http://abigbookofmyown.blogspot.com/
http://sites.google.com/site/stanleypacion/homepage
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SHOUT OUT,
Ecstasy Overpowers,
edited version 2012
Uneasy, when it came to sex,
You made me feel
I was doing you wrong.
Your body stiffened,
And, I remember, once you said,
“Too incredibly intimate!”
Later I watched in movies,
Men drop to the knees,
It seemed nothing special,
No more than regular business,
Hollywood does its usual fare.
In a recent film with a Bedouin setting,
North Africa, camels on route,
Over windy hills of sand, oasis to oasis,
Hardly a trend setter,
The lead takes his captive,
Calls her wife number three, and there
Within the walls of his village home,
He keels, while camera spies,
He takes love by mouth.
Since I knelt before you,
It is months now.
I wish I might kneel,
As the sheik did!
But you, and health, and work,
And sleep, they have gone,
Fled irrevocably!
I wake in the middle of shouts.
I taste you, still.
The taste, it fills my mouth.
I try to write,
But swoon instead.
Were I not lost, driven to distraction,
Were I able to clear the mind
And gain once again a proper perspective,
This poem might read better by far.
Oh, Oh goodness!
Fetch a chair! ...Never mind,
I’m fine. I’m okay.
It’s the terrible heat!
Thursday, April 12, 2012
Tuesday, April 10, 2012
SOAP OPREA LOVE, Rewrite, 2012
http://abigbookofmyown.blogspot.com/
http://sites.google.com/site/stanleypacion/homepage
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http://www.stanleypacion.com/home.html/
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SOAP OPERA LOVE,
Rewrite 2012
Piqued, the morning she moved out
I gave her back the photographs.
Let this thing of ours become distant memory.
A top-notch beauty, she's sensuous,
Smart, thrifty, and disciplined in her work habits.
But she does not keep her word.
After our first year
In a call to voice mail,
She poured out her suffering heart,
Her awful hurt,
And confessed that her former boyfriend,
He had physically abused her.
It was during the course of their longtime affair.
I remember Princess Diana explained
A third person had spoiled her chance for happy marriage,
With us, the same, this man’s specter, a constant presence.
I will not forget how she cowered,
Readying to walk out the door,
Childlike, fearful, shoulders slumped forward,
Eyes to the ground, she replayed,
I must guess a previous experience.
I did not raise my voice.
Were that not revelation enough,
She admitted, shortly thereafter,
To eating disorder, 'a form of anorexia',
She called it. So at root of our affair
Lay poor self image, explaining both
Her being with me, a man twice her age,
And that other, five-year romance
With a beast, a criminal whose coercive
Words and deeds proved his love was true!
Later this week,
From a spot above the head of our bed,
I shall take down her Grandfather's painting,
(A birthday gift from her to me)
Icon-like, it portrays the infant Jesus,
Who is held in his Mother Mary's arms.
I’ll return it with the Lord's Prayer,
A hand-colored photocopy of a cursive script,
Though taken from the modern language and character,
The document resembles an old Swedish in Gothic script.
We have it tacked on the wall in the kitchen,
It occupies space directly next to the refrigerator.
Does she believe in God? I ask myself.
It's early morning and I am tired.
Yeah, but I still would like to know.
She's sick; she doesn't know what she believes.
I have a big blank spot in my schedule.
I feel bad all the time.
I don't know what to do.
What am I without her? I wonder.
Can't I – I mean... Is there
Any way I could make her better?
I feel like shit.
I want to get up from the keyboard
And go into the kitchen and weep.
I may never speak to her again.
I loved to sleep with her,
Hoped she would stand next to me,
Become a loving companion, a wife.
Instead I got her boasts,
Sadly Pyrrhic confidences about her imminent victory,
She vanquishes the ghost of her former lover.
One day she came to me at work,
Asked me to step outside, and whispered
How at 4:00AM that same morning in our bed,
In our home, she recognized her failure,
The fact she could not give herself to sex,
Would ultimately mean his deviltry triumphed.
In reality she had lost the fight.
The terror was ascendant;
He stood beside our bed.
But now a fool is talking.
I am the one, screw loose,
Who hoped we might write love songs,
Which themselves become legend,
Who wished the kind of love, no restrictions,
Limbs askew, monkey love, she and I
Bound up in a passion limitless, a universe,
A thrilling heaven, like some ancient vision
Whose paradise has eternal, physical bliss.
