stanleypacion Videos

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As of this date, June 26, 2013, MY CHANNEL has 207,000 + Single Page Visits Full Text WORDS HERE (Show More) ~~ Or ~ ~~ ~~ India EveryDay: FOX RIVER LOVE SONG Sky, rain, wind, and the moon's glory when full, Yet while it sits low to the horizon, And washes world in silvery light ... Eyes, lips, ears and hair, Glorious limbs, the well-defined hand, Feet with pretty toes ... All Nature's children are beautiful, Its works abound with care and great love. But she, she was blessed with beauty, exceedingly so, The sun himself, though he encountered her often, He would be caught unawares. She surprised the sun himself, Whenever she had come into his presence. She surpassed all items of creation Not only in feature and proportion, But in wit and spirit, too. Her breasts were full and she wore a long skirt, Which clung to her hips and girdled her below the belly. The Whites brought us, the Chippewa, The Two Books, their sacred wisdom and stories. Their priests had translated these works into our language, Then taught us how to read them. Right off, the people feared that a demon spell Had been loosened amongst them. Elders worried for the safety of the children. These preacher men carried furniture and possessed Other requisites for them to celebrate their magic, Yet they were often out of meat and scant of clothes. The braves had refused to attend Sunday service. The medicine man said that the two volumes bore a pox. The moment he touched them, he cast them to the ground. Her hair was as black as the raven's, And reached down to her shoulders. She had her tresses styled in ringlets. We knew no other force to match her power. We knew hers was the face, Which could launch a thousand war canoes at once. So to honor her the topless sentry towers would tumble, Her face would level the high fences; It would vanquish the alien command, A thick, wood fort on the bank of the River, A sacrilege to all that was natural and good. The promise went that once she step out from her tent, The sun would acquiesce, do her wish, And burn the invader's barracks. Fire would justify his great love and devotion. And were her consort to experience a thousand women, Have them in his life, she would remain his favorite.

By : Stanley Pacion     Added : 26 June 2013
LOVE WISH, A Poem After Rumi
As of this date MY CHANNEL has 203,000 + Single Page Visits Full Text WORDS HERE (Show More) ~ Or ~~ ~~ ~~ India EveryDay: LOVE WISH, After Rumi I see the light coming out from your eyes. What sacred wonder illuminates your face? Wish I had the time and nothing else to do, But to while away the hours adoring you.

By : Stanley Pacion     Added : 21 April 2013
WILD IN MY PAIN [Video Has Closed Captioning]
As of this date MY CHANNEL has 203,000 + Single Page Visits Full Text WORDS HERE (Show More) ~~ Or ~ ~~ ~~ India EveryDay: 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?

By : Stanley Pacion     Added : 19 April 2013
ETTA, 1958
As of this date MY CHANNEL has 202,000 + Single Page Visits Full Text WORDS HERE (Show More) ~~ Or ~ ~~ ~~ India EveryDay: ETTA, 1958 He had twisted his ankle. His foot was swollen and it ached. It hurt to the degree that he could no longer concentrate. He had lost the capacity to figure. His mind no longer able to grasp even very simple things, His eyes appeared vacant, as if in a trance. He was young and he kissed the back of her hand, He kissed her about the face, He kissed her eyelids, And he rested his lips at the base of her neck. He had kissed the skin all-over both her shoulders. He and she were minors, and their ardency, Its possible consequence worried their parents. There was no question about the boy being strong. Underneath a sky possessing countless bodies of light, They stood next to a Sycamore, The tree grew along a muddy creek, Which emptied west into a river, A river the early French settlers had named Des Plaines. He thought that they might sail away upon the waters. The Milky Way seemed to stretch out across The vault of deep space more like some Will-o-wisp patch of terrestrial weather Than the starry edge of our own galaxy. Yet more, much more than the taste of salt From the tiny sweat along her brow, more than how Moisture had collected and now had formed Fetchingly to glisten upon her shoulders, It was a night whose such awesome, absolute clarity Enhanced a once-in-a-life-time, white light streak, At its end a mighty, bright flash erased the sky. Though now near midnight, all nature cast a quick shadow. Within the warmth of a very late, August evening, Beside the trunk of a Sycamore tree, Upon the bank of a muddy creek, a small water, A nameless feed to the river, The early French settlers had named Des Plaines, In a momentary all-over illumination, The youths saw their silhouette, They were merged as one, They saw themselves fused into a single shade. A low thunder followed, and, there, in the instant, All of heavenly influence fell upon their embrace. And when they turned and gazed upon each other, Before either of them had spoken a word, They had come to believe that the memory of this event And its retelling had made a place for them in immortality.

