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Blunt Reckonings

Pat Rosales, My Tease of Wasted Chances

Posted by C. Stan Asumen, Jr on March 12, 2017 at 6:40 PM

If caution were but protocol imposed

Let self-deception Purgatory be

Regrets be reckoned most deserving cost

When sin is but default's own legacy!

I'd rather grab the harvest of a sin

Than wonder of: If but, what might have been!

~~Ace Lilacs," target="_blank" rel="nofollow">A Posteriori


In anticipation of reconnecting with her through newly discovered connection on Facebook with Everilda Rosales (Bebie), her sister who used to clerk for me, I penned this narrative, the substance of which have been kept treasured in the innermost chambers of my reverie.

After all these decades of keeping it to myself, it deserves to be shared with her for whatever it might be worth to her. By so doing the reality of the event would no longer be my own private treasured memory and becomes even more priceless as it obtains the dimension of being a forbidden pleasure. It would give justice to the couplet (above) which I minted, post facto, to memorialize the event.

It was one afternoon on a weekend. I could not be certain whether it was Saturday or Sunday, or possibly another holiday. Pat was lying down on the couch in the living room of Prof. Rabor’s house where I was an authorized resident for the duration of my employment as a faculty member.

She was apparently taking her afternoon beauty nap. I suspected that she sensed or felt my presence in the room with her. She was such a portrait of loveliness that the temptation to molest and ravish her with lustful abandon was so strong and irresistible. To this day, I can still savor the taste of promised heaven in her slumber, that could have been mine for the taking, or so I thought. To this day, her image at that moment continues to be both the subject and object of my lustful indulgence.

I was on the verge of stealing the long-coveted kiss and be prepared to face the consequence. Just as I was about to succumb to the temptation, my brother-in-law, the late Manuel Bravante materialized in the porch-balcony adjoining the room. Heaven forgive me, but I could not be certain, then and now, whether to thank or curse Manuel for the interruption.

It behooves to explain my use of the qualifier “long-coveted.” Pat first caught my attention when I transferred my lodgings from the basement guest room of Dean Ignacio’s across the street to the supposedly unassigned house of Prof. Rabor who was on study sabbatical leave. She was one of the seemingly inseparable trio of coeds who rescued me from Prof. Rabor’s dogs guarding the property, before Manuel the care taker student escorted me in. She was with Bebing and Irmie.

As I learned later, they were the female counterpart of a hangout bunch consisting of the staff at the Aga Khan museum and the student caretaker of the property. To my disappointment, I also learned that Pat was the object of the unrequited affection of Ismer, one of the museum staff, who was head over heels pining for her attention.

My awareness of this emotional dynamics prevented me from giving vent to my attraction to her. I was almost certain that she knew I was captivated by her charming demeanor. I was also inclined to believe that had I thrown my hat on the ring, I had better than seventy-five percent chance of winning her over. While I was not about to pull rank on Ismer, it suffices to admit for the record that she was the ongoing feature of my lustful fantasies.

The incident inadvertently interrupted by my brother-in-law would have wiped out all the hesitant bones in my soul. I then would have crossed the proverbial Rubicon. That was what made the memory of that afternoon so poignantly delicious that would keep Pat vaulted in the innermost chambers of my reverie. For better or worse, I thought she deserved to at least learn of the incident.

For me the message eloquent

Conveyed with touching testament

Of care for my predicament

And yet . . . Of fear possessed lest be

To prayer bred of charity

This self, unfree of vanity

Be ill-disposed a recipient. . . .

To harbor doubt perchance is sin

For answers to a prayer sought

Sans faith, alas! however wrought

Reward deserving naught. But then . . .

Sans doubt, remain . . .

Sans conscience free!

~~ Ace Lilacs," target="_blank" rel="nofollow">In Response to a Get-Well Card


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Reply C. Stan Asumen, Jr
6:50 PM on March 12, 2017 
Cross posted under the same title in the AllPoetry venue.
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9:11 AM on September 9, 2017 
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Asumen Creative Escapades {ACE}

This is a collection of poetry and other creative escapades completed or in the works: So far I have grouped them into three categories reflective of the emotional circumstances under which they came about, namely, The Schuman-Spinoza Sonnets, the Patriotic Sonnets, and the Awkward  & Toilsome Years.

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