By God! Given over to this physical ecstasy,
That happiness and children be our bounty,
That we might enjoy peace,
And our love attains power of example,
It brings cynosure, light for the ages.
No! Intimacy failed us.
Just make a simple, innocent suggestion,
Say dinner for two, name the New York City eatery, Fanelli's, Dojo's, or the Tavern on Eighteenth Street.
Grab your cap, back we go, travel-time is seconds.
Lo and behold, we are playacting in awful memory.
The point, never know what may trigger a haunt.
The sadness of it all, she lives in a drama,
It is as though she hosts a soap opera in her brain
The episodes endless, from day to day, hour to hour
A terrible wound unexpectedly reopens,
Each a scene, time, time and time, again.
Does she relish the nightmare theatrics,
Does she enjoy the show?
She whispers that she wants that old boyfriend dead.
Forgive her Lord, she knows not what she thinks.
Forgive me Lord,
I knew enough to avoid her in the first place.
She eschews healthy flesh,
The pain of the past captivates her soul.
I am afraid. The demon, the devil drives her.
And now, when all is said and done,
He alone is her dream lover.
http://sites.google.com/site/stanleypacion/homepage
http://www.youtube.com/StanleyPacion
http://www.stanleypacion.com/home.html/
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As of this date my YOUTUBE Channel has received 167,000 + Single Page Uploads, Visits! A Google Search of the terms Stanley Pacion YouTube Channel yields a result count of 4,560,00.
SOAP OPERA LOVE,
Rewrite 2012
Piqued, the morning she moved out
I gave her back the photographs.
Let this thing of ours become distant memory.
A top-notch beauty, she's sensuous,
Smart, thrifty, and disciplined in her work habits.
But she does not keep her word.
After our first year
In a call to voice mail,
She poured out her suffering heart,
Her awful hurt,
And confessed that her former boyfriend,
He had physically abused her.
It was during the course of their longtime affair.
I remember Princess Diana explained
A third person had spoiled her chance for happy marriage,
With us, the same, this man’s specter, a constant presence.
I will not forget how she cowered,
Readying to walk out the door,
Childlike, fearful, shoulders slumped forward,
Eyes to the ground, she replayed,
I must guess a previous experience.
I did not raise my voice.
Were that not revelation enough,
She admitted, shortly thereafter,
To eating disorder, 'a form of anorexia',
She called it. So at root of our affair
Lay poor self image, explaining both
Her being with me, a man twice her age,
And that other, five-year romance
With a beast, a criminal whose coercive
Words and deeds proved his love was true!
Later this week,
From a spot above the head of our bed,
I shall take down her Grandfather's painting,
(A birthday gift from her to me)
Icon-like, it portrays the infant Jesus,
Who is held in his Mother Mary's arms.
I’ll return it with the Lord's Prayer,
A hand-colored photocopy of a cursive script,
Though taken from the modern language and character,
The document resembles an old Swedish in Gothic script.
We have it tacked on the wall in the kitchen,
It occupies space directly next to the refrigerator.
Does she believe in God? I ask myself.
It's early morning and I am tired.
Yeah, but I still would like to know.
She's sick; she doesn't know what she believes.
I have a big blank spot in my schedule.
I feel bad all the time.
I don't know what to do.
What am I without her? I wonder.
Can't I – I mean... Is there
Any way I could make her better?
I feel like shit.
I want to get up from the keyboard
And go into the kitchen and weep.
I may never speak to her again.
I loved to sleep with her,
Hoped she would stand next to me,
Become a loving companion, a wife.
Instead I got her boasts,
Sadly Pyrrhic confidences about her imminent victory,
She vanquishes the ghost of her former lover.
One day she came to me at work,
Asked me to step outside, and whispered
How at 4:00AM that same morning in our bed,
In our home, she recognized her failure,
The fact she could not give herself to sex,
Would ultimately mean his deviltry triumphed.
In reality she had lost the fight.
The terror was ascendant;
He stood beside our bed.
But now a fool is talking.
I am the one, screw loose,
Who hoped we might write love songs,
Which themselves become legend,
Who wished the kind of love, no restrictions,
Limbs askew, monkey love, she and I
Bound up in a passion limitless, a universe,
A thrilling heaven, like some ancient vision
Whose paradise has eternal, physical bliss.
