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Saturday, September 29, 2012


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From childhood on he had earned his reputation.

He was known to be the type of guy,
Who studied every brick and crack,
And by sight alone, so 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.

ETTA, 1971

As of this date my YOUTUBE Channel has received 185,000 + Single Page Visits, Video Views! A Google Search of the terms Stanley Pacion YouTube Channel yields a result count of 4,530,00.
ETTA, 1971

It was you who once said that you felt like an open flower.

When I remembered your remark,
I thought it strange that it should come to mind,
Considering how many of the names of good friends
From those past times I now have already forgotten.

I can still envision us walking off into the field,
And me leaning up against the side of the tall Sycamore,
While we talked those nights during our one summer together.

The last time I saw you was nearly a decade ago.


There are doors which I have shut forever.
Books in my library I shall never reopen.
Mirrors which will not reflect my image ever again. 


WELL! WELL! WELL! Her Pretense

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Her Pretense

Well, well, well! It won’t be long now,
Our love, how it plays its final story,
Like all else belonging to world’s glory,
Soon ends and will be no more.

Perhaps we never meet again.
We learn the awful ache,
What separation means,
When time runs out, and we see
It’s too late to mend a heart,
A heart which has been rendered, torn apart.

Right now I feel it’s true,
We shall never meet again, while
Yet we remain this side of heaven, while
We still abide on earth’s shore of the river.

Strange, yeah, how fragile my hope
(Really quite ridiculous!)
That you stop it with your forked tongue,
Abandon your bad habit, and proclaim,

Just admit it; you broke the deal!
And, as for me, you know the story,
Surrender, otherwise, forget it.

Just tell all, say to one and all,
I am gone, you’ve done me wrong.
I swear, I don’t care, I don’t care.
I am gone, gone, gone, gone!

The hurt is bad, real bad.
I am through with you in my face.


Remember the time when I begged,
Had to implore, time after time, and again.
Truth be known, it was an easy request;
I wanted a few month’s itinerary.

You pretended not to know the meaning,
You pretended not to know
the meaning of the common, English word, itinerary.
And when you had finally succumbed to my beseeching,
And sent me your plans, you fabricated a calender,
None of the timings proved true.

Awful, actually very sad,
After all the time we had spent together,
Treachery, simplest poetic conceit sums it,
It was game; you played me.
You had a pack of lies.

I’ve had it! I’m really gone! Moved on,
Because you have done me wrong!

Tuesday, September 25, 2012


As of this date my YOUTUBE Channel has received 185,000 + Single Page Visits, Video Views! A Google Search of the terms Stanley Pacion YouTube Channel yields a result count of 4,530,00.

She offered him a bottle of Fresca;
It had been already opened and part drunk.
Then she made an off-handed remark
Claiming to have no communicable disease.

How was she to know that he required
No reassurance, that in fact he was eager to seek
A place where his lips might alight upon hers?

He drank down the rest of the soda in a couple gulps.

Sunday, September 23, 2012


As of this date my YOUTUBE Channel has received 184,000 + Single Page Visits, Video Views! A Google Search of the terms Stanley Pacion YouTube Channel yields a result count of 4,530,00.

Thank you, Bacchus. You let me go,
Freed me from your treacherous hold.

The enemy's army caught our ranks unaware;
Our generals had failed to figure on all-out assault.

An awful panic ensued.
I had not the time to grab my boots.
I ran across the Sinai.
I hoped to survive and make it home.
Though still early morning, yet the sand was hot.
Before too long my feet were sorely burned.
Snipers hid among the rocks and hills;
They shot and killed us, almost everyone.

Thank you Bacchus. You let me go,
Freed me from your treacherous hold.

I crossed the Nile and my injuries healed,
From death in the desert, abandoned and alone,
Your grace had saved me.
Now I share this marvelous tale;
The troops in rout and I had prevailed.

*Bacchus is the Roman god of wine; he has a number of darker associations, one of them is the disorder apparent when an army suffers a calamitous defeat.

