Joseph Pacheco, of Sanibel Island, died of natural causes on February 2, 2026. He was 95 years old. Born on July 21, 1930, on the Lower East Side of New York City, Joe was a proud “Nuyorican” and the first Puerto Rican NYC district school superintendent. While waiting for his wife, Marjorie, to retire he was an Adjunct Professor at Brooklyn College. After relocating to Sanibel in 1996, Joe rediscovered his poetry “muse” and wrote over 400 poems, many about his childhood growing up as a “Nuyorican” in NYC and life on Sanibel Island.

Joe, aka “Sanibeljoe” was one of Sanibel’s most famous poets, often regarded as the island’s unofficial poet laureate. He published a weekly poetry column in Sanibel’s Islander newspaper under the title “Poetic License.” Joe’s published works include The First of the Nuyoricans: Sailing to Sanibel, Alligator in the Sky and Sanibel Joe’s Songbook. His poems were featured on NPR’s “Morning Edition” and “All Things Considered” as well as “Latino USA”. His poem “Nor More Heavy Poems” was recently accepted by the literary journal, Passage.

Among his many activities, Joe was co-founder of ArtPoems, a collaborative project between poets and artists, organizer and host of the annual Sanibel Poetry Fest, past president of the Southwest Florida Hispanic Chamber of Commerce, member of WGCU Public Media Advisory Board and on the Board of the SW Florida Symphony. He loved playing tennis and was a master of drop shots.

Joe is survived by his beloved and loving wife, Marjorie, his daughter Allegra, son-in-law Abed and four grandchildren – Quds, Jaleel, Carmella and Majdal. In lieu of flowers, the family requests donations be made to WGCU Public Media, a cause close to his heart.

In loving memory of his weekly poetry column.

Forgotten

*By Joe Pacheco*

I am afraid of being forgotten,

Of no one on Earth recalling my voice,

My laughter, the stupid way I stooped

And tilted to the right when I walked,

The drop shots I hit to drive

My tennis foes crazy,

The Frank Sinatra song parodies

I sang in the shower and to my friends.

I am afraid because I remember

How easy it’s been to forget

The looks, sounds and scents

Of my mother, brother and father,

The jokes of woebegone buddies,

The charm of former lovers,

Each day thinking of them less and less

Until much too soon, not at all.

Most of all, I am afraid

No one will read the poems

I once believed would be

My passport to posterity,

Afraid my poems will remain

Shut away in unopened books,

Or float forever unclicked

In the vast oblivion of cyberspace

With no one to download them and sigh,

“Wish I had written that.”