?
Its fruit has become property of another,
And each and every time I think it over,
Our life, the every instance we spent together,
I find myself sitting at the desk to write,
As if enthralled some faery power driven,
Hoping to explain how I trust every word you said,
Wishing to relate the splendid images,
The visceral weight, and the deep compulsion,
To relive the time, our hand was in hand, and
We were held together, our fingers interlocked.
Ratna, in endless run of sentence after sentence,
My life returns to the great day, the glory chapters,
Which comprise the big book of our love,
Oh, how thrilled I am to have been at your side.
Ratna, in your heart my love for you may be dead.
But each day I rise again 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.
I ask for nothing, only His Will for you, for me, today.
Ratna, my lovely light, you, the dream which floods
Across this room, down upon the key board,
And drives my fingers to write the length,
-- Oh, the grand expanse over which my bosom races --
No mere chimera, no flight of fancy,
But real as is the space between earth’s continents,
My ardency covers distance,
Real as the miles, which total our globe’s circumference.
5.
Do not fear me; do not fear this verse.
Ratna, listen not to friends,
Those who claim misgivings,
Who believe I have taken leave of my senses,
That my ultimate design may want best for you.
You know that is not the case.
Ratna, I write in the moment, and, as you already know,
This instance sums all a human may possess,
We own but this one day, alone,
Still I mean every word I say for the ages,
I want world and posterity to learn.
Oh what a lucky man I have been.
My good fortune, the gratitude I feel for having
Loved you and having made your acquaintance!
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RATNA,
You May Laugh At Me, Rewrite,
An Adaptation of a Poem by T. Wijaya,
November 2010
Ratna, you may have left me,
But the blanket on our bed remains.
Sometimes from out in the street
I hear chatter; I run to the window,
Open the drapes,
Look from our second-story flat,
And I see children.
Because the event more or less reoccurs daily,
At intervals, fifteen minutes before the ninth hour,
I imagine the youngsters are students,
Who hurry, hasten, not to be late for school.
The sound runs major then quiets,
But before too long it returns, again, to loudness.
Beneath its ebb and upward flow,
Within the clamors' swirling expansion and contraction,
Underneath it all, I swear to it, darling, I swear,
I very clearly perceive,
Throughout the commotion, a young, collective voice.
In my mind the cacophony
Amounts to no mere happenstance of noisy play,
But is itself poetry,
It seems to capture a lyrical composition.
It is as if the youngsters have gained access,
Know the words and meter of my heart’s declaration.
I feel the children have taken my verse
And boldly recite it for the public.
Their voice expresses every splendid feeling and thought,
I hear my love for you said aloud with excellence,
A match, as though the poet himself read the lines.
2.
Ratna, think how strange it seems, paradoxical when,
These self-same students learn in classroom,
Study the language of science,
Yet my own textbook teaches at odds
Against current curriculum, revealing solely
Great passion and affection, a knowledge that
No everyday, timely attendance might bring to reason.
No matter the hours, whatever time devoted to lessons,
No amount of homework or study reduces my soul,
Its lyric, to easy, algebraic, chalk–board formulation.
I am reminded of how hapless the task, trying to reason
All the marvelous abundance God bestows,
Although we may not merit, no way deserve
His grace, the bounty which freely befalls us.
Ratna, you may laugh at me, but when I awaken
I pretend to percolate coffee for you,
Or I imagine that I receive your telephone call,
Your voice at the other end, you,
No longer at business, far away, but here now,
The distance between us breached,
The gap closed, and that you have called to tell me
You are safe and have arrived home.
My emotions flutter when I hear your timbre.
Ratna, my dreams of you are constant,
And possess warmth and overall good feeling.
3.
Consider it. Once I recount my story,
The story about you,
You the woman, who has abandoned me,
Would anyone accept this tale,
(Suppose we search the whole wide world)
Would we find one, one single person,
Who concludes, who believes,
If even for a moment, that I am a happy man?
Ratna, I do not regret a single day.
My thoughts of you, our life together, remain indelible.
And when you promised heaven and earth to me,
Those moments in which you had sworn
And ardently acclaimed your love for me,
My remembrance of them, carry me to joy,
To boundless fervor and contentment,
They fire within my mind’s eye, and propel my being.
Ratna, a big smile inhabits my face.
4.
Remember the tree I planted in our garden?
Its fruit has become property of another,
And each and every time I think it over,
Our life, the every instance we spent together,
I find myself sitting at the desk to write,
As if enthralled some faery power driven,
Hoping to explain how I trust every word you said,
Wishing to relate the splendid images,
The visceral weight, and the deep compulsion,
To relive the time, our hand was in hand, and
We were held together, our fingers interlocked.
Ratna, in endless run of sentence after sentence,
My life returns to the great day, the glory chapters,
Which comprise the big book of our love,
Oh, how thrilled I am to have been at your side.
Ratna, in your heart my love for you may be dead.
But each day I rise again 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.
I ask for nothing, only His Will for you, for me, today.
Ratna, my lovely light, you, the dream which floods
Across this room, down upon the key board,
And drives my fingers to write the length,
-- Oh, the grand expanse over which my bosom races --
No mere chimera, no flight of fancy,
But real as is the space between earth’s continents,
My ardency covers distance,
Real as the miles, which total our globe’s circumference.
5.
Do not fear me; do not fear this verse.
Ratna, listen not to friends,
Those who claim misgivings,
Who believe I have taken leave of my senses,
That my ultimate design may want best for you.
You know that is not the case.
Ratna, I write in the moment, and, as you already know,
This instance sums all a human may possess,
We own but this one day, alone,
Still I mean every word I say for the ages,
I want world and posterity to learn.
Oh what a lucky man I have been.
My good fortune, the gratitude I feel for having
Loved you and having made your acquaintance!
TERMS OF ENDEARMENT, Sweet Talk
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TERMS OF ENDEARMENT,
Sweet Talk
Out in Arizona my Dad,
He grew roses.
He embraced the great merit,
Loved to say,
How he enjoyed cultivating his own garden.
That spot he tended along side the house,
It was the love of his retirement.
I saw those roses disporting,
Performing and they were real pretty,
But I must say aloud,
They never flowered, like you.
They never looked the way
You looked tonight, darling.
Though this verse be trivia,
Fitting definition, thing of small importance,
It swears truth,
The whole truth and nothing but the truth,
You may count it among my terms of endearment.
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TERMS OF ENDEARMENT,
Sweet Talk
Out in Arizona my Dad,
He grew roses.
He embraced the great merit,
Loved to say,
How he enjoyed cultivating his own garden.
That spot he tended along side the house,
It was the love of his retirement.
I saw those roses disporting,
Performing and they were real pretty,
But I must say aloud,
They never flowered, like you.
They never looked the way
You looked tonight, darling.
Though this verse be trivia,
Fitting definition, thing of small importance,
It swears truth,
The whole truth and nothing but the truth,
You may count it among my terms of endearment.
LINES WRITTEN IN OCTOBER
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LINES WRITTEN IN OCTOBER
Oh where are you, my lovely?
How is it you stay away?
What strangeness drives you,
Turns love into disappointment and woe?
I imagine, you might very well understand.
Yet do not suppose a simple story.
Do not figure you, role playing the subject,
And, me, the writer, who recounts a conventional,
Everyday tale about love won and lost,
The drama which accompanies its marvelous heights
And then the drop to low-bottom sorrow.
