The greatest smile is DEATH.
How welcomed. The eternal embrace!
But how i belong here — beyond the
world’s end _ no longer human.
i embrace ~ with the broken!
:: 01.31.2024 ::
Monthly Archives: January 2024
THE ICE OF COLD BLUE DEATH
(i went to the doctor,
… told him i was dead.)
In chambers of white, where shadows dance,
A soul approached, a spectral trance.
The doctor sat with wisdom’s stare,
Inquiring of the ailment rare.
“I come to you with heavy heart,
For life has played a cruel part.
In death’s embrace, my essence lies,
Yet here I stand before your eyes.”
The doctor, wise in healing’s art,
Raised an eyebrow, not to depart.
“A paradox, this tale you weave,
For life and death in one can’t cleave.”
The patient, with a hollow gaze,
Recounted tales of ghostly days.
“Within my veins, no pulse does beat,
Yet consciousness and self, replete.”
The doctor pondered, deep in thought,
A riddle spun, a truth unsought.
“How, then, converse we, spirit kind?
For speech requires a living mind.”
The ghostly figure raised a hand,
A spectral gesture, quite unplanned.
“Though breath may cease, my voice persists,
A wraith with tales, a soul that insists.”
The doctor sighed, his mind perplexed,
Engaged in dialogue complex.
“Tell me, then, what led to this,
A life entwined in realms amiss?”
The phantom spoke, with echoes cold,
Of destinies and stories told.
“Life’s thread unraveled, fate unspun,
In twilight’s grasp, my course was done.”
The doctor, with a measured gaze,
Considered life’s mysterious maze.
“Are you a specter, lost in gloom,
Or just a soul in living’s tomb?”
The patient, spectral and forlorn,
Revealed a truth, in shadows worn.
“I dwell betwixt both realms unseen,
A ghostly vessel, caught between.”
The doctor mused, with furrowed brow,
On realms where mortal meets the now.
In dialogue profound, they tread,
A living doctor, with the dead.
A tale of life and death entwined,
In chambers white, a dance defined.
A poet laureate’s verses soar,
On whispers of a ghostly lore.
01.30.2024
POETIC ODYSSEY
Upon the inside of my dreams
There was no wind when i took
the watch across the seas
& when the ocean withdrew breath
and waves white-capped
i saw clouds of glass
within amora my heart said
‘roll over, roll over.’
how i had awaited restlessly
Upon the opal glass finally
talking sweet /within my ear,
the sound so strange, ‘mistral,
mistral…’ \
winds_____close your eyes again
my gentle breathing giant.
:: 01.29.2024 ::
CALL ME BROKEN
Oh, speak not of my heart untrue,
Though absence seeks to temper my desire,
As readily I could bid myself adieu
As part from the soul within your fire.
In your bosom lies my dwelling of love:
If I’ve strayed, like threads unraveled, I return,
To the moment, not with time exchanged above,
Yet with my essence, a cleansing urn.
Never think, though frailties course my veins,
That they could mar this sacred trust we share,
To forsake, for naught, your myriad gains,
For you, my rose, my universe is bare.
Within its vast expanse, hear my call,
For nothing exists, save you, my all.
:: 01.26.2024 ::
Sonata in A Major
A quill adorned with feathers light!
In solitude, her spirit takes flight.
A tranquil chamber, a mind agleam,
With musings that twirl, a gentle dream.
The pen ascends, in ink it croons,
A hymn of optimism, on parchment swoons.
The heart’s inkwell, an endless sea,
Where visions sail, unbridled, free.
Across domains of thoughts untold,
She knits her verses, a spell to unfold.
In dashes and dots, a covert code,
The language of hearts, generously bestowed.
Nature murmurs in her attentive ear,
A symphony that all humanity can hear.
The whispering leaves, the sunlit skies,
Within each line, a universe lies.
Amidst these verses, enigmas entwine,
In shadows where truth and mysteries align.
A garden of words, truth blooms,
She nurtures with care, the fountain of youth resumes.
