REPENTANCE

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REPENTANCE


Darling! Oh my Darling,
What an awful thing I have done.
I have overslept;  made you wait.
Pray. What now my punishment?

WILD IN MY PAIN

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WILD IN MY PAIN

Darling, it's just a heart, not a brick or a stone.

How do you fail to understand then

That it hurts and bleeds like any mortal thing?

And what pleasure have you,

What delight when you scourge me?

You must hear me crying,

My begging for mercy a thousand times and again.

Why, oh why do you want to treat me

Deaf and uncaring while I wild in my pain?

ANOTHER POEM AFTER RUMI

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ANOTHER POEM AFTER RUMI

Though I may seem distant,

In reality I am close at hand.

No matter how far apart this life takes us,

You remain inseparable from me.

My feelings steadfast, my heart apparent,

Even that this verse not mention your name.

However history conspires to hush us,

Destiny has me always speaking with you. 

LOVE, LOVELY, LOVE, Rewrite

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LOVE, LOVELY, LOVE, 
Rewrite


When it comes to love
We are all in the dark.
No scientist
Has ever been able to measure its quality,
Figure affection using calculus.

No high-powered lens,
Though we see the architecture,
The starry clouds which make the heavens,
And, what if, electronics power our sight
So to reckon the slightest parts of elemental makeup,
Still no common tool exists whereby
The deep-spin upon my heart and soul,
Or the breath of my every pore
Becomes explicable to vision or mathematics.

 
I know it would be no easy task.
Yet now how I wish we could be together,
Go back to the farm-land fields
And pick strawberries from the rows,
Return to the way things were last summer.

LINES WRITTEN IN OCTOBER

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 LINES WRITTEN IN OCTOBER

Where are you, my lovely?

How is it that you stay away?

What strangeness drives you,

Twists 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 play-book script,

No beginning, no end.

The story stays; it remains the same.

Unlike all other sublunary things, it does not change.

 

You shine, darling, you shine.

Tonight I saw you in the East;

You are bright and eternal.

And every morning you arise steadfast.

Your light brightens the bedroom.

Your warmth gladdens my heart.

COFFEE-HOUSE LOVE POEM

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COFFEE-HOUSE LOVE POEM,

Early Sunday Evening Sorrow

Another early Sunday evening has arrived.

You, you are gone, abroad;

I sit here by myself and drink coffee.

Instead of us sharing our dinner together tonight,

I write verse about how much I miss you.

The notion, that adage about absence making

The heart grow fonder is nonsense,

To me, it amounts to no more than a hill of beans!*

I am no fonder, no fonder of you than I was

Ten minutes ago at the start of this poem.

I am no fonder of you today than yesterday,

Than last week, than weeks ago,

When you departed on business,

Left me in this big, old town, alone,

During that time, since then, my love,

My love for you has not grown even an iota.

Tonight I am simply sad.

I am lonely.

I feel terrible without you.

*A colloquial American expression as in “it ain’t worth a hill of beans”, Humphrey Bogart says it to Ingrid Bergman at the end of the film Casablanca, which brings the phrase into world-wide notice. “Ilsa, I’m no good at being noble, but it doesn’t take much to see that the problems of three little people don’t amount to a hill of beans in this crazy world”.

LOVE, LOVELY, LOVE

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LOVE, LOVELY, LOVE

 When it comes to love
We are all in the dark.
No scientist
Has ever been able to measure its quality,

Figure affection using a calculus.
No high-powered lens,
Though we see the architecture,
The starry clouds which make the heavens,
And, what if, electronics power our sight
So to reckon the slightest parts of elemental makeup,
Still no common tool exists whereby
The transit or deep-spin of my heart and soul
Becomes explicable to vision or mathematics.

I know it would be no easy task.

Yet now how I wish we could be together,
Go back to the farm-land fields
And pick strawberries from the rows,

Return to the way things were last summer.

LINES WRITTEN IN OCTOBER

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 168,000 + Single Page Uploads, Visits! A Google Search of the terms Stanley 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.