There is no script with a beginning and an end.
The story stays; it remains the same.
Unlike all sublunary it does not change.
You shine, darling, you shine.
Tonight you are bright and eternal.
And every morning you arise steadfast;
Your light makes the seasons of my heart.
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LINES WRITTEN IN OCTOBER
Oh where are you, my lovely?
How is it you stay away?
What strangeness drives you,
Turns love into disappointment and woe?
I imagine, you might very well understand.
Yet do not suppose a simple story.
Do not figure you, role playing the subject,
And, me, the writer, who recounts a conventional,
Everyday tale about love won and lost,
The drama which accompanies its marvelous heights
And then the drop to low-bottom sorrow.
There is no script with a beginning and an end.
The story stays; it remains the same.
Unlike all sublunary it does not change.
You shine, darling, you shine.
Tonight you are bright and eternal.
And every morning you arise steadfast;
Your light makes the seasons of my heart.
Wednesday, November 24, 2010
POEM WRITTEN IN A COOKING MAGAZINE, Rewrite
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POEM WRITTEN IN A COOKING MAGAZINE,
Rewrite
The man was quite mad.
He enjoyed writing in code.
He invented a special kind of shorthand
And kept business records in a language,
Comprehensible only to himself and those
To whom he had revealed the secrets of his ciphers.
Cryptic labels marked the boxes,
The boxes of all the things he possessed.
But when it came to life's basics,
Though, technically speaking,
He bordered yet on insanity,
Some have said he was quite mad,
Yet his manner of speech was straightforward.
He wrote in the King's English.
He said, ‘I love you’.
And he proclaimed for all that care to hear,
‘I worship the ground upon which you walk’.
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POEM WRITTEN IN A COOKING MAGAZINE,
Rewrite
The man was quite mad.
He enjoyed writing in code.
He invented a special kind of shorthand
And kept business records in a language,
Comprehensible only to himself and those
To whom he had revealed the secrets of his ciphers.
Cryptic labels marked the boxes,
The boxes of all the things he possessed.
But when it came to life's basics,
Though, technically speaking,
He bordered yet on insanity,
Some have said he was quite mad,
Yet his manner of speech was straightforward.
He wrote in the King's English.
He said, ‘I love you’.
And he proclaimed for all that care to hear,
‘I worship the ground upon which you walk’.
MIDNIGHT RECAP, 19 August 1976, Second Version
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MIDNIGHT RECAP,
19 August 1976,
Second Version
Gad! It's Nancy Lake of North Carolina,
“Chairman, Richard Rosenblum of the Great,
The Oh-so-Great, Delegation from the State of New York”
Representatives proclaim their diverse cultures,
Highlight separate geographies, timed to a moment,
Tied to one central theme,
Arizona, Washington, Indiana, Illinois…
Texas, Alaska…, Chinese, Blacks,
Chicanos and I-talo-Americans,
All expected to take twenty-five seconds or less:
“I am honored to second the nomination…
“The man the American people can trust!
“It is with my great pleasure…
“We are proud to place the name --
“Miss Perez has set a record -- under fifteen seconds!
“Aloha!
“The miracle of Joseph’s coat of many colors…
“A head and a heart! A living legend!
“The last line of defense…
Blrrrrwrrwrrwwwwr.
“Gerald R. Ford for President!”
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MIDNIGHT RECAP,
19 August 1976,
Second Version
Gad! It's Nancy Lake of North Carolina,
“Chairman, Richard Rosenblum of the Great,
The Oh-so-Great, Delegation from the State of New York”
Representatives proclaim their diverse cultures,
Highlight separate geographies, timed to a moment,
Tied to one central theme,
Arizona, Washington, Indiana, Illinois…
Texas, Alaska…, Chinese, Blacks,
Chicanos and I-talo-Americans,
All expected to take twenty-five seconds or less:
“I am honored to second the nomination…
“The man the American people can trust!
“It is with my great pleasure…
“We are proud to place the name --
“Miss Perez has set a record -- under fifteen seconds!
“Aloha!
“The miracle of Joseph’s coat of many colors…
“A head and a heart! A living legend!
“The last line of defense…
Blrrrrwrrwrrwwwwr.
“Gerald R. Ford for President!”
ALPHA AND OMEGA, Yet Another Love Poem, Third Version
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ALPHA AND OMEGA,
Yet Another Love Poem,
Third Version
Etta, what do you want from me?
I fell in love with you.
What can I do?
I care for you; you’re beautiful.
No explanation, it’s not rational.
I’m older, you’re younger.
I’m an American, you’re European.
I was raised on the Great Plains.
You grew up on the thin soil of a limestone island.
The matter reduces itself to the basic.
Try as hard as I can, I can not end my love for you.
To me, this love continues as though it folds onto itself,
Looking more like one of those new images,
Drawn from highest theoretic of current cosmology,
Space-time systems overlapped, bestraddled,
Universes within multiple universes,
Dimension upon dimension,
Inexplicable, unimaginable paradox,
Beginning and ending all at once,
At one point, all to one point, no sides, no dimensions,
Alpha and omega, and ultimately
Sine qua non of my existence.
What else do you want me to say?
I’m at a loss. Right this moment,
No one else, no one else but you!
Darling, I want only the best for you.
Would you, would you, please forgive,
Condone my presumption, since yet,
It seems, the same holds true for you, too.
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ALPHA AND OMEGA,
Yet Another Love Poem,
Third Version
Etta, what do you want from me?
I fell in love with you.
What can I do?
I care for you; you’re beautiful.
No explanation, it’s not rational.
I’m older, you’re younger.
I’m an American, you’re European.
I was raised on the Great Plains.
You grew up on the thin soil of a limestone island.
The matter reduces itself to the basic.
Try as hard as I can, I can not end my love for you.
To me, this love continues as though it folds onto itself,
Looking more like one of those new images,
Drawn from highest theoretic of current cosmology,
Space-time systems overlapped, bestraddled,
Universes within multiple universes,
Dimension upon dimension,
Inexplicable, unimaginable paradox,
Beginning and ending all at once,
At one point, all to one point, no sides, no dimensions,
Alpha and omega, and ultimately
Sine qua non of my existence.
What else do you want me to say?
I’m at a loss. Right this moment,
No one else, no one else but you!
Darling, I want only the best for you.
Would you, would you, please forgive,
Condone my presumption, since yet,
It seems, the same holds true for you, too.
Sunday, November 21, 2010
KNOCK OUT, Your Absence Floors Me, 2010, Rewrite
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KNOCK OUT,
Your Absence Floors Me,
2010, Rewrite
Describing the awful upset, the melancholy,
Which has struck me with such force,
That I have seemingly loss consciousness,
And all capacity for good reason,
Requires that I contradict tradition,
And posit the existence of a physical soul.
Your absence, the thought of your
No longer being by my side, has floored my spirit.
I fear my heart might stop.
I struggle to arise before the ten-count.
I bleed, darling, I bleed.
Your blow has opened a cut above the eye.
The men in my corner struggle to fix it.
They will not let me face another round.
The bell keeps clanging,
I hear the terrible roar of the crowd.
I have lost the fight.
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KNOCK OUT,
Your Absence Floors Me,
2010, Rewrite
Describing the awful upset, the melancholy,
Which has struck me with such force,
That I have seemingly loss consciousness,
And all capacity for good reason,
Requires that I contradict tradition,
And posit the existence of a physical soul.
