MANY years since the fancy floor
where feet dance and swish
and body gyrate with lights
eye contact delivers target zone
and blood boil-heart drones
I want to meet that woman
who can keep up with me
and groove and slice the night
and have some left for the bed
:: 03-17-2014 ::
my river called Mystic —
creativity bends
that human creature
drinks the waters
abnormally —
inhumanly sensitive
truly my category
not alive am i
unless creating
:: 03-17-2014 ::
terminus across my soul
a movement
compressed
the light is ancient
and I am old
what power say you
devoid of youth like
father time — eons ago
the vagabond
begs more
No! No! No! — pleading
be gone this illusion
a single note slicing
passion between notice
We are not who we are
who we be
not what thing
that creeps between —
our
divine dreams
:: 03-17-2014 ::
(c) 2013 E.P. Robles
MY sight not of a keen eye
nor spectacles to shape edge
it is a hidden thing in secret
one not mentioned in daylight
it tells no tale of word or scent
and color — hardly present
but reveals past-futures-past
an end-state and beginning
what-could-should-will-be
all depends upon singular point
that consciousness travels —
across quantum foam oceans
infinite possibilities
for you-us-one-me
:: 03-14-2014 ::
I cannot hope
— to dance
upon my tears
the sorrow large
but surface small
I shall dream instead
to fly above my pain
and land upon
soft bellow clouds
there — no tears
and the surface large
for life’s ballad
:: 03-17-2014 ::
the tyrannical evil
of creativity —
what already exists
the giant-eye
entrance and contain —
mutes individual creativity
an open mind will see
no longer the why or how
invention/creation/imagination
and only individuality and freedom
produce originality —
novelty in infinite universes
that is the reason for freedom
:: 03-14-2014 ::
HAVE you heard the song
one without notes —
but sang with word
a rhythm heaven bird
and wings that stanza
this shook-shock sway
my bearing and house
a mini-death many times
the nest dances and egg
a birth of word and say-song
:: 03-14-2014 ::
FATHER, oh father where were you
my crib is destroyed by time
and clothing many sizes bigger
and scars upon my heart and soul
that list many write of loss
too lengthy for me to scribe
some memory still exists —
imagery through thick glass
once I believed I be born
but now reside in resolve —
you were never birthed nor lived
and me by mother —
immaculate
conception
:: 03-14-2014 ::
THAT dangle
broke a gentle tangle
between enamel a toothless
piece not in mouth — surely
shards that spread glinting
strewn across my life-garden
hoe come dig into me
spread my thoughts Enter
gently and
carefully revive
my soul
a kiss upon tulips without thorn
:: 03-14-2014 ::
Now to rear
my ugly head
and all the thoughts
contained therein
so many fantasies
all beyond reality
I have known alien,
incubus, and life
spoken for the dead
and those on the way
mysteries revealed
and some contained
I have seen all:
murder, rape, death,
incest, and most of all
disregard for true love
I have no expectation
from those that read
only that they hear
and if they remain
mute, so be it…
let life sort it out
if not, then death
surely will
:: 03-05-2014 ::
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E.P. Robles | Poetry 
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