Oh, Emily, within words you reside,
A poet’s essence, a sacred guide.
In every line, a world anew,
A legacy of words, eternally true.
:: 01.26.2024 ::
LOVE IS TOO YOUNG TO KNOW WHAT CONSCIENCE IS
Is love too young to know what CONSCIENCE is
Yet who knows not conscience is born of love?
Then, gentle cheater, urge not my amiss,
Lest guilty of my faults thy sweet self prove:
For, thou betraying me, I do betray
My nobler part to my gross body’s treason;
My soul doth tell my body that he may
Triumph in love; flesh stays no farther reason;
But, rising at thy name, doth point out thee
As his triumphant prize. Proud of this pride,
He is contented thy poor drudge to be,
To stand in thy affairs, fall by thy side.
No want of conscience hold it that I call
Her ‘love’ for whose dear love I rise and fall.
“The Little Love-God Lying.”
:: 01.26.2024 ::
THE THING CALLED MINSTRAL WIND
We NEVER consciously walk into it,
but Life moves each of us.
[pensively, the voice moved over]
It is Time.
IF i were to reveal myself
the world would recoil:
[the King of Words warns]
i am justifiably by them.
then closed my eyes
talking sweet roll over roll over
then i heard, ‘mistral wind.’
But more of that is not categorized
by humans nor nature.
Everyone eventually focuses upon
the silly clown called D E A T H
Some so young we question the thing
called’ EVERYTHING.’
Eventually: roll over roll over:
mister, mister, mister!
I am both King and Queen
Mister! Misses!
:: 01.26.2024 ::
THE CANVAS OF TIME
THE SKIN is prominent
within all of Life
Whose dippy hands cross rhyme
within a strange water
called Time
/ as we are all /
nothing / and memories that flow___
In the tapestry of moments, we weave
Threads of laughter and tears, perceive
The dance of shadows in the mind
A kaleidoscope of memories we find
Yet, within this vast expanse of recall
Fragments of existence, both big and small
Nothing but echoes in the grand design
Whispers of a fleeting, ephemeral sign
The hands of Time dip in the waters deep
Creating ripples where memories sleep
An intricate dance of joy and strife
Etched upon the canvas of Life
And as we navigate this transient sea
Our skin, a vessel of identity
In the tapestry, we play our part
A symphony of the soul, a work of art.
:: 01.23.2024 ::
MYSTERIOUS ETYMOLOGIES
MYSTERIOUS ETYMOLOGIES
and which came first?
syllable or the sound
of pain?
what…did you say?
they ARE the same
whether uttered or
spoken or eventually
written — all the same!
must a glyph truly obtain
a sense of distinction?
it is now its own.
:: 07.14.2020 ::
Notes for the Students:
THIS POEM explores the interconnectedness of language, sound, and emotion. The poet contemplates the origin of words and the relationship between syllables and the expression of pain. The question of which came first, the syllable or the sound of pain, reflects on the primal and innate nature of language as a means of conveying human experience.
The repetition of the phrase “they ARE the same” emphasizes the unity of spoken and written language, suggesting that the essence of expression remains constant across different forms. The poem questions the necessity for a glyph (a written symbol) to have a distinct meaning, implying that language evolves organically and may not always follow rigid rules.
The final lines, “it is now its own,” suggest a sense of independence and self-contained identity for language. This could be interpreted as an acknowledgment of the power of language to shape its own meaning and significance over time.
Overall, the poem invites readers to reflect on the mysterious and evolving nature of language, emphasizing its ability to capture and convey complex emotions and experiences.
Like Flying Within Fog
He loved to walk the bank,
within gray dawn.
All the lake’s waking
riding on the morning mist.
Suggesting.
All his stories,
a lifetime to collect.
No one else could know.
Surely he was on to
something he could show.
He’d always found,
an ease, a release
drifting within the fog.
A place where ideas
could break free.
:: 01.22.2024 ::
E.P. Robles | Poetry 
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