Author Archives: EPRobles

About EPRobles

Writer, Artist. I like to paint abstract acrylic images onto canvas. I love to read everything, and I especially enjoy science, philosophy, and the arts. I'm new to the blog experience and I very much enjoy it! I hope to learn as much about all the features that WordPress offers and thank you -- my visitor -- for taking time to read my words. Peace and love...

MY DREAMS TAKE ME HOME

Wave to me and say, “only one single tear as a symbol of the price I pay for loving.”

Why do I search for that shining Soul I love and search the page for that name
written in the most elegant hand?

And why do I know that one look will last forever
but if I give up this hope it will destroy me?

Why can’t I sleep with my heart in my mouth, like a bell
that rings only for the grave?

The crickets are at peace and there is a choir singing
so now there is no room for thoughts to speak …
and love stops
and love falls
on everything that’s not.

The rain is turning and the water glistens
at my feet with tears mixed with raindrops.

Now the sky’s too bright and my eyes are saying,
“I can’t see through the mist for I am too tall and
too dark.”

O my dreams.
Take me home.
Take me home.
My dream take
me home.

:: 07.21.2021 ::


A HUNDRED POEMS – WHITE SPACE DETOURS

I ride the path by mouth – a trillion bottles of water —
parched lips: and nothing more! Give me you love; oh
i need that thing so bad.

The pen is dried and tears have taken a road by south.
dusty road of youth and hunger for passion.

Who should feed those vagrant words? They starve at day
and flee by night! And detours, forked by white Spaces
and pregnant pauses give birth as too tiny doubts upon my ink!

Ah baby you’re driving me mad. So give me your love.

I watched the children drown there. Within possibility.

A fountain in the square of town is where I dip my quill,
and the Crier shouts,

“Oyez, Oyez, Oyez!”

Remember all the good souls!

Oh give me your love.

:: 08-23-2014 ::
::tiny revisions::


UNINVITED CHARITY

LIFE: is anyone worthy? i am so flattered by your fascination with me.  
i am so weak and ulgy but by water frogs like any hot blooded woman i am not too  much to crave: but  fascinations with me.  I am simply an object to crave — but you (so kind and invited).

It must be because it is expressly existed to see the skies part and my heart bleed.
You sheppard my causes but you, you are not alone but enlighted by charity.  The One I love so much.
Must be a soul with a hard shelled heart who knows desperate measures.  
But you, you are not alive but enlighted.  Slight.  White hands moving the air and
making words and uncharted emotions grievely.  YOu speak of my love for you
and have experienced death.  YOU.  Thus, you are not alive but invited for uncharted
words.  Emily Dickinson.

:: 07.15.2021 ::


THE MAN WHO SAW THE WORLD

\
The curtain hid my fear and ill-intention.
It led by with only a single hole, a reminder!

Then, right there and then even though behind
the curtainS, so wary of the cause:

What was the cost of the pain?

The cost for the life, the life for the key!

Oh!

So this time i cast aside reason for belief:

Knowing in the seed of life!

oH NO! nOT me! you’re face to face with
the soul who made the world.

Behind the curtain, self loathing became true
and trust, trust, loss for a minute
then forever wound within my mind! For
gazing millions of billions of years
a long long time ago — who knows?

How we killed the, “once I dreamed.”
Said he was the friend of Humanity
and i spoke into his eyes and he
crucified so long ago with the man
who loved the World.

I laughed and shook his hand and said
“My friend, you are so kind.” So so
a long time ago. And watched him die.
/

:: 07.11.2021 ::


A HUNDRED POEMS – LIII

I feared a thing untold & unseen
that thing i feared within my mind
a thing too!
Split by half in such unknowns
i strove to know:
Unraveled too which spilled upon the floor!
Imperfect thoughts rolled from higher ground to low!
Then reality’s curtain fell; my needle tired to stitch
the past when love was good!
But life ran beyond the needle and instead stitched time
within my soul.

:: E.P. ROBLES (c) 2018::

:: 05-15-2014 ::
:: 10-20-2018 ::


TODAY IS A DAY OF PAIN

BETWEEN seconds i find myself focused
upon all that i have learned :
— how silence helps me remember
everything i am become –>
: and i feel memories and now and here
the promises of those from the past
(and how i remember everything from
the now) Almost everyone i know has passed
and how those i love are in dirt
or burned as ashes my sweetest loves
and everyone i know goes away in the end
— how i grab your heart.
How life turns a soul and tries to kill
it all away: but now i am away i see
how everyone i knew is so sweet and how
i love my my many friends
what i have become and how everyone
passess in the end. How we love history
and how we hide masks and crown of thorns
of broken thoughts. We hide a face and
still i am right here. How everyone goes
and slips away in shadows and how i love
how i could start again and keep myself
safe i would find a way.

:: 07.10.2021 ::


LISTEN TO THE OWLS

LISTEN to the owls  within the memories of how tangery thoughts call peach-like
colors ;  cellophane love within the sun of her eyes kissing yester-tomorrows.
A hand upon the oar washing tears deeply towering over your soul
and she’s gone!

i followed her foot prints down by a brook with an ancient bridge where
trolls never ask for pay.

i followed her petals of roses and those whose necks are long
and the incredibly high eyes of the trees ___ i asked an oak
: “Where is Jessica?”    the branches of a tree broke and i grabbed the
wood and it became my staff.

