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...

LITTLE BOY

Hath fed the common purpose That draws the very heart of man, to the sacrificial hero!
Dangerous and promising are these dreams which seem to come from the heart’s deep recesses,
as have cast a spell of melancholy that leaves one dim.

Only by speaking about them in former times, has the world appreciated these voices from the skies.
There are no age limits, neither to the quest for spiritual growth, nor to its testing.

Beneath each of these mysteries, some preface and others express the grandeur of a true meaning;
some have shed new lights, some, disturbing.

The grandest have revealed new truths, no matter how strong the prose, the content has to be true.
To reach a mystical insight the words which the thoughts themselves preface, express;to understand the concrete problems the language must have been created by the body of man’s brain to reach it, the mind must have been perfected.

No matter what subject has been investigated it has in common three fundamental elements.

They are reason, the senses, and a grandeur: and when they interact with each other in perfect harmony the knowledge of truth is attained; the deepest, most true meaning is comprehended. We learn what is true
when our instincts are the tools to do what we know to be so; we lose ourselves when we do not know what we are; and we should know our own nature when we have used our minds to understand ourselves.

Reaching the depths of the unknown, understanding the whole nature of things, you attain an ascent to light:
like the body in a dream defeated by the weight of the body, the body in an inner form makes its way up from depths of darkness: and when one experiences this one is reborn; and when one sees this one is changed: ‘Twas in this way the poet was reborn upon this earth; and all he could atone for his human failures.

This is a melody about a man on a mountain who hears the voice of the moon and, unknown to himself, alighted with the noble heart. But the mystic of the moon was an empty moon: ‘Twas of the body of man the moon had no heart; only that of his body could he love. In his despair he sought to sacrifice his flesh. But the voice of the heart and the words from it frightened him. Then he walked on the world through the nights of the year and dwelt in deep oblivion. But what could be said to him, in his darkness, when, suddenly, a light shone through the darkness? That was his awakening, it was a vision of an inner light which drew him towards the universe. He went back to his own child, and he passed along the familiar path but what was the purpose? He sought a hidden light to brighten his way: but when he reached the end of the firmament, there was no light. How could it come from below when there was no light above?

This is a story of a mother in her humble home with a little child in her arms, who is nursing, and unaware of the wonderful events to come, in spite of her heart’s eagerness and in spite of her pride. His little fingers possess the world with an innocence which the immovable forces Avenge and they are known by a loving heart. In the courtyard she prays: but who she prays for? The next she sees he is walking down the stairs : with him goes his hand and he stretches out his little arms when the little boy reaches out his hands
and they know each other. But there is no single sound of their happy greeting nor is there a single person
they meet: the space is also their meeting place.

Life.

:: 03.28.2021 ::


POETIC PAINTINGS

SHE would pull back her hands to her sides, her furrows bear poetic paintings with a past unfolded in crosshatch, reprimands to the unblinking, to the untried to never covet an hour lost and found, the length of a sunset, a sun weighing us down, now or then looking away to a beach that doesn’t seem our way, reputed for its unchanging coral reefs and saying it’s way more glorious than the beach next door, as we know, the one nobody cares to swim into.

Then my hips, already weak, begin to shake though when you come with me, if we should go by car, we’re together, on ground heavy that your steps cannot change.

I must say more, but you know the story. You must hear the secret though only the Sages were allowed to hear it.

It is a light; my dark world turns into a coffin light, the whole thing collapsing, if i miss you, my sadness begs, but there are no answers what to do when everything in you, in all of us weeps for absence.

Better for the room’s overhead to be darkness, for me, for my heart’s an end that must not bend, a blade lost in sand. Can no healing be between our two lonely hearts without me weeping and no consolation
without you wanting to know, when we’ll fall in love again?

Want to buy a song give a gift of musical genius the way we never stop loving, until I can be safe again.

I’ve lived alone for the last thirteen years, still living off my memories of her, but having no contact with her — except for my last few days, of course.

I wrote the only song I can sing now, and there were no lessons to be had in any language even if you had known about me, about how I suffered in my anger, from the depth of my despair,
you would not have come near.

:: 03.26.2021 ::


CLIMB 13 STEPS TO HANG YOUR LIFE

CLIMB 13 STEPS TO HANG YOUR LIFE

I WALKED the baking streets of summer’s distress
found a penny and called my Soul
i got the perfect stench for death — alright.
Friends fell out and i ate the fruit
— it’s sombrose and summer days
so hate how i hate how you painted me
so hate how i painted my soul today

Paid a vagrant like me with a smile
no receipt but a foaming from his mouth
DOA — double round, silver chain,
and hate how you got me painted me now

Filth in the gutter and cleaning up my soul
with the distant stares of others who ate
the fruit and kissed the snake — sombrose
and how red flowers are beautiful but
killers // i hate you painted me \\
on the canvase of miserable life.