By : Stanley Pacion     Added : 14 April 2013
As of this date MY CHANNEL has 202,000 + Single Page Visits Full Text WORDS HERE (Show More) ~~ Or ~ ~~ ~~ India EveryDay: ROMANTIC, Love Lockdown, 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, As if it mattered, or had real weight, I transcribed them, then asked you to 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, The ups and downs of a human individual's existence Based upon the conjunction of remote bodies, How everyday events fit within a starry belt And could be known and actually foretold. 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 moment, The every hour afforded me to share with you. At other times I fall to absolute delusion, And believe that I write great poetry, The words I pen immortal, Celebrate you and me for the ages, That future readers might pine and swoon, as I do here, And then wonder what great grace sanctioned lyric, Allowed it to express the sentiment that ours was destiny, And yes, permitted me to publish the story, -- How deep and far our love ranged. 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! Dream comes true! Poem continues

By : Stanley Pacion     Added : 07 April 2013
RENDEZVOUS, An Original Love Poem after Rumi
As of today 30-04-2013 MY CHANNEL has 204,000 + Single Page Visits Full Text WORDS HERE (Show More) ~ Or ~~ ~ ~~India EveryDay: RENDEZVOUS, After Rumi Though much between us May seem to have grown distant, As you see, I am readily able to reach out and touch you. My feelings steadfast, my heart apparent, Even that this verse fails to mention your name. Albeit we are housed in poor mortal frame, Some one in a future time will think of us. And however history conspires to hush us, Destiny speaks and reveals to world That which is already written.

By : Stanley Pacion     Added : 30 March 2013
Full Text WORDS HERE (Show More) ~ Or ~~ ~ ~~India EveryDay: LET ME TELL YOU TRUE As you know, I am quite over you. I barely think of you more than twenty times a day. Though I must confess that today, When I went all around town in what had been Just an incredibly gorgeous day -- 89 degrees Fahrenheit, Dry, even very dry, and absolutely sunny With a ten mile-per-hour steady breeze -- My thoughts of you had crossed my mind At more than twice the usual rate, Which marks my each and every waking hour, Whether morning, noon, or night. Seems every great weather day reminds me of you. OK! I am not going to blame you for it. My arithmetic is poor and I am congenitally distracted. No need for me to confide to you my shortcomings. On Monday, now that was two days ago, It rained and rained, the entire day was hot and stuffy. Still my heart ran to you a hundred times. This count was not my total sum. Later during that day I stepped into a puddle, And dropped my umbrella, so wasn't it better, Certainly more rigorously honest, That I should start my addition once again and all over. Thus by bedtime, I had the number thirty-three, Which then I added to my original, first total of one hundred. In my own defense, you no doubt recall that Low barometric pressure has always had a bad effect on me. All right, let's get real, if we average out my daily count, One thing is abundantly clear, no mistake about it, I no longer spend my days just thinking of you. And let me tell you true, My thoughts turn to you No more than thirty-six times a day.

