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Tuesday, July 31, 2012


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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,
Whose command overwhelms all good sense,
And allows me the audacity to hope
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, 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 oval wicker 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 will 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.” 

LOVE STORY, At the Hardware Store

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At the Hardware Store

Hey! Dad,
Try as hard as I can,
I won’t be able to finish the inventory.

Count up the boxes of screws?

Can’t get the details straight,
The length, the head type,
Each with its own box,
Then a number labeling each screw's thickness.

Those entry cells,
The lines and columns, the pages and pages,
And all that computation demand a clear head.

My mind's in disarray. I am sick.

That accountant, he’ll have to wait.
Let's hope I feel better.

Blame Aphrodite,

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

Monday, July 30, 2012


As of this date my YOUTUBE Channel has received 177,000 + Single Page Visits, Video Views! A Google Search of the terms Stanley Pacion YouTube Channel yields a result count of 2,200,00.
After a Gabriela Mistral's Love Poem*

And never, never more to see her form,
Not even a glimpse of her,
Not in the nights filled with trembling stars,
Or at noon when bright light
Feeds and graces every living thing,
How do I believe that I may never see her again?

Never, never, again, to witness her walking
Upon the kicked up dirt of the bridle path,
Along the river, underneath the shadow of trees,
Never, her body, her feet, leaping up, then to trod
The white-washed stones of the causeway?

I wonder if she remembers the bridge, the one
Topping the low-rise concrete dam there at New Hope?
I told her as we looked to the river below
That nothing had sufficient strength,
That no material exists to control the overflow,
Is there nothing to contain my flood of feelings for her?

How else might I relate my mood?
Ask the pertinent question?

Never, never, again, to eye her fleshly presence,
Entangled, standing in the tresses of the forest,
Or stooped, gathering strawberries, picking them
One by one from the plants, her, the image of her,
Out between the raised earth rows
And the troughs in the truck-farm field,
No more to have such vision, not once more,
How am I ever to conclude so terrible a destiny?

And here at home I forget I walk big-city sidewalks,
Yet while the night, the late hours envelop me,
My cries echo, repeat my anguish.

Through the empty parking lots and off the brick walls,
Against building after building,
My voice carries, yet seemingly I am not heard,
Though occasionally some one person may look,
Shake a head from side to side at my sorry spectacle,
Most people walk past, eyes down, as if I do not exist, yet
Over and over, I hear myself implore her to return to me;
Should I not, and is it not better to forget her?

Oh, no! To see her again,
Not important, makes no difference, where,
It does not matter when
-- My, my I beseech Mercy to grant my wish! --
If today I should have glimpse of her in the heavens,
I divert my eyes and glance up,
Her face set against a deep, blue patch of sky,

Or perhaps tomorrow in the vortex,
Within the swirling ocean power,
The whirlpool force which carries all kinds of debris,
When a ship and all its glory sinks,
Down, down into the Sailors’ Locker,
Would it be possible that image of her still surfaces,
That I have sight of her, though all else disappears,
Yet sun has set,
And moon light is the scene's sole illuminate?

Oh, no! To see her again, and to view her in the moment
When the volcano opens
And I am there before the lurid, red hell-mouth,
And witness its demons’ roaring spew of steam and ash,
Yet even such terrific instant be granted me,

I do not flinch, I am steadfast,
I have no fear of misadventure.
I look into the conflagration.
I do not plug my ears, I listen,
And from within earth’s deep, far-away core,
Amidst the Hurley burly of all the explosions,
Within the lightning claps and clamor,
The mad noise of boulders being thrown
I hear it! I hear her name, Etta, Etta!
I see her face and lovely shape,
She, she dances above the fires!

Yes, I admit her deviltry besets me.

And to be with her in all the spring times,
And in all the winters,
Entwined in paroxysm of mighty-muscle clench,
While I suck up the blood from her neck,
And spot her flesh all over,
Make it black and blue with the power of my caresses,
Should I ever hold her in my arms,
Might Hope let me see her again.

*The Chilean and Noble Prize for Literature, poet, Gabriela Mistral had entitled her poem Volverlo a Ver, To See Him Again. I address my poem to a woman. I know some Spanish but do not hope to translate her great poem. Yet hers was the inspiration for my own verse. Here and there I adopted some of her imagery, words and phrases, though the overall sense and sensibility of Mistral's poem, I believe. is different from my own.

