IN a WORD are the little things
the meaning bigger than me.
Within a Soul is great soup
the tongue and her taste great.
Inside the nest unborn eggs
unpublic – slanted sight!
My unborn babies are largely great
inside only a single name:
a lifelong dying Soul as me –
Admirning time and her quaint space.
A poet? For me yes but you for
saving grace a possibility.
:: 02.14.2022 ::
FAIRIES of dreaming memories
those famous three free fingers
damaged my trust while
the carriage of death
stopped kindly for me:
a smell of bloody air
: ghost glazed eyes aglare
hooves turned to glue.
Shekels like cobblestones
(i gave it all away)
Judas wept last night
and gaped at me shoeless
unshaven and conquered
the monsters of all time__
declared.
:: 02.14.2022 ::
A blossom of heart
a brain of red storm
that soars in swarms
of indistinct dreams
holding frail fingers
of silver nails
writing two charming
words:
“loving you”
And within the scene
of heavy hair where
dew falls my trembling
fingers wander
wide blue skies of
kisses bathing jumbles
of blooming flowers
merci, interrupted by
trembling and saliva
whispering resumptions
on the lips or desire
for kisses___
A soul rising and dying
that constant desire
to weep in gray indolences.
:: 02.14.2022 ::
E.P. Robles | Poetry 