E.P. Robles | Poetry

What spirit imbues that flesh! A love like that of a mother’s best,
with twinkling eyes and a heart of gold, that mystical flair that balances dew
upon the soothing green blade, touching your father’s heart too!

And you tend to good deeds that love and life bequeath to all,
a fiery and tender twinkle that brings joyous tears to your father’s eyes,
with the moon and bird-songs following you forevermore!

Your lovely grace in turmoil will make his heart always beat for you,
the world and all its gifts of gold and position are not as valuable
as that tender spot where angels dance, the room where I first met you.

That spot must have the best cot that shall forever remain my home,
you are a fair bloom of sweet beauty, fairer than roses bringing the bright noon-day,
more valuable than grass, rain, or the cold kiss of a winter’s night,
because it’s what’s inside of you, not your fur or appearance, that’s dear,
it’s the bloom that comes from the heart, and that’s what I keep.

What soft breaths of wind, what autumn songs from the skies that day,
and what beauty was not lost, comes from the cleft of the heart,
the heart that I hold in mine, to your father, who now with silent eyes fixed,
weeps tears of the heart for you,
From Heaven above have come
THE ROSE AND THE FLOWER.

(rev) 03.19.2023

when i’m in the middle of dream
i love you so carefully
walking inside your Soul

Everybody seems to think
i’m Crazy
i run and walk into the
trees with weeping willows
i cry – like a dream

I’m just me | poet so poor
and weeping

Everybody thinks I’m lazy
they think i’m crazy
until one poem catches fire
and then they realize

I’m only sleeping.

:: 03.19.2023 ::

Muscle-bound goons. The kind that rape the world. Self-satisfied, in no hurry to devote their remarkable faculties to understanding another’s mind. Such wise men. Stares as blank as summer nights, red and black, tricolored, golden star-stung steel: twisted features, leaden, pale, inflamed; hoarse guffaws. A grim onslaught of pretense. To hear what these kids would say about Cherubino in their rough voices and violent ways. They’re heading to town to get it from behind, all decked out in sickening luxury.

A violent Paradise of runaway sneers! But no match for your Fakirs and hackneyed theatrics. In costumes sewn together with all the taste of a nightmare, they strut through assorted laments, tragedies filled with all every brigand and demigod missing from religion and history. Chinese, Hottentots, bohemians, fools, hyenas, Molochs, ancient lunacies, sinister demons—they slip savage slaps and tickles into your mother’s old chestnuts. A little avant-garde here, some three-hankie stuff there. Master jugglers who use riveting comedy to transform players and scenes. Eyes ignite, blood sings, bones stretch, tears and red rivulets run. Their clowning can last minutes, or months.

Only I have the key to this savage sideshow.

:: EPRobles ::

i would sink if the moon left these shores!   picture of myself,
bright floods!   seeking shadowed roads.  Of yellow and green
cellophane hearts – into the willows of an old courtyard.
   O my dying quiet hearts of arts and wordsof black dog,
brown shepherd hungry formasters -bitter peaches upon the ground :  
while sulfur and evil drown in shallow swims.
Oh but Lord!   through amaranths and Sahara bluesas fire and creepers
seep through the widow’s cage!    i walked Guianan without shoes
and flew throughthe ducal window on such a moonlight as the blessed bindweed. 
Across ages of time and hordes cross our agedEurope.
Every soul crosses the moors -all warriors!