Your absence, the thought of your
No longer being by my side, has floored my spirit.
I fear my heart might stop.
I struggle to arise before the ten-count.
I bleed, darling, I bleed.
Your blow has opened a cut above the eye.
The men in my corner struggle to fix it.
They will not let me face another round.
The bell keeps clanging,
I hear the terrible roar of the crowd.
I have lost the fight.
Saturday, November 20, 2010
BEAT IT, Canal Street Lessons, Second Version
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BEAT IT!
Canal Street Lessons,
Second Version
Let me comment on our Western tradition;
Money talks, every other thing walks.
Now, in this, mine, particular scene,
Sam is key.
He’s the boss, the king to the thing.
He figures himself -- only a fool might doubt it --
As one of the chiefs in a band of good brothers.
Yet propriety, also, counts.
Affirm “Hello! Good mornin’ Sir!"
Do not forget, “Hey babe, how you doing?”
And behind this deportment, be doctrinaire,
Remember to talk three things in one person:
Pussy, the weather and always include
A word or two about sports,
Otherwise masculinity might open to question.
And let us say what things soever the law says,
Get an invoice,
And make sure to write it all in carbon.
Fair and square, it’s hard to trick in duplicate.
I believe, was it not, Saint Simon, who teaches?
“To each according to his need, and
From each get a copy, every transaction.”
Careful with Leo; he is hooked up,
High as a kite and looking for trouble.
He may not remember
How he spoke one day or the other.
And Bernie, he’s the intellectual type,
With him always best to clarify your position,
Try to explain your course of action, point out
What's good for today and possible tomorrow.
That basement desk with the single light bulb above it,
A hanging one-switch receptacle on a wire,
No shade, why adorn it?
Send the lawsuits down the wooden, threadbare steps,
To bottom, the barely paved, beaten concrete floor,
And have a laugh at process servers’ expense,
What a notion Bernie authored!
And should you go out for a drink,
Keep an eye on Bob whose favorite fun,
Slip you a Mickey and laugh while you fall,
Knock your head on the barroom floor.
And Stanley, why he carries a box blade,
He might act to settle a score,
Good Lawd, what a whore!
Sell! Sell! Keep ends tight! And sell!
Today we have diamonds, tomorrow the world!
Say hey, Willie Mays, you’re the greatest,
And now the world knows it!
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BEAT IT!
Canal Street Lessons,
Second Version
Let me comment on our Western tradition;
Money talks, every other thing walks.
Now, in this, mine, particular scene,
Sam is key.
He’s the boss, the king to the thing.
He figures himself -- only a fool might doubt it --
As one of the chiefs in a band of good brothers.
Yet propriety, also, counts.
Affirm “Hello! Good mornin’ Sir!"
Do not forget, “Hey babe, how you doing?”
And behind this deportment, be doctrinaire,
Remember to talk three things in one person:
Pussy, the weather and always include
A word or two about sports,
Otherwise masculinity might open to question.
And let us say what things soever the law says,
Get an invoice,
And make sure to write it all in carbon.
Fair and square, it’s hard to trick in duplicate.
I believe, was it not, Saint Simon, who teaches?
“To each according to his need, and
From each get a copy, every transaction.”
Careful with Leo; he is hooked up,
High as a kite and looking for trouble.
He may not remember
How he spoke one day or the other.
And Bernie, he’s the intellectual type,
With him always best to clarify your position,
Try to explain your course of action, point out
What's good for today and possible tomorrow.
That basement desk with the single light bulb above it,
A hanging one-switch receptacle on a wire,
No shade, why adorn it?
Send the lawsuits down the wooden, threadbare steps,
To bottom, the barely paved, beaten concrete floor,
And have a laugh at process servers’ expense,
What a notion Bernie authored!
And should you go out for a drink,
Keep an eye on Bob whose favorite fun,
Slip you a Mickey and laugh while you fall,
Knock your head on the barroom floor.
And Stanley, why he carries a box blade,
He might act to settle a score,
Good Lawd, what a whore!
Sell! Sell! Keep ends tight! And sell!
Today we have diamonds, tomorrow the world!
Say hey, Willie Mays, you’re the greatest,
And now the world knows it!
Friday, November 19, 2010
CRAZY LOVE, Sorry Interlude
http://www.abigbookofmyown.com/
http://stanley.pacion.googlepages.com/sexandhistory
http://www.youtube.com/StanleyPacion
http://www.stanleypacion.com/home.html/
CRAZY LOVE,
Sorry Interlude,
November 2010, Version
I am at a loss, dumbfounded,
Neither you nor I have forgotten the depth,
The big range of ready affection,
We always felt exceptionally well-suited,
We were great couple in many ways…
You yourself proclaimed our special bond.
One early, Sunday evening, mid August,
We stood at the corner,
Seventh Avenue at Twenty-Fourth Street,
We were awaiting the turn from red,
A traffic light signal , the sign to say GO,
When I told you of a recent article from “Science Times”,
The every Tuesday section of the New York Times,
It reported that the outside perimeter,
A year and half at tops, the time span of romantic love.
The passion subsides that quick scientists argue.
“Oh!” You immediately demurred,
We had not even crossed the Avenue, before
You took exception, challenged the current science,
And proclaimed, and said “Not for us!”
You professed the special heat, how our romance,
Our romance more akin eternal flame,
Not subject to normal wane of heart’s intensity.
My soul took flight; my love ran to ecstatic.
I felt like Superman able to leap tall buildings
With single, terrific bound; I believed my power
Greater than steam locomotive,
That I ran with the speed of bullets.
Poppycock! Tomfoolery personified,
And me idiot for believing a word you might say,
By October you were gone,
Your every promise, your solemn vows, prevarication.
Everlasting love, indeed! It lasted
Bit more than a month and one half.
I am sick of it, this terrible romance,
I can not go on, it’s too sad,
Too much, the caprice,
You toss me to the ground,
The ungrateful child’s unwanted toy,
However you may have wanted me,
I exist no more, and am broken.
For both of us there’s plenty desire,
You sneak up on me and stoke
The flame which still fires your heart,
Neighbors tell me they see you,
Saying how you haunt me,
How you seem unable to let me go,
Signs the real extent,
How much you must still love me.
And I write this love poem,
Though what was once this thing of ours,
This breathe and we wondrous, beauteous mates,
Finished, driven apart, and my verse,
Has become a pathetic exercise, a sorry chapter
In story which goes nowhere,
It bears title, everything about us so crazy.
Had I not become accustomed to your way,
Spent no time next to you in bed,
Were I smart enough a man,
To have avoided you in the first place,
To have never said a word to you,
Except perhaps the usual humors,
The greetings ‘Good Morning, and Hello’,
The simple inquiry about your health,
Asking the everyday about how are you,
I would never have gotten to the point,
That loathsome feeling, you love me no more.
And equally, both sad and disturbing,
That mine, the warmest of regard,
Turns to disdain, and fervent wish,
We speak no more, and I never see you again.
I feel you woman. I have the telepathic gift
To hear when you think of me, and you know it!
Right now I could clench my teeth,
Do an inward scream, whose loudness
Would awake you and disturb your sleep to dawn.
I wish I could caress you,
Practice the arts I had just started,
Oh had I more time to turn you,
To make you love slave, enthrall you,
But I really wish, I might have forgotten you,
Relegated your touch to darksome narrow pass,
A place free, blank, where I
No longer remember your name.
Can’t you fall in love with someone else?