Lay your hands upon me pope
pull my heart out government
gather round and feast upon a poet
and still i hate how you painted me
oh how i hate how you got me within
your mind.

Dizzy days crazy life & i don’t like
how you paid me for my consideration
(it’s a dream deep within my ego
a dead lie!)

:: 03.24.2021 ::


FRAMELESS HEADS UPON EMPTY WALLS

On the single side of my art song—my parodic air—the loveliness is perfect
because I am “last in the line.” When you sit there pondering how you got
from here to there, you forget to be there, and the years hurry by like birds,
yet without wings.

Maybe that is what poets mean by the grass between the toes: it is the kind of beauty
that strikes me as singular, and then makes me forget where I was going.

Could that be the air I am inhaling, that gorgeous little dew, the sort of fragrance
that one asks questions about. That one is good, and leaves you for another week.
I am not asking about the individual, about the wit or the sex, that one; the other
thinks she is too good for poetry and wants to hang out her pants.

The trees on Central Park West have not only dimples, but very high struts.
Many passers-by make like jumping spiders and creep along the white beech bark,
tearing off the strange multicolored pods that are the leaves of the American locust
and varnish the unenclosed bark.

For a while they seem to be all yellow, then the green reasserts itself and they all turn red.
Red like earth, red like hell. I say what I mean. Why do we make so much of appearance
and so little of meaning? If you were to sneeze on a weekday you’d make a million dollars. I’m lucky
to get one or two dollars a day for my poems, and that’s all. All my life, I’ve been scraping
and clipping in hundreds of un-sexy places. I once walked out of an interview with a magazine
that had hired me because I was willing to work for peanuts. So I said to the editor,

“I think you have the wrong guy. I’ll get a job in a steel mill, or on a frickin’ airplane,
anywhere I want.” He seemed to like that, but I can’t remember what the magazine did later. I suppose
it was less than they wanted. But that’s what I mean by avoiding the cheap. I mean always for the mind
and the intellect, as if one day the outer world were going to fall apart. When it does, maybe it will be like a tenement balcony—the floor’s going to fall out from under us.

My best poems are about love and death. I think my best poems are about women and death.
The romantic poems give me pleasure. I don’t want to forget about them; I want
to love them. I don’t want to kill them; I want to hold them.
A love that is not really love doesn’t interest me.
It is interesting to see the Queen of Sheba swat away a red and yellow butterfly that comes to you
and likes to rest on your shoulder.

But there are different kinds of love—one that wants to hold someone in a tight embrace even though
you both know that someone is going to shake loose—one that wants to hold someone
even when she’s going to leave—one that wants to hold someone when she has long learnt the fine art
of saying no.

I’m always looking for “the little door.” But there is no little door, and if there were,
I’d probably find something I’d rather do.

:: 03.24.2021 ::


A HUNDRED POEMS – XVI

The morning eye dew
i love it sees a new day untouched
a breath of sight so grand
a peace-inner speak-eye!
Tussle the bed sheets;
a flag that Nation for the sleeper
my Anthem made of murmur whisper-speak
my tender love!

And each morning to awaken
do i see my Nation
next to me that Anthem
her name and lips her voice;
angelic bliss!

:: 03-26-2014 ::


DEMIGOD RUMOURS

By this time she began to pant with the effort of speaking and died. The grief of her children was doubled, as was that of their father, and he swore before the woman whose heart had broken that he would never again be destroyed by fire, and would walk out from his house to dwell by the sea.

The gods were shocked to their foundations. They believed that they had truly killed Zeus and had been giving his body to live; for the children would come to the holy site of Delphi to praise him as they remembered his glory and proclaim their great dread. On their approach they met the priests in the street, but the fathers waved their children away, and said ‘They think they are honouring the Greek gods. They are not worthy of our esteem!’

‘Why not?’ asked a young girl who wanted to know, ‘Why should the Greeks think we are honouring Zeus? We are honouring a great man, the greatest being in the universe.’

Her mother, an oracle, retorted:

‘You are saying foolish things! Your father has sworn, and your sister has sworn, and so have I! So let this death of our mother be an eternal lesson to you! Whoever else shall say such a thing, shall by my hand or by the hand of your children be flayed.’

This brought him to his senses, and he put his arm through his daughter’s, and declared:

‘I would die gladly for the Greek gods, but we shall stand together on one side or the other, and offer the fire to the gods of Zeus as a sacrifice for the foundation of their city. If they refuse it, we shall always come to their aid, as we did in the great and terrible earthquake that was prepared for this very day.’

He died in peace, though at first it was rumoured that the gods had destroyed him, when he refused to go against them.

