IF SO
is good
if SO
is comparable to
the lit ferns of paradise i bid good well
and good nights
to hear the dim notes of heavenly songs
flutter through currant bushes as our veins
this pleasant evening of tangled vines.
My sky is a lover — the lover of my Soul:
brush strokes of communion and paints so bold.
The sky is an angel.
and my hand and mouth are so ignorant.
Have patience — no boredom please;
the ink well is full and obtuse.
:: 06.18.2020 ::
W\
a s/
it o n c e
or t w ice
Love fettered the lining of
a once golden sun
when your thin hands touched
this Heart? Was it once or twice
i tasted the nectar of your heart?
if Once then the shame upon me;
if twice — then i agree –> thrice\
was it once? Was it twice?
my twisted lips and covered eye
take flight!
:: 06.21.2020 ::
\ Mister E.E. Cummings and Ms. Dickinson,
i have made up something new and the
difficulties — why? People are traditional.
as they like what already exists \
and when someone comes wanting 2 revolutionize
everything…simply everything…well, these words
i write come from the heart, that poetry is female
therefore she speaks my heart. Sir. Ma’am. forgive
me if my prose disturbs your heart — and that is exactly what i aimed for! /
:: 06.20.2020 ::
\ Upon one hand is a large finger —
then the other a butterfly
oh hear the fallen rain! the gutters
of my lonely heart — it sings;
a melody before here unheard of!
The Smallest is a Thing of no name
barely, an echo of memories
–and just the same! Such a strain
upon this stain that still remains,
within my soon fragmented brain –,
the smallest thing; as butterflies
having taken flight from dark memories.
AND i remain always the same.
:: 06.20.2020 ::
THE quietness of a wingless eternal flight
(a lover’s heart) sings in the wind
as a flag of no Nation on Earth.
The voices of this Poet’s head struggling with
the echoes and nostalgic words from an awoken
emotion /so my eyes have opened to see
a flock of sing-song birds fleeing to migrate
within my tired lonely Soul.
:: 06.20.2020 ::
THE embryo’s skinny fists reach the skies
and hides a face yet born
in this summer of burning children you
call a name and the world is asleep.
the fitful swings the stuffed animals
the tired friends called warm winds
have long thoughts of buried snakes
and within the many undreamed thoughts
of a lost world the embryo’s skinny fists
tear the skies apart — the revelation
of new nails grown for 2 months that never
had a drink of the blood you spilled //
some hang their hand and drown within fear
yet, and, with unborn eyes very open, to pretend
a gently passed hand over a baby’s head —
THIN new hair that does not die, long nails
within a soft chest — licking the bloodless
wounds of survival.
The sound of the surgeon’s scalpel.
:: 06.20.2020 ::
HOPING is a giant hammer, terrifying, and insane
at tender times, while the heart hides away;
crying like laughter releases compressed
emotions — this is no wrong or right but a golden
trumpet, teeth shattering upon each note played___
the paunch of my feelings gilded wainscoting.
Wonder ing if Heaven has graveyards — the hope
of dying twice/once in hell upon Earth the other
one inch inside the pearled gates.
:: 06.20.2020 ::
DRESSED within your black frock coat
darkly lecturing among the dead flayed
and white faced interns — next to tunnel railing
with white cuffed sleeves sketching a prose unknown
and Dr. Franklin West studiously taking notes
— the operation upon a dead body has no mouth
to scream.
the conservative operation
for osteomyelitis /and amputation out of question;
an advance sight for its time — prevention of
infection is seen.
:: 06.19.2020 ::
WELL, that no one is serious at a young age;
–cacophony of laughter and endless nights
And avant-garde blaring cafes are the very worst
to clear a mind — if not a true poet.
— memories as shadows weakly limping and a liver
requesting what last drink you consumed —
i once strolled beneath a green fluorescent
light on the promenade//i once lost my tongue
and saw it caterpillar-like crawling on a fine
June night; i think then i lost my eyesight
and now require echo-location like a creature
that never spoke!
There! The fossilized town in amber-time;
everyone is frozen until i speak toward any
of them — for eternity.
:: 06.19.2020 ::
The sun, calmed by the souls that Life feeds
pours burning and sweetest night’s air
to Listen is as water flowing over the surface
of smooth river rocks — How & now melancholy
are the naked shingles of Earth very full-
blooded; to hunger for the antique youth
of someone else we once dismayed — the immense
pullulation of all embryos!
In the bellicose weakened birthing morning
of yellow sun’s Light are physical masterpieces,
the violent gums and silver-hammering beating
flowing heart’s blood! As my heart began to beat!
I followed a swallow into the open fields;
my feet as crystal columns broken by themselves
upon my thin neck!
:: 06.15.2020 ::
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E.P. Robles | Poetry 
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