By God! Given over to this physical ecstasy,
That happiness and children be our bounty,
That we might enjoy peace,
And our love attains power of example,
It brings cynosure, light for the ages.
No! Intimacy failed us.
Just make a simple, innocent suggestion,
Say dinner for two, name the New York City eatery, Fanelli's, Dojo's, or the Tavern on Eighteenth Street.
Grab your cap, back we go, travel-time is seconds.
Lo and behold, we are playacting in awful memory.
The point, never know what may trigger a haunt.
The sadness of it all, she lives in a drama,
It is as though she hosts a soap opera in her brain
The episodes endless, from day to day, hour to hour
A terrible wound unexpectedly reopens,
Each a scene, time, time and time, again.
Does she relish the nightmare theatrics,
Does she enjoy the show?
She whispers that she wants that old boyfriend dead.
Forgive her Lord, she knows not what she thinks.
Forgive me Lord,
I knew enough to avoid her in the first place.
She eschews healthy flesh,
The pain of the past captivates her soul.
I am afraid. The demon, the devil drives her.
And now, when all is said and done,
He alone is her dream lover.
Monday, April 9, 2012
ROMANTIC, Love Lockdown, Version Update, 2012
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http://sites.google.com/site/stanleypacion/homepage
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http://www.stanleypacion.com/home.html/
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ROMANTIC,
Love Lockdown,
Version Update 2012
I miss you, honey.
I miss going to dinner with you.
Where ever I turn,
Whenever I look up and down the streets,
I keep thinking I see you.
It’s the damnedest thing!
By the way, I’ve decided to discard,
Throw out some of the poetry.
Of course, you must know why!
It has me loving you too much.
Oh! Those notes I took,
The notes of all our telephone conversations,
Sister, that’s a painful lot!
I documented all your promises, your assurances.
I made you repeat them.
I hoped thereby you might remember
How many times you had given me your word.
I wrote them all down, my questions, your answers.
I can look back, should anyone have interest,
And figure the exact dates of those, your pledges.
But the exercise would require work,
Because in the record of those,
Our long-distance dialogues,
I reckoned time according to lunar calendar.
They read, for instance, first, Monday, December.
Across one sheet I found it significant that
You had telephoned me from Florida this last October,
A day which directly followed the second,
The so-called Harvest Moon, a moon whose rise
The previous night I had sighted over Forest Avenue.
Upon those paper records I sometimes drew,
(The right term here might be doodled.)
Regular zodiac signs. Silly guy, huh!
I pretended knowledge.
I played the role of old-time astrologer,
Someone who predicated life’s lot on planetary whirl,
Who posited ill or good fortune from an abstract,
Human life, its ups and downs,
On conjunction of heavenly bodies,
How it all fit within a starry belt.
I was dream-wishing.
It was make-believe, pathetic.
Might your last satellite communication, I wondered,
Be housed on a plane
Where moon rises into constellation, Leo?
It all gets very primitive when dealing with you.
2.
When I concentrate,
Concentrate on my abandon, on my love,
Take the time and thoroughly examine
The range, the extent of my feelings for you,
My heart wells, fills up like a balloon, ready to burst.
Overwhelmed, stretched to utmost circumference,
Its membrane reaches thinnest extreme,
It helps to explain
Just how sensitive I am to your every desire.
If I remember to relax,
Should I try to stop holding on,
Just simply let you go,
Then I can not help but feel gratitude,
Give thanks for the time,
In which I had the opportunity to spend with you.
At other times I fall to absolute delusion,
And believe I write great poetry,
The words I pen immortal,
Celebrate you and me for the ages,
That future reader discover my dreams of you,
And pine and swoon as I do here,
Know that ours was destiny, and yes,
Wonder what higher power allowed lyric to express
Love beyond belief.
I guess that I believe we are constantly being reborn.
I go through all these thoughts, again – again,
Hoping against hope,
Seeking a glimmer, some glimmer,
Fingers crossed for incredible stroke of luck,
Trust your return to my arms once more.
3.
I have a real problem;
It’s when I look about.
I see other couples, pairs, tight,
Together for the afternoon, daylight upon their faces,
All lovey-dovey, they walk along the avenues.
It bothers me seeing them; they sit in cafes and read
Newspapers and books, and sip from bottles of water.