By : Stanley Pacion     Added : 31 March 2013
LET ME TELL YOU TRUE As you know, I am quite over you. I barely think of you more than twenty times a day. Though I must confess that today, When I went all around town in what had been Just an incredibly gorgeous day -- 89 degrees Fahrenheit, Dry, even very dry, and absolutely sunny With a ten mile-per-hour steady breeze -- You had crossed my mind at, At least double the usual rate my each waking hour. Seems every great weather day reminds me of you. OK! Yet I am not blaming you for it. I have become such a story teller. On Monday, now that was two days ago, It rained and rained, and the entire day was hot and stuffy. I must confess, my heart ran to you a hundred times, Before I stepped into a puddle and dropped my umbrella, Then when I reached home I had a new count of thirty three. All right, but if we average it out, You must really know, I have quit the habit of longing for you. And let me tell you true, I think of you, ha, less than thirty times a day.

By : Stanley Pacion     Added : 26 March 2013
Full Text WORDS HERE (Show More) /her-grandmother.html ~ Or ~~ ~ ~~India EveryDay: HER GRANDMOTHER, Early Morning Refrain, It was very late, no more than a hour before sunrise. We sat at the kitchen table; we had been up all night. Four decades had passed, more than forty years Had separated the grown-up woman from the story She was telling me about her early life. Her grandmother was not beautiful. No one ever claimed that she was brilliant, But she painted well, an artist. Today her family treasures and enjoys, Landscapes and still lifes, Wonderful evidence of her output and gift. She applied the oils heavily, Using trowel and brush, and even a putty knife, And once she readied her board upon an easel, Grandma finely captured wood and river, And the rural architecture, the scenes All around her north New Jersey home. She also remarkably rendered the wonder, The special furl and spray of the Atlantic Ocean waves Which rushed upon her state's southern shore. And following the common adage, Different time and place, who knows the fame, The renown she might have attained? 2. For all intents and purposes, Her granddaughter, a toddler miss, was orphaned. The child's mother was sick, And was to spend a long-time in sanatorium, When prevalent medical wisdom prescribed quarantine, That was the era before the antibiotic cure. With no real prospect for long-term survival, Doctors used isolation in hope of preventing reinfection, That and brutual surgical procedure won a few some extra time. The father was gone; he wandered off, And he started another family. Hard to explain the every detail here, But rumor has it that jealousy reigned; The new wife was demanding and her man Had to sever all connection to his previous life. The father of three never visited the children's mother, And rarely visited the girls he had left behind. The child, whose story enfolds here, was the last born of three, She had two older sisters, likewise deserted, And to manage their care the siblings were divided. The elder two were sent to the paternal grandparents. She, the third, the youngest of the girls, Was brought to the home of her mother's mother and father. 3. Grandma dressed her granddaughter in pricey sets, And family and neighbors seem to appreciate it, "Oh isn't Elsie wonderful!" They often said. The girl was tall with curly blonde hair, And cheek bones high enough to make for real beauty. Possessing natural, happy disposition, Her eyes beamed, and when all-dressed-up, She looked as though she might model For catalog or children's fashion magazines. But Elsie, she did have her ways. (I am told to put it nicely!) She paid little heed to the child's underwear, Mainly interested in outward appearance, Yes, we might think it over, Consider grandmother's perspective for a moment. No one else would ever see it, Though the cotton might be tattered and old, And Lord knows should have been replaced, Especially when one considers the small expense. Otherwise, she never hesitated at the dollar amount, Never thought twice about any outfit's cost, Had no regard, whatsoever the garment's price, If she thought it the right look, she bought it. And, too, Grandma was a master seamstress, Who dressed herself in wool coats whose linings Matched her hand-made silk dresses; her sewing favored subtle Flower prints, nothing garish and she used the same Sense of design and talent to dress the little girl like a doll. She was a healthy woman, who loved her dogs and cats, Fed those both inside and outside the house, She took in every kind of stray, animal and human. A former dancer, She had her training in the chorus at LUNA PARK, And, all who knew her swear, She practiced over-head kicks, when She had already celebrated birthdays past her seventieth. Did she swap a place for her star on the walk, Take lead role in gilded cage instead? No way, she was tough and worked hard, Created a wonderful home and with natural talent, She cultivated a big garden, a green-thumb delight. And guess what? To top it off, She married well, a union man, a good provider, A leader, he was respected and adored by all. Sure he was a hard-nosed guy. He had his trouble with the Schuberts and the mob, No easy matter getting a salary for men, Who changed the bulbs on marquee boards, Who hauled wire, and painted the sets, And who had jobs which often meant Long days of going up and down ladders. Her grandpa guaranteed a decent wage For the man whose job it was To clean and bag after circus elephants. Over the years, testimony holds, -- Here we have no mean feat -- They fostered twenty-five kids, adopted four, And then wound up having a girl of their own. 4. But something went amiss; Grandpa went upstairs to bed, Poem Continues:

By : Stanley Pacion     Added : 21 March 2013
SONNET 130 Stanley Pacion William Shakespeare Recitation
Full Text WORDS HERE (Show More) ~ OR ~~ ~ Or ~~ ~~India EveryDay: SONNET 130 William Shakespeare My mistress' eyes are nothing like the sun; Coral is far more red than her lips' red: If snow be white, why then her breasts are dun; If hairs be wires, black wires grow on her head. I have seen roses damask'd, red and white, But no such roses see I in her cheeks; And in some perfumes is there more delight Than in the breath that from my mistress reeks. I love to hear her speak, yet well I know That music hath a far more pleasing sound. I grant I never saw a goddess go: My mistress, when she walks, treads on the ground. And yet, by heaven, I think my love as rare As any she belied with false compare.

By : Stanley Pacion     Added : 20 March 2013
DASH IT! [Video has Closed Cationing]
Full Text WORDS HERE (Show More) ~ OR ~~ ~ Or ~~ ~ OR ~~ ~~India EveryDay: DASH IT! Dash it, Baby! Is this the best we can manage. Don't tell me! Have neither of us the sense, Reason enough to know which way is up, or down? Here's the key, there's my desk, You already have my heart, You can come and go, Whatever pleases you, no problem. Should you find a spare penny, Lying anywhere about the house, Keep it, and whenever you have found the opportunity, Use it, toss it into a fountain and wish us well. Don't be hard on me old girl; I take my hat off to you. We have had a run of bad luck. Let's hope that things are bound to get better. Well, are you happy? I did say? I promised you, did I not, that I would make you queen of my poetry. Truth, haven't I? Who of us is happier? You take pleasure in your business, You have your list of details, All the very many, important things "to do", And now with your father gone, You have the legal consequence, and its paper work, Plus the obligation of those household matters, All those little things, which once he had used to handle . How you must miss him! I shall change the topic. You seem to love your car and lengthy driving about. I sometimes wonder where you go, Yet I figure you run to your usual haunts: The regular flea market along side the Delaware River, And to those giant strip malls dotting the landscape, The same geographic stretch between Princeton and Trenton, Where once General Washington Had fought and suffered for years, Freeing countryside from foreign domination, those lands Which today are parking lots And lines of concrete block architecture Housing big-box and other discount merchandise. You disappear for days seemingly involved with your labors. Not a word about your travels, not a single line, No Internet connection, you claim. And when I ask about your goings, Why the haste? You answer, "Antique show on Saturday." Of course, I have heard that one before. Then I ask you, where? You say, "Pennsylvania." The dialogue becomes tedious, Or is it me? Have I grown ridiculous? Yet I remind you, Pennsylvania is a very large state! As I query, I see your thinking plainly roll in your eyes. Weird, right? Can you believe it? Doesn't it look silly? Maybe you practice some form of entitlement. Might you genuinely feel you have no need to elaborate, Or provide information about your whereabouts? Still would you admit that when you read this verse, And hear me repeat your response, After all, what's the big deal to an honest question? Strange, isn't it? You deign a one word answer, "Allentown." I imagine you understand what I mean, not that it matters. Hello. Is there anybody out there? Remember the colors of our dreams, When the magic of delicious blue and yellow hues Filled our bedroom, and the times that A voice from some other world demanded we harken, And in its ghostly-visage guise Spun out tales of high romance and telling prophecy. Come on now, the stars, the stars were shinning for us. Forgive me, let me return, again, back to this planet. Years ago I learned the reality -- Buying and selling no easy enterprise. I know that you take very special delight in the scouring Rack after rack, then picking through shelves, Rummaging with a practiced eye the goods Set for sale upon the tables. And, to be sure, you have that ability for concentration, And at level required to be successful at your shopping. Seems, too, you have that lucky touch, Procure gold when others see brass, Buy silver at the spot price of base, white metal. Lord knows, you love a good deal. I have never known anyone, who enjoys a low price, A markdown or a discount more than you. Even your dessert, it appears, tastes better When it comes at half-price. Not to mention that you, my dear, have ever-ready A discount coupon at point of sale, Or in your wallet a glossy ticket with its boxed numbers Whose final punch means a reward in kind for your patronage. The cadences captivate me, little hope of reason. The lyric overcomes me, little hope of any resolve. Actually whatever the hard inventory I conspire, No matter my tellingly, strict observations and remarks, My heart says how lovely you are. And so it goes, I succumb to the trying to figure. I try to figure the source of it all, Then I lapse from an ordinary confidence and come to believe That I might be ordained and my voice allowed to carry A radical theme first heard in the plain churches, Now five centuries ago, my feelings fall backward to the faith, By God, which held our course predestined in Heaven, How else to describe these events? I had to find you, and those inklings of our Destiny Still remain and animate our hearts Poem Continues:. .