:: 03.16.2021 ::


THE GODS WITHDRAW

The Gods withdraw, and he comes forth; wherein four are crammed, the “Great Ones”.

In Earth then he dwells, but his presence sends and clouds o’er the mountains, exalt’d with light, and in rays that run all night long appear.

He looks from out the circle of his globe; the fires gild with his sweet smoke, and gladness e’en may-blossoms blush.

To Iast he draws light and prosperity, and his studious song enlivening the night.
From miles away, echoing echo, to the plain, and then a merry note trills, from his bright tongue.

Songs are breathed to him the flower of Earth, and he wings all the cold, and flying creatures:
he also enkindles the heart of birds, and all the earth with a shower of star-bites.

He fondles the earth and sees all the change. He makes mountains rise and rock the water,
and make paths for animals and swine alike.

“O fickle sere,” thinks, “I may make you melt!

i will change your position; I will trample on you.” A lovely shew, flashes on his face; the matter heats, to a heat far greater, and changes its own form.

Girrrl, who never saw the world, methought it nigh this majestic beast;

it now before her than she had met.

:: 03.16.2021 ::


SHE LEAVES BEHIND FOR THE END OF TIME

Thus men tumbled, whilst each struggled for peace;
And the lives of one overlaid and those of the other,
and fortunes of two falleth to the first:
which, when few lived, did vie with one another;
and now half died, so that now one lives.

Tho’ to each a body to live, yet they grapple
upon one common body; thus this strife
of gods, and men, and air, and water,
the product of long labouring labour,
bringing tenfold glory to Caesar’s era.

Then seeing which only worked greater grief
and loathsome toil, what I should in this short space fail to copy,
i reflected on those works that I thought most difficult,
And composed the poem above, to divide the toilsome march
with one finished task to be done; and yet to finish
with a sigh and a droop, a little less evil than it began,
but therefore nobler in sentiment than it began.

So therefore, last rites and unhappily now,
this song, until next next time, alas! thus sad.
Oh but these thrills and comforts that Nature gives,
which every hour she bestows, are, alas!

Till last year, little could reach those whom Nature
possessed by the book of science, but such
as she leaves behind for the end of time!

:: 03.16.2021 ::


WHEN IN DREAMS ABNORMAL TRUTHS BECOME CHANCE

WHEN in dreams
abnormal truths become chance,
your heart opens trees
to find the seed that grew
the universe.
As your legs that spread
taking in the morning skies
moaning to the sun and your
pursed lips are above your
poppy feet, each arm contains
the arrows of each hand pointing
towards all directions as steeples
of churches do; at times naked,
foulmouthed, and questioning heaven
and hell — okay it is: i am with
you facing the bitter soul with
our smiling mouths and the taste
of terrible salt. Our tears grow
a new flower, so resolute and
full of vibrant Life.

:: 03.13.2021 ::


THE HELMSMEN ROSE

\by the way, the land ?”
cocked a brow \of our own separate shores, the moon was lit to see the
stacks of hay bare, all brawny with large pairs of eyes beneath cabbage green skin, two spit clouds hovered from their open mouth, making a cat-like call, then leaped into the sky in somersault, and back to their stooks they proceeded, smoothing their chins with their hands.

— the world might have cared but these men, they were chasers; for us they took up together, and uncharged by fear, raised their sword over their heads.

side by side the helmsmen, looking with eyes of pale ice, drawn swords with an eager desire.
flick- the swords’ fingers moved as the helmsmen stepped out into the ice-caught wind, and went down to their knees and stood still and ice-smacked.

The first helmsman fell in battle, a broadsword strike cut clean through his face and dug deep into his chest, the blood spurted out, as each helmsman stood silently in a pose of stone — then the second helmsman from the right hurried with a cold, light of steel, to strike and the echo of his leap echoed through the air to strike from the left, their opposing lines locked in an invisible tug-of-war.

Each his comrades sprang to his aid, eyes twinkling with humor and a fiery arrogance (we all played army, we all survived, we all became famous stacking our walls with marbles).
From above, a dove tore above the warring helmsmen, blending with the sun-lit green, dropping to earth with an almighty clap of its wings, and darted out of sight.

The helmsmen rose, but the warring lines had re-emerged and began to gather the best looking arrows and each hoped to strike first. The bird had never left, but time passed without a note (but now, it was gone even as time had passed before.

We are older now, the birds have flown through the house, gone to sleep). \)

The dove knew that its days were spent, that it had flitted with a golden bell, leaving behind an empty sound (The birds have grown old, but not much more, as there are fewer of us with thoughts to hatch out into a new stage of growth, which would bring in more winged predators).
But the dove did not know that the winged men had grown old, that their dreams had waned into simple memories.

:: 02.26.2021 ::