MY poetry,
fractured.
Not unlike me.
:: e,p,robles,(c),2019 ::
Monthly Archives: March 2019
A HUNDRED POEMS – 072
my death(sentence) –> dies
singularly learned (stiff)necks)
scrutinized by prose(police)
a formality of academically
dusty halls; the light that
never falls —-
but my prose-eat sunlight
unstructured for the soul!
:: 06-12-2013 ::
E.P. Robles (c) 2019
A HUNDRED POEMS – 073
tonight the storm:
fierce lightning as
a thought struck
and split a tree
that beauty deformed
my love — nature
that kills
what it loves
:: 06-12-2014 ::
E.P. Robles (c) 2019
MY HEART IN HOT SUMMERS
MY heart in hot summers have I
rejoiced while heat has spiked
my chest — as watching the sun
sink below purplest colors
of pink and darkening clashing
tears of mightiest strength
and the joy of love and
children’s laughter do always
save my soul and heart
gives me defying peace
and erodes scorn — my
lone might against darkness
opposing!
:: 03-10-2019 ::
ENERGY SPEAKS WORDS
ENERGY speaks words
like mathematical screaming
discretely hiding its origins.
I (this human writing) is
NOT science. I am flesh and bone
physically but my brain tells me
that the thoughts I have come
from so far away that there is no
number to describe its distance.
Infinity does not count. It only
says that ‘something’ goes on and
on (a way to cheat the thing we
cannot clearly describe) but some
how it all works out with pencil
and a blackboard.
I suspect. A greatness so grand
we cannot even begin to touch
the lips of it’s truth. But still,
I wish to kiss it with my own
lips. I wish to embrace it. To
become engulf within the unknowable
truth.
:: 03-10-2019 ::
WE RIDE THE RAIL
WHO can fathom universal mysteries
and those cosmic eyes of pulsars;
a child’s laughter | a bottle
of flickering ray caught inside
any throat;
then when dreaming our Soul sheds
weight by squeezing light from
our tipped toes
as a kangaroo jumping
like a thought through
the needle of some mysteriously
unknown being familiar to our selves
there is no fine line between
understanding and obliviousness:
you either understand or not.
They watch as a spot of an eye
fixed upon each of us. My lips
are dried from the winds of torment
and my heart is a locomotive whose
clenched wheels ride the rails
from South to North. East to West.
We all have a seat there —
with assigned arrivals and
departures.
:: 03-10-2019 ::
POPLAR WITHIN THE FIELDS OF MY HEART
MY heart rests upon a
mote of dust
not forgotten but
still for us frozen
as though love absent
bursting full of sorrow
as though HistoryLand
–i forget my name//
but poplar within
the fields of my Heart.
:: 03-06-2019 ::
E.P. Robles (c) 2019
WISHING KISSES RESURRECTED LOVE
Anger’s division ate my heart in bites
so small the moon spun around howling
at wolves — lady / God \ rivers
sequestered Souls; i died within your
arms and death too — we go up and down
with angels whose burning wings light
our Souls
We took refuge in truth and we go up
and down and scratch away lies
— the little lies eat life
|||the bigger you give the bigger
you get and sometimes we forget
the Spirit needs food and we
scratch away the flesh from life
; is such the little death every
day we breath/we live in small
spaces wishing kisses resurrected
Love and all our biggest dreams.
:: 03-08-2019 ::
t HeGreat est won deful my SteR y
t
HeGreat
est
won
derful
my
SterR
y
of
Al
l
is
tru
eLo
ve
:: 03-08-2019 ::
E.P. Robles (c) 2019
HELL IS A GOOD DEFENSE
it comes at night and seems to
, it seems to grip my heart ; i
die? –>so, case in point –>
i’ve been so bad, but not as bad
as this world: my mother said
i too shall suffer for all my sins
(ooh oh ooh) oh love! And now
Heaven save me from my evil deeds
and oh hell help me while i clean
these wounds : what i am is all
anyone could be /a victim of
being human ///…////keep away
from me man! MY lover is an angel
that kiss-tells me all i need is a
good defense against ewe-you, ha,
uh hmm. \\\
:: 02-28-2019 ::
Recent Comments
Damien de Soto on Could I Be EPRobles on Could I Be Damien de Soto on Could I Be Damien de Soto on Drowning in Fear romanticallyinclined… on A PECK OF KISSmOuth
E.P. Robles | Poetry 