I know it’s wrong for me to say,
I love you. So let me go.
Time will strengthen my resolve,
I shall move on, your chance to reconcile,
To prove your word sincere and true,
Though once here, has come and gone.
Darling, we have fallen and are amiss,
No! No joy, fruitless to embark upon a road,
A road running to distant horizon,
With its ultimate end, the final end of us.
My pledges of love, all my dreams, now lament,
My mind is rent, devastated is my heart
Neither can I live with nor without you.
I must stop it, quit the insanity.
I may believe to love you, but the love has gone.
http://stanley.pacion.googlepages.com/sexandhistory
http://www.youtube.com/StanleyPacion
http://www.stanleypacion.com/home.html/
CRAZY LOVE,
Sorry Interlude,
November 2010, Version
I am at a loss, dumbfounded,
Neither you nor I have forgotten the depth,
The big range of ready affection,
We always felt exceptionally well-suited,
We were great couple in many ways…
You yourself proclaimed our special bond.
One early, Sunday evening, mid August,
We stood at the corner,
Seventh Avenue at Twenty-Fourth Street,
We were awaiting the turn from red,
A traffic light signal , the sign to say GO,
When I told you of a recent article from “Science Times”,
The every Tuesday section of the New York Times,
It reported that the outside perimeter,
A year and half at tops, the time span of romantic love.
The passion subsides that quick scientists argue.
“Oh!” You immediately demurred,
We had not even crossed the Avenue, before
You took exception, challenged the current science,
And proclaimed, and said “Not for us!”
You professed the special heat, how our romance,
Our romance more akin eternal flame,
Not subject to normal wane of heart’s intensity.
My soul took flight; my love ran to ecstatic.
I felt like Superman able to leap tall buildings
With single, terrific bound; I believed my power
Greater than steam locomotive,
That I ran with the speed of bullets.
Poppycock! Tomfoolery personified,
And me idiot for believing a word you might say,
By October you were gone,
Your every promise, your solemn vows, prevarication.
Everlasting love, indeed! It lasted
Bit more than a month and one half.
I am sick of it, this terrible romance,
I can not go on, it’s too sad,
Too much, the caprice,
You toss me to the ground,
The ungrateful child’s unwanted toy,
However you may have wanted me,
I exist no more, and am broken.
For both of us there’s plenty desire,
You sneak up on me and stoke
The flame which still fires your heart,
Neighbors tell me they see you,
Saying how you haunt me,
How you seem unable to let me go,
Signs the real extent,
How much you must still love me.
And I write this love poem,
Though what was once this thing of ours,
This breathe and we wondrous, beauteous mates,
Finished, driven apart, and my verse,
Has become a pathetic exercise, a sorry chapter
In story which goes nowhere,
It bears title, everything about us so crazy.
Had I not become accustomed to your way,
Spent no time next to you in bed,
Were I smart enough a man,
To have avoided you in the first place,
To have never said a word to you,
Except perhaps the usual humors,
The greetings ‘Good Morning, and Hello’,
The simple inquiry about your health,
Asking the everyday about how are you,
I would never have gotten to the point,
That loathsome feeling, you love me no more.
And equally, both sad and disturbing,
That mine, the warmest of regard,
Turns to disdain, and fervent wish,
We speak no more, and I never see you again.
I feel you woman. I have the telepathic gift
To hear when you think of me, and you know it!
Right now I could clench my teeth,
Do an inward scream, whose loudness
Would awake you and disturb your sleep to dawn.
I wish I could caress you,
Practice the arts I had just started,
Oh had I more time to turn you,
To make you love slave, enthrall you,
But I really wish, I might have forgotten you,
Relegated your touch to darksome narrow pass,
A place free, blank, where I
No longer remember your name.
Can’t you fall in love with someone else?
I know it’s wrong for me to say,
I love you. So let me go.
Time will strengthen my resolve,
I shall move on, your chance to reconcile,
To prove your word sincere and true,
Though once here, has come and gone.
Darling, we have fallen and are amiss,
No! No joy, fruitless to embark upon a road,
A road running to distant horizon,
With its ultimate end, the final end of us.
My pledges of love, all my dreams, now lament,
My mind is rent, devastated is my heart
Neither can I live with nor without you.
I must stop it, quit the insanity.
I may believe to love you, but the love has gone.
Wednesday, November 17, 2010
HE LOVES YOU, Junior Says
http://www.abigbookofmyown.com/
http://stanley.pacion.googlepages.com/sexandhistory
http://www.youtube.com/StanleyPacion
http://www.stanleypacion.com/home.html/
HE LOVES YOU,
Junior Says
Honey, remember,
Remember that girl friend of yours?
She was the one, who, you said,
Had abandoned all hope of love.
A boyfriend had ditched her;
He had dropped her hard.
She felt awful, bitter, and
When ever she referred to him,
Instead of his name, she called him “boy”.
She fell to despair,
And claimed, she no longer was able,
She could not imagine world without him.
I told you, then, were you ever to leave,
Break your every solemn vow, and
Go into world without me that
I too desire sobriquet. I said,
You might call me Junior!
Junior says,
He is lonesome.
He misses you terribly.
He awaits your return to his arms.
He knows your love is right.
He loves you. You are his heart.
He can not feel a thing without you.
That you had once called him 'dear'
Makes him one of the luckiest men alive!
You alone possess his soul.
You reside at center of his thoughts.
You are his every emotion.
You are his goddess;
You are his dream come true.
You are the love of his life.
http://stanley.pacion.googlepages.com/sexandhistory
http://www.youtube.com/StanleyPacion
http://www.stanleypacion.com/home.html/
HE LOVES YOU,
Junior Says
Honey, remember,
Remember that girl friend of yours?
She was the one, who, you said,
Had abandoned all hope of love.
A boyfriend had ditched her;
He had dropped her hard.
She felt awful, bitter, and
When ever she referred to him,
Instead of his name, she called him “boy”.
She fell to despair,
And claimed, she no longer was able,
She could not imagine world without him.
I told you, then, were you ever to leave,
Break your every solemn vow, and
Go into world without me that
I too desire sobriquet. I said,
You might call me Junior!
Junior says,
He is lonesome.
He misses you terribly.
He awaits your return to his arms.
He knows your love is right.
He loves you. You are his heart.
He can not feel a thing without you.
That you had once called him 'dear'
Makes him one of the luckiest men alive!
You alone possess his soul.
You reside at center of his thoughts.
You are his every emotion.
You are his goddess;
You are his dream come true.
You are the love of his life.
MILO
http://www.abigbookofmyown.com/
http://stanley.pacion.googlepages.com/sexandhistory
http://www.youtube.com/StanleyPacion
http://www.stanleypacion.com/home.html/
MILO
How do I say it?
He has no regard for the norms of citizenry.
Oh how the people's values slide, down, down, down,
Every year, a new low, no idea of equanimity,
Those days are gone; they will never return.
I saved his sleeping family from robbery.
And more than once,
I safely delivered him from assassination.
Yet when I stand here in the dock,
Charged with a capital crime,
The jury fixed to render judgment against me,
Milo, he just cackles with brutal laughter,
He delights in the prospect of my exile.
He seems ready to plot my murder.
I blame the times.
No man's morality survives when chaos rules the byways.
Who remains upright when arson an arm of politics?