I envy them. I do not have you.
World seems happier place
When people have each other to depend on,
And romance animates their bodies and faces.
I am sorry to conclude, you’re a mean person.
You went away; my sole companion now my work.
4.
Am I making this up as I go along?
But the fact remains
That you have gone and I am home alone.
You left me all by myself with my freedom.
I fear that I have fallen prey to mine own emptiness.
Were you to belong to me, I swear, I wouldn’t,
I wouldn’t share you with any one, with anything.
Time and place reduced to you and me,
You at center of it all!
Oh, dream comes true!
It would feel more like love, sweet love,
Than me, here, sitting lost,
Trying to figure the situation, or
How I might say it proper,
Finally to convince you, love too precious a thing,
Often once in a life-time event,
And ought never be willfully discarded, thrown away.
Hope I haven’t upset you.
Maybe that’s the real difficulty,
The source of us being driven apart,
I am just too romantic.
You, you seek something else.
Perhaps you are simply more practical, reasonable.
My flights of fancy and over-heated emotion,
Not things you have in mind.
Do not worry!
I have the capability of living with my beliefs.
But, darling, you must take pity,
Open your heart -- for you say you still love me.
Mercy please! Forgive me, I lack resolve.
I am unable to start anew, to make life without you.
I am still not over this thing of ours.
I haven’t gotten over it, the beauty,
All the wondrous times,
I haven’t gotten over my being with you.
http://sites.google.com/site/stanleypacion/homepage
http://www.youtube.com/StanleyPacion
http://www.stanleypacion.com/home.html/
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ROMANTIC,
Love Lockdown,
Version Update 2012
I miss you, honey.
I miss going to dinner with you.
Where ever I turn,
Whenever I look up and down the streets,
I keep thinking I see you.
It’s the damnedest thing!
By the way, I’ve decided to discard,
Throw out some of the poetry.
Of course, you must know why!
It has me loving you too much.
Oh! Those notes I took,
The notes of all our telephone conversations,
Sister, that’s a painful lot!
I documented all your promises, your assurances.
I made you repeat them.
I hoped thereby you might remember
How many times you had given me your word.
I wrote them all down, my questions, your answers.
I can look back, should anyone have interest,
And figure the exact dates of those, your pledges.
But the exercise would require work,
Because in the record of those,
Our long-distance dialogues,
I reckoned time according to lunar calendar.
They read, for instance, first, Monday, December.
Across one sheet I found it significant that
You had telephoned me from Florida this last October,
A day which directly followed the second,
The so-called Harvest Moon, a moon whose rise
The previous night I had sighted over Forest Avenue.
Upon those paper records I sometimes drew,
(The right term here might be doodled.)
Regular zodiac signs. Silly guy, huh!
I pretended knowledge.
I played the role of old-time astrologer,
Someone who predicated life’s lot on planetary whirl,
Who posited ill or good fortune from an abstract,
Human life, its ups and downs,
On conjunction of heavenly bodies,
How it all fit within a starry belt.
I was dream-wishing.
It was make-believe, pathetic.
Might your last satellite communication, I wondered,
Be housed on a plane
Where moon rises into constellation, Leo?
It all gets very primitive when dealing with you.
2.
When I concentrate,
Concentrate on my abandon, on my love,
Take the time and thoroughly examine
The range, the extent of my feelings for you,
My heart wells, fills up like a balloon, ready to burst.
Overwhelmed, stretched to utmost circumference,
Its membrane reaches thinnest extreme,
It helps to explain
Just how sensitive I am to your every desire.
If I remember to relax,
Should I try to stop holding on,
Just simply let you go,
Then I can not help but feel gratitude,
Give thanks for the time,
In which I had the opportunity to spend with you.
At other times I fall to absolute delusion,
And believe I write great poetry,
The words I pen immortal,
Celebrate you and me for the ages,
That future reader discover my dreams of you,
And pine and swoon as I do here,
Know that ours was destiny, and yes,
Wonder what higher power allowed lyric to express
Love beyond belief.
I guess that I believe we are constantly being reborn.
I go through all these thoughts, again – again,
Hoping against hope,
Seeking a glimmer, some glimmer,
Fingers crossed for incredible stroke of luck,
Trust your return to my arms once more.
3.
I have a real problem;
It’s when I look about.