By : Stanley Pacion     Added : 19 March 2013
WITHOUT YOU, George Street Heartache
Full Text WORDS HERE (Show More) ~ OR ~~ ~ Or ~~ ~ OR ~~ ~~India EveryDay: WITHOUT YOU, George St. Heartbreak I am sick with watery eyes and body aches, I fear I have the flu. A congestion of the lungs has me coughing constantly. Insomnia stains my eye sockets; They look as though charcoal had blackened them. For the first time in my life, I look older than my real age. Years ago, when a child, I read auguries in the snarled patterns of clouds, And practiced divination in how snow Accumulated to subtle differences of height On the post rails surrounding the corral. I examined the frozen breath of horses. I hoped to see some hint of good fortune, But abstracted solely gloom and heartbreak. Today, desperate and preoccupied, I try to pick out the future from the way Antenna wire twists against the white walls, And runs up and down Along the molding in my bedroom. Once again, all readings seem dismal. My mind has fallen into a trench, And, like some foot soldier, I dig a deeper hole, Hoping to escape an enemy barrage. Yet I fear my own defenses, that mud may bury me. I keep to the apartment all day, Flipping over playing cards, Looking for my destiny every time, A queen of hearts appears from the deck. It's going okay tonight, not too bad. 'Don't be wearin' that stickpin, The one with the opal on top.' I found it rummaging at a local swap meet. I have heard about the reputation of opals. Many people consider the gem as a bearer of bad luck, Especially should one buy it for one's own self adornment. My luck isn't very good in the first place. I don't think me wearing an opal Changes the outcome of life that much. No eulogy for this affair of heart. No photographs left here for me to remember us. I see no people down the street to witness Me driving off in the Ford alone. Rainy and cold outside today, Happy couples walk the avenues, Huddling close, tight, one to another. Your name has been deleted from my speed dial. It has vanished from my computer screen. I guess these musings are the closest It may ever come to a biography of us. I must wonder if this whole fantastic romance Does it amount to no more now Than make-believe, a wild course of my imagining? Is it a footnote in this big book of my own? No children will be named for us, Not that you wanted it anyhow, The children being named after either you or me. No admission will ever be charged For entrance to the home where we once lived, Spoke ardently of love for one other, And I attempted verse to celebrate us for the ages. And despite all the noise coming from the street, All the appointments I have to keep this evening, I can only lie on the floor and look to the ceiling. The light is going out of my eyes. Some people lust after money. Others seek a hundred different lovers. Lots of people crave more than a fair share. I, I just want you, your love, dear, And while life goes on without you, I feel increasingly impoverished. I have fallen into awful ingratitude. A grand poverty of spirit besets me. I exaggerate my mood, And in a panic I envision a national calamity. My citizenship revoked, I am a refugee, Lost to my wife and child and forced to flee home. I have abandoned my bed and kitchen utensils. I know it wrong for me to venture Such outrageous scenarios; Yet when I sit here alone, still I feel, That prayer fails and in my life today, Abomination. I am bereft of Succor, as if, God punishes me. Sadly I postulate notions contrary to the faith of millions. The awesome numbers whose testimony concerning Grace, Its power in everyday life, mirrors the notion, The every hair on our head has been counted. And, too, I betray a personal belief, which chief tenet holds -- The breath of life requires daily thanksgiving. The wind and rain seem harder now, The storm windows occasionally shake, Yellow leaves are being driven into slithering sheets, Upon the sidewalk and curb stretching along George Street. Lost in other worlds, mind running a narrative from guise to guise, Assorted characters riotously clamor in my head. Some appear as wisps of smoke, resembling ghosts, Hazy semblances, others as identifiable faces, ancients, Or people from my everyday life both current and past. Sometimes they appear alone or they chatter all at once. They seem to plead for life, or to want to live again. It could be that they wish for some sign of recognition. I guess they want to be remembered, vainly hope that these lines Increase their chance at immortality. I see and hear so much anguish from them. Poem Continues:

