VENUS, Rewrite, January 2012

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VENUS,
Rewrite, January 2012


How are you to be a great poet,
When you've got no inspiration,
And you're tired, it's late, and
Night after night your mind runs blank?



How is it that you find yourself stuck,
Trapped in the old, worn-out malady, writer’s block?

Might you recall instead that glorious goddess,
Made into human form right before your eyes,
With whom you spent yesterday morning, talking,
On the grass, warmed all over, blessed by rays,
An eleven-o’clock summer sun?

And why not read aloud?
What harm can there be in letting world to know?
No shame in the telling
That mind awakes, again,
From a deep, midnight torpor!

She’s got it! Beauty, love, and
She’s fire, she’s my desire.

BLACK WATER, An Adaptation of a Theme from a German Movie

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BLACK WATER,
An Adaptation of a Theme from a German Movie


Water in the forest, terrible black water,
A pond over rot and dead leaves,
You lie silent, quiet, you, you stay still,
Unmoving, yet the storm rages around the wood,
In the groves pines lean and nets of spiders,
They are torn apart, and then splintering begins.



You, in the hollow, you, you rest, black water.
Branches fall, leaves scatter,
Bark peals from trees and flies all directions at once.
The wind rips all that stands, the grove succumbs.

But nothing reaches you, down there, black water.

WELL, WELL, WELL, Her Pretense, January 2012

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WELL, WELL, WELL!
Her Pretense, January 2012




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 entreaties,
Sent me your plans,
Not a word of it 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 pack of lies.

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

StanleyPacion's Channel - YouTube

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WELL, WELL, WELL, Her Pretense

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WELL, WELL, WELL,
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 that 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 earth’s shore of the river.

Strange, yeah, how fragile my hope
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 ask, time after time, again.
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,
And when you finally succumbed,
Sent me your plans,
Not a word of it 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 pack of lies.

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

FISH STORY

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FISH STORY


I imagine that I must have surprised you,
What with your waiting game, your sport.
You had exhausted me.
You had that great angler’s skill;
You had me hooked, long, on the line.

It was the lure, you, I swallowed you whole.
I had not seen that a great barb was nestled in the fly.
Your beauty, I had become prey to it,
You must have realized, you must have known,
How beautiful you seemed to me,
How you dazzled, your shimmer,
And I ate you right to the lead sinker.

I was your catch.
I believed every thing you said.

Who would have devined it?
Given the great tensile strength of your nylon-reel wire,
Hard to phantom that I might break it;
But I took a deep dive toward bottom,
Then, gathering up all my muscles' power,
I turned upwards and with a fierce, five-foot leap
I broke above the water's surface.

A loud snap announced how taut had grown the tension.
At once boat and bait had lost all connection.

I swim with that hook; it still punctures my mouth.
Your fisherman’s string, its segment,
Runs along side of me for at least a yard.
My injury, it hurts, and I shall have to bear it for life,
But I have set myself at liberty,
Free to travel world’s grand and open ocean seas.
And may I ask, again, take a moment, please, consider,
Who would ever believe my, this fish story?

But it is true; I have broken from you.

DREAM CHILDREN, A Reverie

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DREAM CHILDREN,
A Reverie,
Edited May 2011




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 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 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.