I see other couples, pairs, tight,
Together for the afternoon, daylight upon their faces,
All lovey-dovey, they walk along the avenues.
It bothers me seeing them; they sit in cafes and read
Newspapers and books, and sip from bottles of water.
I envy them. I do not have you.
World seems happier place
When people have each other to depend on,
And romance animates their bodies and faces.
I am sorry to conclude, you’re a mean person.
You went away; my sole companion now my work.
4.
Am I making this up as I go along?
But the fact remains
That you have gone and I am home alone.
You left me all by myself with my freedom.
I fear that I have fallen prey to mine own emptiness.
Were you to belong to me, I swear, I wouldn’t,
I wouldn’t share you with any one, with anything.
Time and place reduced to you and me,
You at center of it all!
Oh, dream comes true!
It would feel more like love, sweet love,
Than me, here, sitting lost,
Trying to figure the situation, or
How I might say it proper,
Finally to convince you, love too precious a thing,
Often once in a life-time event,
And ought never be willfully discarded, thrown away.
Hope I haven’t upset you.
Maybe that’s the real difficulty,
The source of us being driven apart,
I am just too romantic.
You, you seek something else.
Perhaps you are simply more practical, reasonable.
My flights of fancy and over-heated emotion,
Not things you have in mind.
Do not worry!
I have the capability of living with my beliefs.
But, darling, you must take pity,
Open your heart -- for you say you still love me.
Mercy please! Forgive me, I lack resolve.
I am unable to start anew, to make life without you.
I am still not over this thing of ours.
I haven’t gotten over it, the beauty,
All the wondrous times,
I haven’t gotten over my being with you.
Saturday, April 7, 2012
BEWARE! True Love
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http://sites.google.com/site/stanleypacion/homepage
http://www.youtube.com/StanleyPacion
http://www.stanleypacion.com/home.html/
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BEWARE,
True Love
Audience,
Should this book pleasure you, beware!
Know an idolater has made it.
Although once he had sought to subjoin his words
To holy theme,
The good news that earth and spirit are one,
He has failed and remains unredeemed.
From the secrets of his heart and mind
He took to paper and wrote,
His energy was terrific, some thought
That he had made a bargain,
Which had him exchange vainglory for damnation.
Whatever the rumors, the devil in the mix or not,
Today he no longer needs consign his lyric
To cardboard boxes filed with manila folders.
He had feared that his poetry would end in cheap
Fold-over glossy volume with staples for a binding.
No more those coffee-house recitations,
Where three-mintue-or-less time restrictions
Hurt any real chance to explain his profanity.
Worse yet, how embarrassed he remains to this day,
At the times when he had to stand before an audience
In a fast-food joint that hungered for business.
He hated the noise of the kitchen and table service.
No, now he couples his ambition to a world-wide,
Electronic conveyance and he reads aloud,
Uploads how great the extent of his sinful adoration.
His blasphemy rests secure in the eternity of cyberspace.
And hereby he does solemnly swear
That every single line of verse, and all else he calls his own,
His life, too, even if it means his extinction,
Everything, all of it, he dedicates to graven image;
He worships a finite woman, a mortal,
A girl made of flesh and bone.
For her, it was all for her, for her alone,
He conserved his health and appearance,
He tempted fame and fortune,
And since the days of youth,
When he had marched in line, the bishop’s Confirmation,
No sacrament meant more to him than a day with her.
And he waited;
He waited as no else could have waited,
No one in this world would have waited for her,
For anyone, as he waited for her, his patience,
Unparalleled, he had not despaired.
Believe me; believe, viewers, though now
The axiom rings worn and shallow, he exemplified
How within the human breast – hope springs eternal.
Oh dreamy picture of love,
That all force of history might conspire,
Act to exact his design, no, no, not reckless,
But true, true love, he built for the future,
Knew it was right,
As surely as the clock measured the hours,
Certain, she would return to his arms.
He waited for her,
And with every, single bit of his physical self,
His arms, his eyes, his lips, all the flesh of his being,
He waited for her as no one else might have waited!