Saturday, July 28, 2012


As of this date my YOUTUBE Channel has received 177,000 + Single Page Visits, Video Views! A Google Search of the terms Stanley Pacion YouTube Channel yields a result count of 2,200,00.

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 some may find this verse coy,
No more than borrowed phrase and imagery
Notions common in the language of the heart,
Yet I swear to it. I tell the truth,
The same as if I stood in court of law
My right hand raised, the left upon the Holy Book.

I ask that you accept my plight.
Know that the risk of divine displeasure informs it.
Whatever the flattery animating this verse,
Its terms of endearment are sincere and honest.

Thursday, July 26, 2012


As of this date my YOUTUBE Channel has received 177,000 + Single Page Visits, Video Views! A Google Search of the terms Stanley Pacion YouTube Channel yields a result count of 2,200,00.

When I remember the scenes of our life together,
I imagine them happening on the silver screen.

You stand up close against me,
A white shirt, a subtle smile,
And look to me warmly and say
Words the heroine whispers to the hero.

I hear violins when you kiss me.

Were that I was able to capture our affection,
Transpose its flickering moments
Into scene after scene, same
As those which appear in an old, film feature.
Straightaway I would seize the moment,
Figure it, what grand opportunity
That I might replay the celluloid forever!

Monday, July 23, 2012


As of this date my YOUTUBE Channel has received 177,000 + Single Page Visits, Video Views! A Google Search of the terms Stanley Pacion YouTube Channel yields a result count of 2,200,00.
Wedding Night Abduction

A nightmare pulled you
From the bridal bed and out from the house;
You were screaming.

It carried you off through the wild desert.
Night had little moon;
Darkness hid the cacti,
Making them all the more dangerous to life and limb.

The temperature had dropped to freezing in the Sonora.

I could hear you cry my name.

I had been cheated at the moment when life’s promise
Happiest, I felt the fulfillment of holy, holy prophecy.

Remember, please! I had been assured children;
One was to be monarch of new Golden Age,
A child to whom future ages might do homage.

I did not hesitate, but marshaled my forces
I frantically shouted with all my might, 'Help!'
I hoped to rescue you,
My beautiful wife, the love, the love of my life.

Still perfumed and boutonnière,
Heady with the day's excitement,
Like some native sorcerer, a shaman
Whose vision had been magically enhanced
Through ritual drink, I could see in the dark.
I ran headlong, inner light to guide me.

I chased the phantom that possessed you.

Your beauty, the allure of your physical self,
Your large brown eyes and olive complexion,
Your brunet tresses running down to your shoulders,
-- drapery of oh-so-special, awesome pulchritude –
The thought of your high intelligence,
Its value to material success in my life,
Your undeniable charm, your grace,
The mercy, at core, inspiration of my poetic ambitions,
Propelled me, you, the dream of you,
It animated my heart and lungs with incredible vigor.

I and my comrades launched search after search,
Soon the whole community joined to assist,
For eight days we scoured landscape,
Reaching down into the most perilous ravines,
We walked the vast expanse for miles around.

In the heat people fell to the ground exhausted.

Old timers said that they had not witnessed such uproar,
Since the days when war Yaqui stole settler women,
Who never returned, rumor reported, because
Squaws knew better treatment among the lodges and
Tepees than in their own homes from first husbands.

We never found you.

I went to the priests and sought advice;
I prayed to the Savior, but it was no avail.

You were gone; we felt you were no longer with us.
I knew it, yet could not let you go. I pined.

I learned that time had never been a friend.

Because these, because all my efforts proved futile,
I am now a broken man, dead unto myself,
Unfit, and utterly homeless, my existence over,
Devastated, no other woman may ever have me.

Monday, July 16, 2012

YOUNG LOVE, It Drifts Away

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It Drifts Away

At the time we had met the mask of youth
And its costume were still upon you.

Then, the next year, 9/11, it marked the city forever,
Downtown burned, towers had fallen, and all the dead,
Though today, very hard to believe,
The smell dominated the air,
Yet there it was during the last days of December.
All the way to West 26th Street,
A bad omen, I guess.

I remember that first Christmas Eve,
The one prior to the attack, later you confided,
It was your first, and the only Holiday Season,
You had ever spent in New York.

You were different then, more girl
Than the grown woman you are today.

