Daily Archives: March 11, 2019

A HUNDRED POEMS – LV

MY poetry,
fractured.
Not unlike me.

:: e,p,robles,(c),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