SHe is a purest pure whisper of a whisper  and everyone smiles  (while you
drift by the flowers)  newspaper taxis and childfully serious
petals of holiness.
Ooh.  
Woman in the sky and my dreams are as looking glass ties
— suddenly she is there at the helm of the steam train
driving the rails onward. 
Ohhh.  

LISTEN TO THE OWLS

LISTEN to the owls  within the memories of how tangery thoughts call peach-like
colors ;  cellophane love within the sun of her eyes kissing yester-tomorrows.
A hand upon the oar washing tears deeply towering over your soul
and she’s gone!

i followed her foot prints down by a brook with an ancient bridge where
trolls never ask for pay.

i followed her petals of roses and those whose necks are long
and the incredibly high eyes of the trees ___ i asked an oak
: “Where is Jessica?”    the branches of a tree broke and i grabbed the
wood and it became my staff.

SHe is a purest pure whisper of a whisper  and everyone smiles  (while you
drift by the flowers)  newspaper taxis and childfully serious
petals of holiness.
Ooh.
Woman in the sky and my dreams are as looking glass ties
— suddenly she is there at the helm of the steam train
driving the rails onward.
Ohhh.  

LISTEN to the owls  within the memories of how tangery thoughts call peach-like
colors ;  cellophane love within the sun of her eyes kissing yester-tomorrows.
A hand upon the oar washing tears deeply towering over your soul
and she’s gone!

i followed her foot prints down by a brook with an ancient bridge where
trolls never ask for pay.

i followed her petals of roses and those whose necks are long
and the incredibly high eyes of the trees ___ i asked an oak
: “Where is Jessica?”    the branches of a tree broke and i grabbed the
wood and it became my staff.

SHe is a purest pure whisper of a whisper  and everyone smiles  (while you
drift by the flowers)  newspaper taxis and childfully serious
petals of holiness.
Ooh.
Woman in the sky and my dreams are as looking glass ties
— suddenly she is there at the helm of the steam train
driving the rails onward.
Ohhh.


AFRICAN LOVE

i see the night star shinning so brightly
i feel the pain within my soul …
how the air is my last Testament of dreams
i am a traveling soul without boundaries
and my elders lost their grip upon me
oh how much shall be revealed
when at last the sun beats down upon
my face oh oh …gentlemen kneel
as the clear skies rain
I am a chord of grace & not a word
heard i relate — oh, oh, yeah
oh, oh, how flesh eats my soul
How forefathers gave and their
women wept for their pain and love
ooooooh!
rambling wondering and writing words
crying silently and never lord oh never
weeping the pain of my skin and soul
(wait for me) i cry oh how i know
| all i see turns to dirt |
and if a sound burns to ground
i sing with eyes /if i lose my mind
\ then with my mouth!/
Ooh some such angel oooooooooh
touch my Spirit.

:: 06.28.2021 ::


FOREWARD:  THE WERELINGS

WHEN sun opens the skies above so opens my dreams –>  open greens
like children’s eyes :  all to be revealed.  

As where summer’s beside their secret glories sleep
oh flowing downward if they’ll or righteously flow
so(armies of enemies fighting like adults reveals)  will fall

this. that.  a(t) least dare and not a word to relate
of seasons is nothing but herself flustered in pain.
oooooh.

An open closet within the child’s room:  bombed by society’s war;
‘s gulped by fear –> and never knew ghosts who hold
the hands of the living________ whom cannot kill but give life.
As each, c umbs of our Now) oooooooh      yeeeeeeah
twiceauponatime we met the willbeus and the desert streams
of desert sands | kissing the angel of Imagination.

Werelings.  

:: 06.28.2021 ::


WHEN RAIN STARTS FALLING DOWN

There are cemeteries that are lonely, graves full of bones that do not make a sound, the heart moving through a tunnel, in it darkness, darkness, darkness, like a shipwreck we die going into ourselves, as though we were drowning inside our hearts, as though we lived falling out of the skin into the so

And there are corpses, feet made of cold and sticky clay, death is inside the bones, like a barking where there are no dogs, coming out from bells somewhere, from graves somewhere, growing in the damp air like tears of rain.

Sometimes I see alone coffins under sail, embarking with the pale dead, with women that have dead hair, with bakers who are as white as angels, and pensive young girls married to notary publics, caskets sailing up the vertical river of the dead, the river of dark purple, moving upstream with sails filled out by the sound of death, filled by the sound of death which is silence.

Death arrives among all that sound like a shoe with no foot in it, like a suit with no man in it, comes and knocks, using a ring with no stone in it, with no finger in it, comes and shouts with no mouth, with no tongue, with no throat. Nevertheless its steps can be heard and its clothing makes a hushed sound, like a tree.

I’m not sure, I understand only a little, I can hardly see, but it seems to me that its singing has the color of damp violets, of violets that are at home in the earth, because the face of death is green, and the look death gives is green, with the penetrating dampness of a violet leaf and the somber color of embittered winter.

But death also goes through the world dressed as a broom, lapping the floor, looking for dead bodies, death is inside the broom, the broom is the tongue of death looking for corpses, it is the needle of death looking for thread.

Death is inside the folding cots: it spends its life sleeping on the slow mattresses, in the black blankets, and suddenly breathes out: it blows out a mournful sound that swells the sheets, and the beds go sailing toward a port where death is waiting, dressed like an admiral.

:: 06.05.2021 ::