Sunday, September 16, 2012

THE WORLD, By the Grace of God

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By the Grace of God

True, though now it seems strange, when I look back,
Relate the times which once were mine.
I see the men from Columbia
Easy in their thousand-dollar suits
With their handsome shirts and special neckties,
And me riding as a guest
In the back-seat comfort of their limousines,
I recall those gents had super-cool, Castilian accents.

I remember, too, those, my other buddies,
Back, at the moment they were standing tall,
And we, the boys, were out on the town;
We had ticket to the premier, opening night of The World.
And though we dwelt in Village East,
We were packin’, packin’,
Might have been figures playing cowboy,
Ready for justice out in the Old West

I hear the voice of that dazzle, the black woman,
Who, though she sang backup,
Her timbre commandeered the band.
She sang above the whirling electronic rifts,
Above the sound, which guitars and piano hammered,
A harmony, then to a counter-melody,
A contralto with a volume which reached right up, it hit
The wall behind the last row of the ballroom balcony.
I recollect the people scream, “Oh, Sister!” 

I smell the spray paint, fresh upon the scrim.

It stupefies me how that past, it still reigns,
Though much, so much else
In the run against time tumbles and disappears.

Right before me, I see, see, the images of the dead,
I had not thought death had undone so many.

And for those who survived, when truth is said,
Hear it, hear it!
Let it reverberate among the circle of friends,
Declare it in the rooms and down the corridors,
Where the living have stacked the chairs,
Or have folded them and set them aside
In order to clear the way and let others see safe passage.

Let it be known, there we go, lost, dead,
But for the Grace, for it is Grace, alone,
Which brings us hope of daily reprieve,
Each morning after morning, a day at a time.

Wednesday, September 12, 2012


As of this date my YOUTUBE Channel has received 182,000 + Single Page Visits, Video Views! A Google Search of the terms Stanley Pacion YouTube Channel yields a result count of 4,530,00.

I know it's cosmic!
It's like, heavy, man!

Mystery inscrutable to regular analytical tools,
A Logic whose outcome sits beyond
Scope of rational, academic exercise!

Even if I had my desk in library stacks
And with it ready reference to twenty, one-foot-thick
Ancient texts, I doubt any human learning might lead me
(However diligent my application) to fathom what luck
Had brought you into my arms,
And yet tonight continues my rapture.

Though perhaps I should not appear unduly surprised,
Still I wonder, how in a parking garage,
A great space, which on weekends became a swap meet,
A regular New York City in-door, flea market,
Offering all kinds of old and colorful goods for sale,
Row after row of tables and stalls,
Set against both sides of wide aisles,
Had love found its way through all the material clutter.

I ask, what Providence had prompted Frankie,
My friend, and my helper, a man,
Who always had kept to his own counsel,
-- This, the one time, for he never, never
Interfered, ventured opinion on any other matter! --
He interrupted the normal, business routine,
The booth’s weekly setup.
He used all the resolve he could muster,
And reiterated to me, not once,
But on at least, half-dozen, separate occasions,
A notion that you and I were right,
Good, one for the other, in every special way.

He said you wanted me.

You later objected,
Said no such thought had ever entered your head,
That his estimation about your feelings toward me
Was wrong, simply mistaken, yet, you also confided,
Women frequently flirt to their business advantage.

I had noticed you, to be sure!

You were a regular customer.
A tall woman, and skinny, you had long brown hair,
And a nice face with a quick smile.
I shall always remember
The way you hurried through your purchases
With attentive eyes and lengthy fingers,
How sprite your manner and step!

Still no thought of romance had entered my mind.
I had not imagined us a suitable couple.

No! Not at all,
Until that one, the one, very early morning, when,
During a heavy rainstorm, I drove across Brooklyn
To collect you from the hostel.
We were going antiquing.
It was to be our first daylong excursion,
And in what seemed a proper gesture at the time,
I stopped at an all-night shop, and bought you
A single, exotic flower in a clear glass vase.

