These are the facts, nothing here but the facts. I was on the road to Damascus via a street in the West Village in New York City, when, in an instant, barometric pressure had dropped 100 MB. Darkness enveloped an eleven-o’clock-morning sun. It may have been a trick of the mind, or some kind of serious panic disorder. Although I could no longer see, I pictured myself a child on a visit to my great grandmother's house in La Salle, Illinois. In my head I felt as though a tornado was approaching...
http://www.indiaeveryday.in/video/u/StanleyPacion.htm?ss=true Tweet As of this date my YOUTUBE Channel has received 168,000 + Single Page Uploads, Visits!A Google Search of the termsStanley Pacion YouTube Channel yields a result count of 4,560,00. LINES WRITTEN IN OCTOBER, Version, April 2012
Oh where are you, my lovely? How is it that you stay away? What strangeness drives you, Turns our love into disappointment and woe?
I imagine that you must have your reasons.
Yet do not suppose a simple story!
Do not count yourself as chief player, the subject, And, me, the writer, who writes a conventional, Everyday tale about love won and lost, The common drama which depicts us flying To marvelous heights and then dropping To a hard, low-bottom sorrow.
For us there is no script with a beginning and an end.
The story stays; it remains the same. Unlike all other sublunary things, it does not change.
You shine, darling, you shine. Tonight you are bright and eternal. And every morning you arise steadfast; Your light warms my heart.
God’s
will be done, And
that you have the power to carry it out.
And
I add,
I
hold belief, whose strength
No
public fire, no coliseum of wild, hungry beasts,
No
awful rendition, torture in far-off land,
Might
ever shake, nothing my faith dissuade,
Yes!
Certain, as I write,
For
you awaits the greatest gift -- That
at the hour when you awake and start the day, You
will have come to believe, And
learn to say a simple prayer, ‘Thank
You. Thank You, Lord, for life, And
yet all You do for me.’
I know what to do! I am not at a loss, despondent, or down and out, Not at all! I've got plenty of options. I'll run an ad on Craigslist, Or a personal in one of those free weeklies.
Hey there are plenty dating sites on the web!
I'll write, Single, White, Male, Looking for a muse, A girl to inflame my verse, Make my heart sing a wondrous refrain.
I'll say she must be educated and smart, Tall, slim, and good with money, A brunet, who has a pleasant smile, And whose buttocks own an exquisite form.
I'll require her voice to possess subtle timbre, Her smell to be sweet and, above all, I'll demand that she be Disciplined in work and habit, Someone to put me to bed early, And early to arise, a woman who might Qualify suitable mother for a child or two.
Oh! Did I forget to mention? I want large brown eyes and an olive complexion.
So don't think, don't believe for a moment, That you are elemental, like some sustenance crucial To happiness and breathe, for you are not. Ha! You see how easily you can be replaced!
Get it straight! I know what to do. Honest! It's not that big of a deal. I'll run an ad on Craigslist, Or a personal in one of those free weeklies.
As of this date my YOUTUBE Channel has received 167,000 + Single Page Uploads, Visits!A Google Search of the termsStanley Pacion YouTube Channel yields a result count of 4,560,00. CATULLUS POEM 11, An Adaptation of an Ancient Roman Love Verse, Rewrite
Christopher, Billy,
Hey guys! Do Stanley the favor, and tell her, Please, convey the message.
Tell her, he is afoot upon Indian Ocean shores, And this time he has consort, A glory maiden, who owns a girdle, a mid drift With such exacting, tiny measure That it focuses her form in a symmetry well-nigh perfect. Why it brings joy to any man when he spies it!
His new love, a love as beautiful and striking as Ocean waves whose presentation evokes Eternity in the cradle swell of mighty motion. And she, stepping along before the crash of waves, Her feet springing through the water, As it flows and sweeps along the shore, Yes, my friends, I tell you true, She complements the paradise of the beach. Her gait carries hint of the everlasting, . Her voice, what echoes the sound of the sea, And like the woman, herself, is magnificent, She, how else might he describe her, Another sensual gift born of the fruitful palms.
Try to say it right, guys, make her jealous.
Or if you feel that story too convenient for her to believe, Tell her. Stanley goes alone into the Ganges plain, and Seeks to follow the time line of empire and civilization, Or, maybe better yet, that he has turned To sign post pointing north To the glacier’s cave, the river’s mouth, Where sky animates the waters in spectrum of colors, Which, when running against The half-submerged rocks and boulders, Uplifts such awesome scintillating, incandescent spray That pilgrims must rub their eyes and wonder, They must assure themselves that they are awake, And have not fallen into the magic of a dreamland slumber.
