Category Archives: #aching

July 21, 2021

MY DREAMS TAKE ME HOME

By EPRobles

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 ::

Leave a comment   |  tags: , , , , | posted in #abstract, #abuse, #aching, #all of me, #alone, #anguish, #art, #poems, #poet, #poetess, #poetry, #prose, #saints, #secrets

April 23, 2021

THE SILVER AXE

By EPRobles

He wondered with horror how so many memories, so many forms to be branded on his skin and engrave there.

Then the wet rattle of a twisted throat, and he beats his last breath to his knees, gazed on from above as the wheezing thing sagged, and began on his shoes.

One God looked in that one eye of him, took in the whole writhing weight of him, and, from the spine of that beast, blew the darkness that will not let me alone!

It is yet again where we find the Poet’s Muse. Her eyes are green, and they pierce backward and forward even into his head and his heart, his brain and his soul.

I have been chained to this post for six months and now I am to be hanged, it’s a winter morning, half-light.

The axe’s face is pale; its teeth are ready to cut; the poet stands slack-jawed; and waits with a satisfied grimace.

She smiles with blind malignity; I am hanging here, she begins, and her voice gears in his head, makes him mad with every anger and whimpers sound with a silver-sparkle, It is another wish shattered, this one made to whittle the Golden Ace’s life down to a ring so narrow and brutish and pale and inhuman.

The writer cannot see her but his ears are mad With unspoken sounds.

She has left dark-green circles.

He had tried to fill them with wonder and beauty; she: they’re her, only more so, every blot and abrasion cunningly and by dark cunning by her own hand, ever more revolting; why the hell did you bring that creature with you?

There is nothing for you to do, (the axe growls). You cannot even reach me.

I told you that I wanted the axe.

Then are you sure you’re not just nervous?

I am telling you nothing.

The truth is harsh.

This is not true.

Well then stop worrying.

I am telling you nothing!

The Poet looks up in alarm.

The axe comes down, it makes a hideous, brassy sound.

And it is still: I am telling you nothing!

Her face is as white as that of the blade.

He is sweating.

I do not want the axe, he says finally.

I am coming down!

A chuckle.

The axe’s blade is laughing.

The Poet spins in place, does a somersault, lands on his feet.

He moves fast.

At the touch of his right foot he has snatched up and spun into the air, caught, dangled over a canyon by the thin tip of his finger.

There is a rattle in his head.

Okay, okay, he whispers, I am coming down.

He lands and slumps, panting.

His face is flushing red, his hair disheveled.

He grins through the tears running down his face.

Just me, he tells the axe.

You are alone in this awful place with all the stupid, insane weirdoes.

Where is the fun in that?

This place is for people like you, not me.

He is in a mood.

The axe slashes through the air, a silver blur.

The Poet leaps into its path, somehow knowing, somehow having seen what it will do before it happens.

He leaps back and the axe cleaves the air, then comes down to strike his left foot, where it clatters on the ground with a dull clatter.

He starts to bend over to pick it up, but the axe’s weight is too much for him.

He stumbles to one knee and falls to his left side.

The axe rests, not quite pointed at him, but ready, at his right leg and stares at it, mouth slightly ajar.

The blade is warm against his right leg, the handle warm against his cheek.

He gets himself up, he bends over, picks up the axe.

He kicks his right leg up, the axe goes flying past his body as if to his left, and he stretches his left leg out to catch it.

He pulls himself to his feet and does not bother with the blade and bends down to retrieve it, and reaches, but there is nothing there.

The edge is dull. Within his mind and he frowns, picks it up, holds it up in front of him, glances behind him.

The axe is nowhere to be found. But it is mentally within his hand.

He looks at the blue-gray sky, frowns, turns to walk along the canyon wall, head down, watching for the axe.

He waits.

The axe sits on his shoulder, blades jutting up into his neck or so it feels.

Yes! he thinks.

The axe.

It is not true.