And what hope have we for ethical compass,
When gold rules the body politic.
http://stanley.pacion.googlepages.com/sexandhistory
http://www.youtube.com/StanleyPacion
http://www.stanleypacion.com/home.html/
MILO
How do I say it?
He has no regard for the norms of citizenry.
Oh how the people's values slide, down, down, down,
Every year, a new low, no idea of equanimity,
Those days are gone; they will never return.
I saved his sleeping family from robbery.
And more than once,
I safely delivered him from assassination.
Yet when I stand here in the dock,
Charged with a capital crime,
The jury fixed to render judgment against me,
Milo, he just cackles with brutal laughter,
He delights in the prospect of my exile.
He seems ready to plot my murder.
I blame the times.
No man's morality survives when chaos rules the byways.
Who remains upright when arson an arm of politics?
And what hope have we for ethical compass,
When gold rules the body politic.
Tuesday, November 16, 2010
REMAINS OF THE DAY, Passion Play, November 2010
http://www.abigbookofmyown.com/
http://stanley.pacion.googlepages.com/sexandhistory
http://www.youtube.com/StanleyPacion
http://www.stanleypacion.com/home.html/
REMAINS OF THE DAY,
Passion Play,
November 2010
Yaaaaaaaaaoooowwwww!
I seek. I crave the whiff, your body scent,
Your fragrance, I remember, it’s as if,
You’re in my arms right here at home today.
My resolve, it weakens,
I want you back.
I’m lonely, turn the covers,
Find only bed empty and heart ache,
The terrible pain of my regret,
Oh how I hate the resolve, never to see you,
Have nothing more to do with you,
How ever long I may live,
I swear to it and mean it!
Yet I want you. Wish to see you, your form
Behind the shower curtain, ghost figure in the steam,
The water running full throttle, the heat,
The great comfort, I close my eyes,
I fall to vision; it’s incredible, beyond belief,
I fail in my recount, you, you, my darling,
I have come to believe you were heaven sent.
Can’t you see I’m at your feet!
I wish to witness your getting dressed,
You, in the morning naked in our bedroom, and
Naked in the room whose door opens
Opposite to the foot of our bed,
Hurrying to get on with the day,
And then the other part, morning, noon,
Or night, when you are in our bed,
And I hold you open to savor over and over again.
I want to see your smile, and utterly to embrace you.
Were I to steal – now and forever – all your pain away!
I would be finished with you, I want you out,
But you, devil, trickster, you and your incantations,
You practice arts you learned when young,
When you and your mother spent all that time,
Back and forth on boat going to the Bahamas,
You use high-tech, gigabyte millions,
You work a black magic,
Have you command of infectious virus?
The computer’s screen beckons me, keeps me awake.
Believe me when I tell you,
I hear your voice, your whispers,
Behind the sounds, behind the hum of the circuitry,
You’re calling, and then writing me notes,
Hoping to fill, to close up the empty between us,
And I am compelled to read,
Though the letters do not include me,
Of course, not word, nothing,
Nothing about how things might be going for me.
Your only concern you, and how terrible you,
How terrible you feel, and with those words,
The wound reopens, my festering cut, the red hot,
(Why do I care? Why do I even open your notes?)
The pain surrounding the punctured,
The ripped and torn, the awful marks of the lash,
There has not been time enough,
Will ever there be time enough,
My flesh, properly, to heal?
And forgive me the blasphemy, forgive!
Lord have mercy, save me!
I am reminded of Jesus after the beating,
When they tore off the purple,
Returning Him to everyday clothes,
Then at Golgotha where they stripped Him,
Before they nailed Him to the cross,
They stripped him, once more,
The pain of those wounds, opened and reopened,
Inflicted, over and over, oh the burn, every time,
Every time you write me, and I hear from you again.
http://stanley.pacion.googlepages.com/sexandhistory
http://www.youtube.com/StanleyPacion
http://www.stanleypacion.com/home.html/
REMAINS OF THE DAY,
Passion Play,
November 2010
Yaaaaaaaaaoooowwwww!
I seek. I crave the whiff, your body scent,
Your fragrance, I remember, it’s as if,
You’re in my arms right here at home today.
My resolve, it weakens,
I want you back.
I’m lonely, turn the covers,
Find only bed empty and heart ache,
The terrible pain of my regret,
Oh how I hate the resolve, never to see you,
Have nothing more to do with you,
How ever long I may live,
I swear to it and mean it!
Yet I want you. Wish to see you, your form
Behind the shower curtain, ghost figure in the steam,
The water running full throttle, the heat,
The great comfort, I close my eyes,
I fall to vision; it’s incredible, beyond belief,
I fail in my recount, you, you, my darling,
I have come to believe you were heaven sent.
Can’t you see I’m at your feet!
I wish to witness your getting dressed,
You, in the morning naked in our bedroom, and
Naked in the room whose door opens
Opposite to the foot of our bed,
Hurrying to get on with the day,
And then the other part, morning, noon,
Or night, when you are in our bed,
And I hold you open to savor over and over again.
I want to see your smile, and utterly to embrace you.
Were I to steal – now and forever – all your pain away!
I would be finished with you, I want you out,
But you, devil, trickster, you and your incantations,
You practice arts you learned when young,
When you and your mother spent all that time,
Back and forth on boat going to the Bahamas,
You use high-tech, gigabyte millions,
You work a black magic,
Have you command of infectious virus?
The computer’s screen beckons me, keeps me awake.
Believe me when I tell you,
I hear your voice, your whispers,
Behind the sounds, behind the hum of the circuitry,
You’re calling, and then writing me notes,
Hoping to fill, to close up the empty between us,
And I am compelled to read,
Though the letters do not include me,
Of course, not word, nothing,
Nothing about how things might be going for me.
Your only concern you, and how terrible you,
How terrible you feel, and with those words,
The wound reopens, my festering cut, the red hot,
(Why do I care? Why do I even open your notes?)
The pain surrounding the punctured,
The ripped and torn, the awful marks of the lash,
There has not been time enough,
Will ever there be time enough,
My flesh, properly, to heal?
And forgive me the blasphemy, forgive!
Lord have mercy, save me!
I am reminded of Jesus after the beating,
When they tore off the purple,
Returning Him to everyday clothes,
Then at Golgotha where they stripped Him,
Before they nailed Him to the cross,
They stripped him, once more,
The pain of those wounds, opened and reopened,
Inflicted, over and over, oh the burn, every time,
Every time you write me, and I hear from you again.
Sunday, November 14, 2010
HER GRANDMOTHER, Early Morning Refrain, November 2010
http://www.abigbookofmyown.com/
http://stanley.pacion.googlepages.com/sexandhistory
http://www.youtube.com/StanleyPacion
http://www.stanleypacion.com/home.html/
HER GRANDMOTHER,
Early Morning Refrain,
November 2010
Was not handsome, nor was she particularly wise,
No one ever said she was the smartest,
But she painted well, an artist,
Today her family treasures and enjoys,
Landscapes and still lifes,
Wonderful evidence of her output and skill.
She applied the oil heavily, used both trowel and brush,
And captured wood and river, and rural architecture
All around her North New Jersey home;
She also rendered, remarkably, the wonder of
Atlantic Waves lapping upon her state’s South shore.
And following the common adage,
Different time and place, who knows the fame,
The renown she might have attained?
She dressed her grandchild, a girl, in pricey sets,
And family and neighbors seem to appreciate it,
“Oh isn’t Elsie wonderful!” They often said.
For all intents and purposes, the child was orphaned.