Let me drop the pretense,
This whole business of third person:
As deer crave for running waters,
So I crave, so I crave, so I crave for you,
As a mother wish for an absent daughter,
So I wish, so I wish, so I wish for you,
As father long for return of prodigal son,
So I long, so I long, so I long for you,
As a pastor ache for a member lost to church’s flock,
So I ache, so I ache, so I ache for you.
http://sites.google.com/site/stanleypacion/homepage
http://www.youtube.com/StanleyPacion
http://www.stanleypacion.com/home.html/
http://www.indiaeveryday.in/video/u/StanleyPacion.htm?ss=true
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As of this date my YOUTUBE Channel has received 166,000 + Single Page Uploads, Visits! A Google Search of the terms Stanley Pacion YouTube Channel yields a result count of 6,960,00.
BEWARE,
True Love
Audience,
Should this book pleasure you, beware!
Know an idolater has made it.
Although once he had sought to subjoin his words
To holy theme,
The good news that earth and spirit are one,
He has failed and remains unredeemed.
From the secrets of his heart and mind
He took to paper and wrote,
His energy was terrific, some thought
That he had made a bargain,
Which had him exchange vainglory for damnation.
Whatever the rumors, the devil in the mix or not,
Today he no longer needs consign his lyric
To cardboard boxes filed with manila folders.
He had feared that his poetry would end in cheap
Fold-over glossy volume with staples for a binding.
No more those coffee-house recitations,
Where three-mintue-or-less time restrictions
Hurt any real chance to explain his profanity.
Worse yet, how embarrassed he remains to this day,
At the times when he had to stand before an audience
In a fast-food joint that hungered for business.
He hated the noise of the kitchen and table service.
No, now he couples his ambition to a world-wide,
Electronic conveyance and he reads aloud,
Uploads how great the extent of his sinful adoration.
His blasphemy rests secure in the eternity of cyberspace.
And hereby he does solemnly swear
That every single line of verse, and all else he calls his own,
His life, too, even if it means his extinction,
Everything, all of it, he dedicates to graven image;
He worships a finite woman, a mortal,
A girl made of flesh and bone.
For her, it was all for her, for her alone,
He conserved his health and appearance,
He tempted fame and fortune,
And since the days of youth,
When he had marched in line, the bishop’s Confirmation,
No sacrament meant more to him than a day with her.
And he waited;
He waited as no else could have waited,
No one in this world would have waited for her,
For anyone, as he waited for her, his patience,
Unparalleled, he had not despaired.
Believe me; believe, viewers, though now
The axiom rings worn and shallow, he exemplified
How within the human breast – hope springs eternal.
Oh dreamy picture of love,
That all force of history might conspire,
Act to exact his design, no, no, not reckless,
But true, true love, he built for the future,
Knew it was right,
As surely as the clock measured the hours,
Certain, she would return to his arms.
He waited for her,
And with every, single bit of his physical self,
His arms, his eyes, his lips, all the flesh of his being,
He waited for her as no one else might have waited!
Let me drop the pretense,
This whole business of third person:
As deer crave for running waters,
So I crave, so I crave, so I crave for you,
As a mother wish for an absent daughter,
So I wish, so I wish, so I wish for you,
As father long for return of prodigal son,
So I long, so I long, so I long for you,
As a pastor ache for a member lost to church’s flock,
So I ache, so I ache, so I ache for you.
Monday, April 2, 2012
REMAINS OF THE DAY, Passion Play
http://abigbookofmyown.blogspot.com/
http://sites.google.com/site/stanleypacion/homepage
http://www.youtube.com/StanleyPacion
http://www.stanleypacion.com/home.html/
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As of this date my YOUTUBE Channel has received 166,000 + Single Page Uploads, Visits! A Google Search of the terms Stanley Pacion YouTube Channel yields a result count of 6,960,00.
REMAINS OF THE DAY,
Passion Play
Yeeaaaaaaaoooowwwww!
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 empty bed and heart ache,
The awful pain of my regret.
Sadness fouls my face.
Oh, how I hate the resolve,
Never to see you, again,
Have nothing more to do with you,
No matter how long the length of my days,
I swear to it and mean it!
Yet I want you. Wish to see you, once more,
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. I tell you.
I hear your voice, your whispers,
Behind the sounds, behind the hum of the circuitry,
Witch, you sit among the cords and the monitor lights,
You befoul my every electronic connection.
Then there are the notes. I have mail;
You use email posts
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 even open your communications?)