You, sister, limestone island, Baltic, woman,
I, who had sprung from the land-locked plains of Illinois,

Across countless markets and through
All the many wares we had examined for purchase,
For the decades, the year after year,
We had been searching,
Searching and searching, hoping for treasure,
Now there it lay before us, a worth whose value matched
The highest dollar bid at an Old-Master auction.

Consider it, the millions-to-one odds
Stacked against our favor, I... I, I mean, really!

I trust you have come to believe that
This thing of ours rests outside human command.

And let us remember,
Whomsoever the divine designates together,
No mortal may draw asunder.

This is it! I do! I do love you!

Tonight the pilot naps in the back seat.
I fly the aircraft. The bright,
Rollover arrows signal the glide path.
And over the wire direct to my ear,
Ten thousand watts propel the voice.
It says, “You do! You do love her!” Facebook Privacy

 Oh what a wicked, wicked world we all inhabit!  How many the snares which are set to trap us.  Too, we must remember that the Ecuadorian Embassies world-wide are usually very small and are unlikely to provide we ordinary humans refuge from the storm, alas! Facebook Privacy

Thursday, September 6, 2012


As of this date my YOUTUBE Channel has received 181,000 + Single Page Visits, Video Views! A Google Search of the terms Stanley Pacion YouTube Channel yields a result count of 4,530,00.

Tempus fugit,
So the ancient adage goes.
But it prompts me to say,
Hey Virgil, this is stupid stuff,
Because for me at home alone
The clock has stopped.

Then, when I take another glance,
I realize from the timepiece's face
That I had been mistaken, my impression wrong,
There has been some movement,
That the clock’s hands have apparently moved.

Yet far from time fleeting,
The hours drag, even the second hand --
Its motion becomes imperceptibly slow,
When you are gone and
Day and night must be faced alone.

And you write to me and say that before long
You will return home. You declare that
Less than three weeks remain,
Soon, you add, your absence this day turns to memory,

And confidently note that time really does fly!

But for me, however you may try to comfort me,
Your consolation, it does nothing to hasten the hours!
When I hear the clock, note the spaces
Between its regular tick-to-tock, those intervals,
They appear as if they were eternity, and your absence
-- Your face no longer upon your pillow,
Your body missing from your side of the bed --
You, you seem now to have been gone forever.

I know. I know. I exaggerate!
Yet I am not acclimated to them,
These phenomena of your leaving,
Your terrible disappearances for the sake of business,
These separations, I may never become used to them.

You were reared different from me.

When you were still a child,
Your father was a frequent traveler;
You became habituated to the longing,
And you learned to practice
The ruse which had told your inner self that
He will be home before you know it.

I can hear you and your mother practicing the phrase,
When dad was gone and you two sat at home alone,
“Oh the days go by so fast!”

The electronic image of time before me
(to the bottom-right on the computer screen)
It reads 8:59PM.
It sits. It waits. My God, Darling!
My God! I hope you see the situation.

My condition is desperate.

The clock no longer runs.
For me here and languishing without you
Time stops.

I wish you were in my arms tonight.

Sunday, September 2, 2012

BY LOVE BEGUILED, Edited Version 2012

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BY LOVE BEGUILED, Edited Version 2012

Don't get me wrong.
If I appear distracted,
Look knocked out by the light,
You make a very strong appearance,
A singularity into whose inexplicable center my mind spins.

I remember once, years ago,
When I landed in New York,
After living a year and half in Europe,
How the neon of America,
It appeared so awesomely garish, and bright.
Yet, when I close my eyes and picture it,

All seems pale before the radiance of your face.