You had bought silver jewelry,
I was at market and you stood before the showcase,
Studied the pieces, awaited me to make the move
And price to drop, bargained without word,
Used patience as your tool, you figured,
I was in a hurry, wanted to get home.

It seems halcyon, as I look back.
Business was good here in the City,
The year before the attack.

When I picture you, recall your eyes,
Expectant, be-all, the end-all,
Tomorrow’s promise, stayed awesome and bright,
I want to say, etched,
But no lines, at that time, visited your face.

You were different then, more girl
Than the grown woman you are today.

And you appeared happy, light upon your feet,
I judge your back had not come to bother you yet.
You had a man, and you relished in his friendship,
Maybe you wished the start to family,
Saw for yourself a real, happy ending, hey?

My defenses were still intact,
No idea that you would come to play
The lead role in a dream-wish drama,
Whose title read, cherished, cherished above all others,
Yet, once I fell within the sphere of your limbs,

All good sense and sensibility abandoned, I was yours.

The pleasure of your company engulfed me.
Simply placing my hand upon your knee,
Oh heart beat, beating fast, lasting long, day after day,
Together, no matter what I might have done,
However I might have conspired to end it.

You said, love, now and forever,
I know it’s trite, nothing I should write,
Unworthy of poetry, your promise,
Yeah, until the end of time, and you,
Today I feel, as if, you had purposefully played me,
You laughed at notion, desire might ever wane,
Though love might be only a feeling,
You swore ours here to stay.


Anyone who seeks,
Fervidly wants dreams-come-true,
Gets the sense of what I am saying, knows
The terrible desire, that were it possible,
A replay of yesterday’s grassy splendor,
To enjoy again the glory in the flower,
Despite the rapid descent, the finality marking,
Every bit of human radiance and beauty,
No matter how grand, ambitious the effort,
-- Isn’t it already written? --
The rainbow comes and goes,
Some where out at space-time’s edge,
Gamma ray bursts post daily funerary notice.
Entire worlds disappear, who calculates that agony?

No human comprehends the sorrow;
Number and immensity overwhelm us,
And we might simply shrug our shoulders,
What answer when first pain, then life no more?

How impossible to variegate the progress,
When once we have reached finality,
Great, bright light, then extermination!

And for us, for you and me, it is same story.
Anguish, the very definition,
To cling to silly notions, and hold them right,
When the telephone is off the hook,
And all the doors are shut.

World knows, love, only a feeling,
It drifts away, and, I, fool, believed, I believed,
I thought at odds, forgot the foreboding,
Paid no heed to events, the remains, I forgot
That one happy Christmas does not guarantee another,
Instead, sure we had mastered our affections,
Our land, the land called Eden,
Positive we had won, and continued the delusion
That, and as you had promised, ours was special,
And contrary to every dictate of reason,
I had come to believe that we had found it,
Love, here to stay, warm sun, morning after morning,
Endless awakening, fresh flowers everyday,
A bed with gorgeous sheets and pillows fluffed,
Despite love, it being only a feeling,
Like the youth, we at one time owned, and
Had been our possession, it drifts away.


As of this date my YOUTUBE Channel has received 176,000 + Single Page Visits, Video Views! A Google Search of the terms Stanley Pacion YouTube Channel yields a result count of 2,200,00.
A Reverie

I know that by the time Isabel reaches her teens
She'll want to read all the love letters Dad sent to Mom,
And Mother,
Ever attentive to the moral order of the home,
Will have censored some details of the lovers’ delight,
Until the girl attains the appropriate age,
And she then possesses the missives on her own.

Our son will study the photographs,
Taken while his parents' passion was young;
He will marvel at his Mother's beauty.

From her character and image he learns standards
That, when time comes, he might choose,
Among women, the one, suitable to marry,
Who, too, would be a good mother. 

And our children will cherish the memory of how,
Night after night and over the years,
We read from books to them until they fell asleep.

And their minds retain the cadence of nursery rhymes,
And the breathy note of excitement
In tales of heroic deed and glorious adventure,
And the memories of wonderful day dreams,
Which twice-read stories of fantasy and magic create.

Their rooms teem with books;
These books form a collection, a magnificent library.
It remains today the envy of posterity.

And most of all our children recall the hugs and kisses,
The times they rode out on our shoulders
Their arms around our necks,
The softness of our voice when we spoke to them,
The affection lavished without stint,
Bringing to soul warmth and calm,
And that happiness evident
From childhood spent in a good home.

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