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 the Roman soldiers, who had torn off the purple,
Returned Him again to everyday garment,
Then at Golgotha where they stripped Him,
Before they nailed Him to the cross,
Yea, 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://sites.google.com/site/stanleypacion/homepage
http://www.youtube.com/StanleyPacion
http://www.stanleypacion.com/home.html/
http://www.indiaeveryday.in/video/u/StanleyPacion.htm?ss=true
Tweet
As of this date my YOUTUBE Channel has received 166,000 + Single Page Uploads, Visits! A Google Search of the terms Stanley Pacion YouTube Channel yields a result count of 6,960,00.
REMAINS OF THE DAY,
Passion Play
Yeeaaaaaaaoooowwwww!
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 empty bed and heart ache,
The awful pain of my regret.
Sadness fouls my face.
Oh, how I hate the resolve,
Never to see you, again,
Have nothing more to do with you,
No matter how long the length of my days,
I swear to it and mean it!
Yet I want you. Wish to see you, once more,
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. I tell you.
I hear your voice, your whispers,
Behind the sounds, behind the hum of the circuitry,
Witch, you sit among the cords and the monitor lights,
You befoul my every electronic connection.
Then there are the notes. I have mail;
You use email posts
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 even open your communications?)
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 the Roman soldiers, who had torn off the purple,
Returned Him again to everyday garment,
Then at Golgotha where they stripped Him,
Before they nailed Him to the cross,
Yea, 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.
Friday, March 23, 2012
BAD GIRL, Reread, March 2012
http://abigbookofmyown.blogspot.com/
http://sites.google.com/site/stanleypacion/homepage
http://www.youtube.com/StanleyPacion
http://www.stanleypacion.com/home.html/
http://www.indiaeveryday.in/video/u/StanleyPacion.htm?ss=true
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As of this date my YOUTUBE Channel has received 165,000 + Single Page Uploads, Visits! A Google Search of the terms Stanley Pacion YouTube Channel yields a result count of 6,960,00.
BAD GIRL
Her disease, it said,
“Dark around and within,
But outside, far outside, it’s all light.”
It said,
“I’m a beggar,
My richness, my excitement, my genital,
All that shines outside,
I am empty.”
http://sites.google.com/site/stanleypacion/homepage
http://www.youtube.com/StanleyPacion
http://www.stanleypacion.com/home.html/
http://www.indiaeveryday.in/video/u/StanleyPacion.htm?ss=true
Tweet
As of this date my YOUTUBE Channel has received 165,000 + Single Page Uploads, Visits! A Google Search of the terms Stanley Pacion YouTube Channel yields a result count of 6,960,00.
BAD GIRL
Her disease, it said,
“Dark around and within,
But outside, far outside, it’s all light.”
It said,
“I’m a beggar,
My richness, my excitement, my genital,
All that shines outside,
I am empty.”
Sunday, March 18, 2012
TO SEE HER AGAIN, After Gabriela Mistral's Love Poem's
http://abigbookofmyown.blogspot.com/
http://sites.google.com/site/stanleypacion/homepage
http://www.youtube.com/StanleyPacion
http://www.stanleypacion.com/home.html/
http://www.indiaeveryday.in/video/u/StanleyPacion.htm?ss=true
Tweet
As of this date my YOUTUBE Channel has received 165,000 + Single Page Uploads, Visits! A Google Search of the terms Stanley Pacion YouTube Channel yields a result count of 6,960,00.
TO SEE HER AGAIN,
After 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,
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 to gather strawberries
Picked from rows and rows of fruit in the truck-farm field?
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 it registers with no one.
Though some stare and wonder,
Shake their heads from side to side at my sorry spectacle,
Most 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 see her 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,
Though all else disappears, though 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 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, are different from my own.
http://sites.google.com/site/stanleypacion/homepage
http://www.youtube.com/StanleyPacion
http://www.stanleypacion.com/home.html/
http://www.indiaeveryday.in/video/u/StanleyPacion.htm?ss=true
Tweet
As of this date my YOUTUBE Channel has received 165,000 + Single Page Uploads, Visits! A Google Search of the terms Stanley Pacion YouTube Channel yields a result count of 6,960,00.
TO SEE HER AGAIN,
After 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,
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 to gather strawberries
Picked from rows and rows of fruit in the truck-farm field?
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 it registers with no one.
Though some stare and wonder,
Shake their heads from side to side at my sorry spectacle,
Most 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 see her 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,
Though all else disappears, though 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 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, are different from my own.
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