Her Mother was sick,
And had long-time stay in sanatorium,
Dad was gone;
He had run off and started another family.
Two other girls, her sisters, older, likewise deserted,
They stayed with paternal father and mother.
And she, the baby girl, was cast off, separate,
She went to her Mother’s Mother and Father.
Hard to explain the cause, yet jealousy reigned.
The new wife kept their father away,
He hardly ever saw the previous wife,
Or bothered to visit the three girls he abandoned.
Grandma's girl was tall, naturally curly, blonde hair,
And cheek bones high enough to make for real beauty.
Possessing natural, happy disposition,
Her eyes beamed, and when all-dressed-up,
She looked as though,
She might model for children’s fashion magazines.
2.
But Elsie, she did have her ways,
(Really, I am told to put it nicely!)
She paid no heed to underwear,
Only interested in outward appearance,
Think on this a moment, for who could see it?
Though it might be tattered and dirty,
And Lord knows should have been replaced,
Especially when one consider the expense,
She cared not the dollar amount of any outfit’s cost.
She favored subtle, flower prints,
Nothing garish; she was master seamstress,
A healthy woman, who loved her cats
(Fed those both inside and outside the house)
And took in every kind of stray, animal and human.
A former dancer who partook of chorus,
Had her training at LUNA PARK,
And, all who knew her swear,
She practiced kicks, over head, when
She had already celebrated birthdays past seventy.
Did she swap a place for her star on the walk,
Take lead role in gilded cage instead?
No way, she was tough and worked hard,
Created a wonderful home and with natural talent,
She made a big garden, a green-thumb delight.
And guess what? To top it off,
She married well, a union man, a good provider,
A leader, he was respected and adored by all.
Sure he was a hard-nosed guy.
He had his trouble with the Schuberts and the mob,
No easy matter getting a salary for men,
Who changed the bulbs on marquee boards
Who hauled wire, and painted sets,
And whose days involved going up and down ladders.
Her grandpa made sure there was a decent wage
For the man whose job it was
To clean and bag after circus elephants.
Over the years, testimony holds,
-- Here we have no mean feat --
They fostered twenty-five kids, adopted four,
And then wound up having a girl of their own.
But something went amiss;
Grandpa went upstairs to bed,
Grandma slathered in wintergreen, and liniment
Slept on living-room couch at night,
Hard to believe,
How long a time they spent their lives that way.
And after her Mom was finally released from hospital,
Grandmother balked when time came to return
The girl to whom she had grown attached,
The girl she helped to educate and rear.
She pretended the child were her own.
She used every kind of conceivable excuse;
Grandma tied to keep the her real daughter away.
And then I heard,
I heard the granddaughter say,
We sat at kitchen table,
It was very late; sun had begun to signal new day.
I heard her wax, granddaughter waxed on the refrain,
Though she said it quiet and was ashamed,
‘I can not wish she were here.’
‘I do not wish she were here today.’
http://stanley.pacion.googlepages.com/sexandhistory
http://www.youtube.com/StanleyPacion
http://www.stanleypacion.com/home.html/
HER GRANDMOTHER,
Early Morning Refrain,
November 2010
Was not handsome, nor was she particularly wise,
No one ever said she was the smartest,
But she painted well, an artist,
Today her family treasures and enjoys,
Landscapes and still lifes,
Wonderful evidence of her output and skill.
She applied the oil heavily, used both trowel and brush,
And captured wood and river, and rural architecture
All around her North New Jersey home;
She also rendered, remarkably, the wonder of
Atlantic Waves lapping upon her state’s South shore.
And following the common adage,
Different time and place, who knows the fame,
The renown she might have attained?
She dressed her grandchild, a girl, in pricey sets,
And family and neighbors seem to appreciate it,
“Oh isn’t Elsie wonderful!” They often said.
For all intents and purposes, the child was orphaned.
Her Mother was sick,
And had long-time stay in sanatorium,
Dad was gone;
He had run off and started another family.
Two other girls, her sisters, older, likewise deserted,
They stayed with paternal father and mother.
And she, the baby girl, was cast off, separate,
She went to her Mother’s Mother and Father.
Hard to explain the cause, yet jealousy reigned.
The new wife kept their father away,
He hardly ever saw the previous wife,
Or bothered to visit the three girls he abandoned.
Grandma's girl was tall, naturally curly, blonde hair,
And cheek bones high enough to make for real beauty.
Possessing natural, happy disposition,
Her eyes beamed, and when all-dressed-up,
She looked as though,
She might model for children’s fashion magazines.
2.
But Elsie, she did have her ways,
(Really, I am told to put it nicely!)
She paid no heed to underwear,
Only interested in outward appearance,
Think on this a moment, for who could see it?
Though it might be tattered and dirty,
And Lord knows should have been replaced,
Especially when one consider the expense,
She cared not the dollar amount of any outfit’s cost.
She favored subtle, flower prints,
Nothing garish; she was master seamstress,
A healthy woman, who loved her cats
(Fed those both inside and outside the house)
And took in every kind of stray, animal and human.
A former dancer who partook of chorus,
Had her training at LUNA PARK,
And, all who knew her swear,
She practiced kicks, over head, when
She had already celebrated birthdays past seventy.
Did she swap a place for her star on the walk,
Take lead role in gilded cage instead?
No way, she was tough and worked hard,
Created a wonderful home and with natural talent,
She made a big garden, a green-thumb delight.
And guess what? To top it off,
She married well, a union man, a good provider,
A leader, he was respected and adored by all.
Sure he was a hard-nosed guy.
He had his trouble with the Schuberts and the mob,
No easy matter getting a salary for men,
Who changed the bulbs on marquee boards
Who hauled wire, and painted sets,
And whose days involved going up and down ladders.
Her grandpa made sure there was a decent wage
For the man whose job it was
To clean and bag after circus elephants.
Over the years, testimony holds,
-- Here we have no mean feat --
They fostered twenty-five kids, adopted four,
And then wound up having a girl of their own.
But something went amiss;
Grandpa went upstairs to bed,
Grandma slathered in wintergreen, and liniment
Slept on living-room couch at night,
Hard to believe,
How long a time they spent their lives that way.
And after her Mom was finally released from hospital,
Grandmother balked when time came to return
The girl to whom she had grown attached,
The girl she helped to educate and rear.
She pretended the child were her own.
She used every kind of conceivable excuse;
Grandma tied to keep the her real daughter away.
And then I heard,
I heard the granddaughter say,
We sat at kitchen table,
It was very late; sun had begun to signal new day.
I heard her wax, granddaughter waxed on the refrain,
Though she said it quiet and was ashamed,
‘I can not wish she were here.’
‘I do not wish she were here today.’
Thursday, November 11, 2010
CONFIDENCE, A Lover's Revelation
http://www.abigbookofmyown.com/
http://stanley.pacion.googlepages.com/sexandhistory
http://www.youtube.com/StanleyPacion
http://www.stanleypacion.com/home.html/
CONFIDENCE,
A Lover’s Revelation
I hear a voice, and it commands,
It tells me to rise, and stand.
It says that I have been made a minister,
And am witness both of these things,
Which you have seen,
And those things in the which
This confidence shall have appeared unto you.
I have a direct communication.
In my dreams your fathers have told me.
Exactly what to expect.
I have tomorrow’s news today.
Allow me to dwell upon their message.
Do not hesitate. Give your love without delay.