That we, two people, would meet for morning breakfast,
Look out the café's windows at the steady rain,
Then, under the cover of our umbrellas,
Walk here and there, along avenues of inviting store fronts,
Have an early coffee and tea,
Or do I have the hour wrong,
Might the time better be described as brunch,
Or was it at an hour still later, and in another place,
In the afternoon, say somewhere on the Turnpike,
Or when we stopped at a crossroad to check our map,
At first I thought it might be vapors, something in the air,
Then I mulled the question over once again, and figured,
It must have been an electromagnetic charge, and I wondered,
Had a fluke momentary electricity overwhelmed us?

Or perhaps it was cupid who stole
Behind fixtures of the thoroughfares?
I thought I had spied him crouched near a mailbox,
At start of our walk on Main Street in Point Pleasant!

The winged child pulled from his quiver, arrows,
Their heads were dipped in love potion,
– My thinking ran to the lines of the ancient story --
That once he aimed and shot them,
Grievously their tear into our mortal flesh.
I knew his wound would make for a ruckus extraordinaire.

I felt that expectations were suddenly turning great.

This romance presses hard upon me.
I find myself bound up, an affection drives me
It barks a claim beyond everyday physical experience.
I am being compelled to express it.

To gain your confidence,
To prove my mind sound, not at loss to reason,
I couch my verse
In a mood commonly called the subjunctive.

Though the posing of this frame of mind
Has little usage in today's English,
I try its grammar, or, is it, pretend to use it, so to temper
My over-wrought emotion and to quiet,
Soften my immodest and elevated parlance.

Were I not to employ this principle of language,
One might believe my love for you be shameless.

The mood, also, provides proper relief
For the all, too-far-out attitude, the conceit,
Which has me begging
The suspension of common sense and natural order
In order to pose an audacious proposition
As having a semblance of truth,
That I have come to possess a gift, as it were,
That Higher Power had granted me prophetic mantle.

Understand. I solely express my own wish and desire,
That all I say remains contingent,
The frame of mind here still hypothetical and dependent.

I do not use the imperative, I make no demand.
I have no special outcome in mind.
I dwell in fortress called Zion,
And come from it in the Pilgrims' coat and hat.
I look in the mirror and see their collar and tie.
And, like those passengers on board the Mayflower,
I know the Lord to be my helper. I fear not.

Who among your former friends has ever said it better?

And were you to live a long and hearty life
As all actuaries predict, what future friend
Might ever phrase it near as well as I have put it?

And if you ask the source of this lyric

That it arrive, as I propose, transcending the usual,
Everyday manner and common syntax, I must rejoin
That Sentiment Supreme, Him, the real pilot,

That when we drove in the white, Ford van and crossed
Jersey's North shore highways, while the soft brown,

Oh that magic, dream-like, living, pale, ethereal,

And somewhat golden light accented the downpours,
Whose constant unleashed falling, more
Like rain the Lord had promised Noah,
Than any explicable, temporary phenomenon of weather.

Wie es eigentlich gewesen.

“The carriage held but just us -- and immortality.”

That when we traveled our first day together,
Though it is months ago, and now becomes the years,
All the time which has passed, I suggest
That it feels shorter than the day, that day
I first surmised the engine's mounts
Were tied to point, and that we, too, were belted, on board,
Hurled straight ahead in solemn league with Eternity.

Mercy, let it be known, Mercy freely bestowed,

Not for this, the one earthly moment,
But for our children’s children,
Drawn and signed, and at once delivered,
A grant for us and them, settled in this verse,
And from where, you might ask, derives this trust,
Sure as Word once promised Abraham?

I hear the text my grandmother spoke.
I see her at work when she ironed and folded,
Yet while she stooped to lay the laundry
Into the wicker oval basket at her feet,
And I, the child, I watched her nod the affirmative nod,
I saw that as she smiled a light had joined her face,
Today I repeat to you what she said to me,

“And I shall bless them that bless you,
And curse him that curses you...”
And then the line which revealed,
She told me how the stanza means,
I hear the words my grandmother said,
That in you, I say through you, my darling, “... in you
“Shall all the families of the earth be blessed.” 


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