Billy, Christopher, my friends, let her know, Let that woman know, How close to heaven is the mouth of the river, How great God's gift whose flow begins At ice-bound, cavern source in the Himalayas!
Tell her that Stanley is gone, Tell her what you will, That he has discovered new love and spends his time With wondrous companion on East-Indian, ocean shore, Or that he retires to a mountain cave, and lives alone.
But, should it be, and Stanley must run even farther, As if, he must vanish So to escape her haunt, her awful memory, Here's a good one, See if this story strikes a spark in the devil lady's eyes. Run the tale that Stanley sets blanket on sand in old Siam, Where lovely Buddha women administer, His every physical need, and teach religious tenets That might bring soul to calm And show person path to new knowledge.
Tell her, he travels to the Far East.
2.
And should you hear that she still follows him, You may note, but do not share with others.
Keep this destination to yourselves. It's a secret!
Stanley escapes to Australia, First to the city, Perth, to acclimate himself to life, Where under influence of the Southern Cross Astrology may chart a better course of life.
And should he not find peace. On that island-continent’s western shore, Know he treks the long, highway east, Traveling from mile post to mile post Out from Bunbury toward the Outback, Past roads with names like Starvation and Reptile, ‘Crossing the Nullarbor’, and then down south To Port Adelaide and across the eight hundred miles To the docks and wharfs of Melbourne, and once there, In Victoria, he turns to the North and East, Beyond Eden and Milton on Highway 1, To find Gulburra, where he meets his Australia, A bathing beauty, a blond and tall, true love, A maid known for her moral character, It happens while he walks out upon the sand, Against bright, bright sky as South Pacific burgeons, And it makes its great roll onto the white of Surf Beach.
Billy, Christoper, tell her he has found a way to cope With her turning everything in his world upside down.
3.
Oh his friends, his buddies, Billy, Christopher! Though you are ready and might wish to hurry, To travel and visit, to join him in this remote geography, -- We all live according to Destiny’s will -- You may believe him when he declares Happiness comes to all good men as do the rays, The bright that comes to souls with summer’s sun,
Announce, would you please, would you let her know, Yet before he had departed that he left these words?
No need temper his assessment, good comrades.
Do not bother to ask that she forgive his unkindness.
Tell her, he tired of living beneath her continued deceit, Her stubborn refusal ever to admit the truth, Her lie upon lie, until her and his own head spin, No real memory, no living history, All concoction, each and every personal event, She not remembering a word she said.
And let her live and love, May she have three hundred lovers or more, And disappoint whomever her unhappiness encounter, That her self hatred destroys whatever hopes some Good and noble might have, Cursed are those who fail to discern her treachery!
Here Stanley cleaves unto the words of Catullus, When, once upon a time, and so long ago, The ancient poet had come to realize the term, whore, Was a word he meant to stand for her insatiable lying.
As for Stanley, and his love, All that love of his which had been hers for the embracing, His deep regard is gone and in this, our pagan world, No forgiveness, no promise of the resurrection, No flower, once the farmer’s passing plow Deracinates and mangles it, No flower may hope to live and flourish, It has no future and never blooms, again.
It would not be right to say he kicked the bucket.
First, the surgeon clipped a couple of toes. But before too long he lost his 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.
What love! He held her close, How he caressed her mouth to mouth, He clenched her with hands whose such strength No mortal man might ever asunder, And he fondled her, and was true to her, Until death did them part.
As of this date my YOUTUBE Channel has received 167,000 + Single Page Uploads, Visits!A Google Search of the termsStanley Pacion YouTube Channel yields a result count of 4,560,00. LOVE POETRY, Lost Without You, Reread, April 2012
How about some love poetry?
Right now I am so desperate for your touch That I can barely speak, let alone write a thing.
I could walk out the door into the hallway And scream with such ferocity The neighbors might think I have taken leave of my senses.
When I think of food, Nothing compares to how I savor you.
When I contemplate delightful vision, You are the only vision in my eyes.
I love all music, But no sound is better than your voice. I await every telephone call, And lead you with questions, Just to hear the timbre of your talk, which I adore.
Nothing makes me sadder than a bad connection.
Oh! Baby! I love your smell. Intoxicated and pathetic, I make the bed, And fluff the pillows, I do so expecting the redolence of you. And when you are gone, Even after a day or two, And your aroma is lost, I am lost, too.
At wits end, I circle the bed, And pace the bedroom floor, like some pet Whose master has not returned home.