All go unto one place;
All are of the dust, and all turn to dust again.
Surely you were meant to be mine.
http://stanley.pacion.googlepages.com/sexandhistory
http://www.youtube.com/StanleyPacion
http://www.stanleypacion.com/home.html/
CONFIDENCE,
A Lover’s Revelation
I hear a voice, and it commands,
It tells me to rise, and stand.
It says that I have been made a minister,
And am witness both of these things,
Which you have seen,
And those things in the which
This confidence shall have appeared unto you.
I have a direct communication.
In my dreams your fathers have told me.
Exactly what to expect.
I have tomorrow’s news today.
Allow me to dwell upon their message.
Do not hesitate. Give your love without delay.
All go unto one place;
All are of the dust, and all turn to dust again.
Surely you were meant to be mine.
SMITTEN
http://www.abigbookofmyown.com/
http://stanley.pacion.googlepages.com/sexandhistory
http://www.youtube.com/StanleyPacion
http://www.stanleypacion.com/home.html/
SMITTEN
Six years have passed,
Since I first made your acquaintance.
Yet it's only during recent days
That I've learned I love you.
And how the excitement mounts!
Surely we have so much of our lives to share.
I no longer need await the Spring
To bring back steady warmth
For love heats the place
No matter the cold outside.
http://stanley.pacion.googlepages.com/sexandhistory
http://www.youtube.com/StanleyPacion
http://www.stanleypacion.com/home.html/
SMITTEN
Six years have passed,
Since I first made your acquaintance.
Yet it's only during recent days
That I've learned I love you.
And how the excitement mounts!
Surely we have so much of our lives to share.
I no longer need await the Spring
To bring back steady warmth
For love heats the place
No matter the cold outside.
Tuesday, November 9, 2010
CHICAGO THEME
http://www.abigbookofmyown.com/
http://stanley.pacion.googlepages.com/sexandhistory
http://www.youtube.com/StanleyPacion
http://www.stanleypacion.com/home.html/
CHICAGO THEME
Hey! She can't do this to me!
I'm an American!
I was born and raised in Illinois.
History taught me about Lincoln's Volunteers,
They were the ones who burned Old Dixie down.
I'm the Pepsodent kid,
I have hung out on the skin of my teeth.
My uncle was a dog catcher.
From him, I learned to capture animals in heat.
Where I come from -- there is no foolin' around.
Where does she get the nerve?
She leaves me home alone for months on end.
I've known speeds, man, faster than Flash Gordon,
I can fly from planet to planet,
Find and live amongst a whole new breed,
What do I need her for?
Got to be kidding!
I mean... she can't do this to me!
I have studied how the West was won.
http://stanley.pacion.googlepages.com/sexandhistory
http://www.youtube.com/StanleyPacion
http://www.stanleypacion.com/home.html/
CHICAGO THEME
Hey! She can't do this to me!
I'm an American!
I was born and raised in Illinois.
History taught me about Lincoln's Volunteers,
They were the ones who burned Old Dixie down.
I'm the Pepsodent kid,
I have hung out on the skin of my teeth.
My uncle was a dog catcher.
From him, I learned to capture animals in heat.
Where I come from -- there is no foolin' around.
Where does she get the nerve?
She leaves me home alone for months on end.
I've known speeds, man, faster than Flash Gordon,
I can fly from planet to planet,
Find and live amongst a whole new breed,
What do I need her for?
Got to be kidding!
I mean... she can't do this to me!
I have studied how the West was won.
Monday, November 8, 2010
DEAD BURTON
http://www.abigbookofmyown.com/
http://stanley.pacion.googlepages.com/sexandhistory
http://www.youtube.com/StanleyPacion
http://www.stanleypacion.com/home.html/
DEAD BURTON
It would not be right to say he kicked the bucket.
First the surgeon clipped a couple of toes.
But before too long he took a foot,
The doctor cut it off almost at the ankle.
Yes, it was a very dreary business.
Burton was chopped down.
His disease had brought the big man down,
Burton, down, and of him the adage reads:
Above life itself, he loved his drink.
The genie was in the bottle,
Her spirit, more to him than family and friends,
He held her close,
And fondled her, until death did them part.
http://stanley.pacion.googlepages.com/sexandhistory
http://www.youtube.com/StanleyPacion
http://www.stanleypacion.com/home.html/
DEAD BURTON
It would not be right to say he kicked the bucket.
First the surgeon clipped a couple of toes.
But before too long he took a foot,
The doctor cut it off almost at the ankle.
Yes, it was a very dreary business.
Burton was chopped down.
His disease had brought the big man down,
Burton, down, and of him the adage reads:
Above life itself, he loved his drink.
The genie was in the bottle,
Her spirit, more to him than family and friends,
He held her close,
And fondled her, until death did them part.
Sunday, November 7, 2010
NOD, On the East of Eden
http://www.abigbookofmyown.com/
http://stanley.pacion.googlepages.com/sexandhistory
http://www.youtube.com/StanleyPacion
http://www.stanleypacion.com/home.html/
NOD,
On the East of Eden
Hey girlfriend,
There are things about me that you do not know.
There are things which you might not understand.
Sorry to say, yet let me tell you,
There are things that you could never understand,
And sadly, the terrible corollary,
You should not understand.
I run with the pack.
Its dens sit in the land of Nod.
I dwell in a place on the east of Eden.
http://stanley.pacion.googlepages.com/sexandhistory
http://www.youtube.com/StanleyPacion
http://www.stanleypacion.com/home.html/
NOD,
On the East of Eden
Hey girlfriend,
There are things about me that you do not know.
There are things which you might not understand.
Sorry to say, yet let me tell you,
There are things that you could never understand,
And sadly, the terrible corollary,
You should not understand.
I run with the pack.
Its dens sit in the land of Nod.
I dwell in a place on the east of Eden.
Wednesday, November 3, 2010
POET, The Gift, November 2010, Rewrite
http://www.abigbookofmyown.com/
http://stanley.pacion.googlepages.com/sexandhistory
http://www.youtube.com/StanleyPacion
http://www.stanleypacion.com/home.html/
POET,
The Gift,
November 2010, Rewrite
He was a boy who sang Ave Maria
With clarity and perfect pitch,
It was as if angels had arranged his vocal chords,
And his lungs filled with a breathe, so resolute and full,
Many felt his voice must have come from Heaven.
His gift transported those who heard him,
It seemed to have opened a door to celestial level.
One night in early winter,
He walked home after church.
About him was hoarfrost,
And world enveloped, everything bent and drooping,
It was laden by the weight of ice from freezing rain.
Yet the cold, that cold, Chicago weather,
It could not withstand the heat,
Nothing was greater than the warmth of his singing.
And the dreams he dreamed upon the pathways,
The visions which accompanied the joy of his voice,
The joy of his voice in exultation,
When later he came to compose them,
Releasing their cadences, their images and similes,
They were bold, like the Ninety-Five Thesis.
They had weight and proclaimed new religion.
The old ecclesiastical order fell to great commotion;
The narrative had to be heard,
It compelled the choosing of sides,
Either pro or con, neutral ground no longer possible!
And when he read from his verses
His voice was the same, the same
That marveled all as when he began his singing,
Awestruck reverence fell upon those who heard it,
It reverberated, and rang like the bells of the steeples,
The crystalline delight, the tintinnabulation,
Euphony voluminously welled, a music, which
Lifted ordinary mind to outsized conception,
It increased devotion, and advanced praise to rapture,
Why it brought grown women to their knees!