By : Stanley Pacion     Added : 17 March 2013
21:59, Time Flies
Full Text WORDS HERE (Show More) ~ OR ~~ ~ Or ~~ ~OR~~ ~~India EveryDay: 21:59, Time Flies 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 activity. 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 today turns to memory, And confidently profess, "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. You suppose that 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) Its numbers read 21:59. It sits. It waits. Woman, Darling! Woman! Can't you see what you have done to me! My condition is desperate. The clock no longer runs. For me here languishing without you Time stops, and my life suspended, My daydreaming becomes nightmare. The universe endlessly expanding, With its boundary beacons actually accelerating, Points of light at outermost fabric of space/time, Increasing speed, faster and faster, and distancing apart, Separately hastening from one star-light point to another, All of them at once farther and father from the other, Each spot, incredible luminosity endlessly hurling, At quickening pace, ever hurrying and hurrying, Scurrying to extend, stretching The cosmos, picking up speed at the edge of empty space, How would I ever hope to expect the bright of your eyes To bridge the black night, Where time slips into nothingness, And the law of gravity no longer applies, Every principle of attraction confounded. Me having seen your face in every flower, My longing here for you Mean nothing when all spheres turn to final ice, All moment gone, all hope forlorn The electronic numbers of my computer clock, Still sit here and read 21:59.

By : Stanley Pacion     Added : 10 March 2013
Full Text WORDS HERE (Show More) ~ OR ~~ ~ Or ~~ ~ OR~~ ~~India EveryDay: ANOTHER POEM AFTER RUMI Though I may seem distant, 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.

By : Stanley Pacion     Added : 09 March 2013
Full Text WORDS HERE (Show More) ~ OR ~~ ~ Or ~~ ~ OR~~ ~~India EveryDay: SOME THOUGHTS Well how do I say it? Thinking about you makes me want to run, Run, run, run, then spin and spin, Spin through a revolving glass door, And spin so much that when I exit, Leave the compartment-pressure within the whirling pivot, I am laughingly dizzy and fall to the floor. I want to run until I reach the place Where once your favorite oak tree grew And see you there and kiss, kiss, kiss, Until the earth itself relinquishes its ghost strength, And you and I forever young and merrily into the woods, Playing endless games of hide and seek, Falling over and over into each others arms again.

By : Stanley Pacion     Added : 07 March 2013

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