And the dreams he dreamed upon the pathways,
When he later came to compose them,
Releasing their cadences, their images and similes,
They were bold, like the Ninety-Five Thesis.
They had weight and proclaimed new religion.
The old ecclesiastical order fell to great commotion;
The narrative had to be heard,
It compelled the choosing of sides,
Either pro or con, neutral ground no longer possible!
http://stanley.pacion.googlepages.com/sexandhistory
http://www.youtube.com/StanleyPacion
http://www.stanleypacion.com/home.html/
POET,
The Gift,
November 2010, Rewrite
He was a boy who sang Ave Maria
With clarity and perfect pitch,
It was as if angels had arranged his vocal chords,
And his lungs filled with a breathe, so resolute and full,
Many felt his voice must have come from Heaven.
His gift transported those who heard him,
It seemed to have opened a door to celestial level.
One night in early winter,
He walked home after church.
About him was hoarfrost,
And world enveloped, everything bent and drooping,
It was laden by the weight of ice from freezing rain.
Yet the cold, that cold, Chicago weather,
It could not withstand the heat,
Nothing was greater than the warmth of his singing.
And the dreams he dreamed upon the pathways,
The visions which accompanied the joy of his voice,
The joy of his voice in exultation,
When later he came to compose them,
Releasing their cadences, their images and similes,
They were bold, like the Ninety-Five Thesis.
They had weight and proclaimed new religion.
The old ecclesiastical order fell to great commotion;
The narrative had to be heard,
It compelled the choosing of sides,
Either pro or con, neutral ground no longer possible!
And when he read from his verses
His voice was the same, the same
That marveled all as when he began his singing,
Awestruck reverence fell upon those who heard it,
It reverberated, and rang like the bells of the steeples,
The crystalline delight, the tintinnabulation,
Euphony voluminously welled, a music, which
Lifted ordinary mind to outsized conception,
It increased devotion, and advanced praise to rapture,
Why it brought grown women to their knees!
And the dreams he dreamed upon the pathways,
When he later came to compose them,
Releasing their cadences, their images and similes,
They were bold, like the Ninety-Five Thesis.
They had weight and proclaimed new religion.
The old ecclesiastical order fell to great commotion;
The narrative had to be heard,
It compelled the choosing of sides,
Either pro or con, neutral ground no longer possible!
Tuesday, November 2, 2010
JAMES EARL RAY* November 2010, Rewirte
http://www.abigbookofmyown.com/
http://stanley.pacion.googlepages.com/sexandhistory
http://www.youtube.com/StanleyPacion
http://www.stanleypacion.com/home.html/
JAMES EARL RAY*
November 2010, Rewrite
He was known to be the kind of guy,
Who studied every brick and crack,
And by sight alone, jailhouse legend claims,
He could spot a weak steel bar.
Escape was always on his mind.
He was a single-minded psychopath,
Always on the run, he loved disguises,
And had plenty of aliases and false IDs.
The man could hide in plain sight.
*He was convicted of the assassination of Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. He confessed to the crime and passed on a jury trial. A habitual criminal, Ray was sentenced to 99 years in prison. Later he recanted his confession and unsuccessfully tried to gain a trial. He died in prison in 1998
http://stanley.pacion.googlepages.com/sexandhistory
http://www.youtube.com/StanleyPacion
http://www.stanleypacion.com/home.html/
JAMES EARL RAY*
November 2010, Rewrite
He was known to be the kind of guy,
Who studied every brick and crack,
And by sight alone, jailhouse legend claims,
He could spot a weak steel bar.
Escape was always on his mind.
He was a single-minded psychopath,
Always on the run, he loved disguises,
And had plenty of aliases and false IDs.
The man could hide in plain sight.
*He was convicted of the assassination of Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. He confessed to the crime and passed on a jury trial. A habitual criminal, Ray was sentenced to 99 years in prison. Later he recanted his confession and unsuccessfully tried to gain a trial. He died in prison in 1998
Monday, November 1, 2010
HEART’S ON FIRE! Lunch at Panera
http://www.abigbookofmyown.com/
http://stanley.pacion.googlepages.com/sexandhistory
http://www.youtube.com/StanleyPacion
http://www.stanleypacion.com/home.html/
HEART’S ON FIRE!
Lunch at Panera
The streets are joyous, full of fun.
I hear laughter wherever I go.
I could not ask for more.
I walk to the door of our home,
Then, before I enter,
I picture you and hear your warm, ‘Hello!’
With racing mind and energetic flesh –
I can not believe it, the joy!
I burn intensely! Heart’s on fire!
Something here inside can not be denied.
You want to stay, to be my friend.
When we sit down for sandwiches
And the simple glass of water,
Two washed apples for desert,
We note that future ages will write,
Record that our table talk had grandeur;
More and more I am beginning to feel
That our words at lunchtime may attain immortality.
Everything we do dissolves the difference,
We loose distinction between yours and mine.
I see out the window,
A bright light illuminates the scene.
I need no coin for the wishing well.
My goal is close at hand.
I have never witnessed
Such contentment on a woman’s face.
.
The web radio forecasts sunny days.
Now I learn the poet’s proclamation,
The meaning of new morning,
That though I, unworthy and lost, have grace,
Sufficient that I may delight in weakness,
Know triumph from hardship and failure,
That when I am weak, then I am strong,
And despite my want, lack of proper schooling,
The Lord grants me righteousness,
At my command vocabulary of redemption,
I am reborn,
The bounty of great love saved me.
No matter the physical distance between us.
A part of you, a part of me always stays with us.
I take you in my arms and hold you,
As I hold you in this verse of mine.
Let me take you in my arms and tell you
How much I have missed you,
I miss you so very much since we have been apart
.
http://stanley.pacion.googlepages.com/sexandhistory
http://www.youtube.com/StanleyPacion
http://www.stanleypacion.com/home.html/
HEART’S ON FIRE!
Lunch at Panera
The streets are joyous, full of fun.
I hear laughter wherever I go.
I could not ask for more.
I walk to the door of our home,
Then, before I enter,
I picture you and hear your warm, ‘Hello!’
With racing mind and energetic flesh –
I can not believe it, the joy!
I burn intensely! Heart’s on fire!
Something here inside can not be denied.
You want to stay, to be my friend.
When we sit down for sandwiches
And the simple glass of water,
Two washed apples for desert,
We note that future ages will write,
Record that our table talk had grandeur;
More and more I am beginning to feel
That our words at lunchtime may attain immortality.
Everything we do dissolves the difference,
We loose distinction between yours and mine.
I see out the window,
A bright light illuminates the scene.
I need no coin for the wishing well.
My goal is close at hand.
I have never witnessed
Such contentment on a woman’s face.
.
The web radio forecasts sunny days.
Now I learn the poet’s proclamation,
The meaning of new morning,
That though I, unworthy and lost, have grace,
Sufficient that I may delight in weakness,
Know triumph from hardship and failure,
That when I am weak, then I am strong,
And despite my want, lack of proper schooling,
The Lord grants me righteousness,
At my command vocabulary of redemption,
I am reborn,
The bounty of great love saved me.
No matter the physical distance between us.
A part of you, a part of me always stays with us.
I take you in my arms and hold you,
As I hold you in this verse of mine.
Let me take you in my arms and tell you
How much I have missed you,
I miss you so very much since we have been apart
.
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