He is all alone in the world.

And an old man.

What do you expect him to do?

He thinks about the little old lady he saw in town today, and starts to weep.

:: 04.23.2021 ::

Leave a comment   |  tags: , , , , , , , | posted in #abstract, #abuse, #aching, #alone, #analogies, #anguish, #art, #broken poetry, #broken prose, #broken soul, #creative souls, #darkest, #dead poets, #death, #decisions, #depressed, #depression, #despair, #desperation, #dreams, #emotions, #enormity, #etneral, #expression, #expressive, #eye of god, #feelings, #fetus, #fiction, #horror, #hurting heart, #peotry, #perception, #perfume, #poems, #poet, #poetess, #poetry, #poets, #silence, #silent, #silently, #sleep, #surrealism

March 29, 2021

LITTLE BOY

By EPRobles

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 ::

Leave a comment   |  tags: , , , , , , | posted in #aching, #anguish, #art, #beating heart, #poems, #poet, #poetess, #poetry, #poets, #psychology, #puzzles

January 25, 2021

NOW MY GOWN AND TULLE

By EPRobles

Now my Gown and Tulle
feel the Wind that weaves a Shade –
and on the roof i cannot tell
since the picture there is –
because Time, a Form, stood a-hiding
and well It did.

Words and Music (my own)
Performed by James Dale
and Love.

“He is oft-injured by his men
or with their Menages,

‘I think I hear him say:
“His Portents are the Dews –
His Words the Dews – and Mine –
His Ends are Ieya’s.

“I wish this next Scene were ended
with the Destination of my own Fate –
“The Flight of Orpheus, I suppose,
“Off the Coast of Homer’s Folly –
Or Death – to Eternity.”

Futility was King in the play, under the pen of D. H. Lawrence.
I hope he was a reader of Shakespeare.

Well, I cannot write about this.
It is really too late.
There was an early book, and there is always another.
The fact that Lawrence is a poet is very well known;
and many of his poems have been put to music.

i have heard those – sometimes for many times – though
i should hate to go against the dead.

A great deal is being written about D. H. Lawrence
in the second decade of the twenty-first century.

:: 01.26.2021 ::

Leave a comment   |  tags: , , , , , | posted in #abstract, #aching, #all of me, #alone, #analogies, #angst, #awaken, #beautiful, #poems, #poet, #poetess, #poetry, #poets

January 7, 2021

WHAT IS LOVE

By EPRobles

There is so much a man can tell you, so much he can say
You remain my power, my pleasure, my pain
To me you’re like a growing addiction that I can’t deny
Now won’t you tell me, is that healthy, baby?
Now won’t you tell me, is that healthy, baby?

My power and my pleasure;  an addiction…

So “God is here, with you, and in you.”
 There is a supreme and infinite pleasure that fills your heart.
Some languages of love will only permit love as a verb or simply a noun.

You are part of everything; you are not separate from anything.

Everything is part of you; you are part of everything; you are not
separate from anything.

So, i am and should fall large and in light that you shine,
can you see me?  So baby, I compare you to a kiss from a dream
i live every day.  

You may feel your experience of the world is disjunctive – somehow
disconnected. What is the actual nature of our existence? Is it
static, or in constant flux?

Maybe that is just your individual perception.

But we can try to figure it out by seeing how things affect us

  • and how we can do that.

This path we choose is about learning how to communicate effectively
with what we find, giving it meaning, and acting in ways that contribute.
If we are engaged in the pursuit of love in a real, open and collaborative way,
we can witness how relationships change and grow.

We may start with a story, but we are essentially learning how to be a partner.
We can see in our interactions how we are unbalanced, not yet aware that we need to change.
Over time, we discover what we are trying to hide, and begin to open up in our relationships.

The inner change begins with our hearts!

:: 01.06.2021 ::

1 Comment   |  tags: , , , , , , , , , , , | posted in #aching, #adult, #afterlife, #alone, #alter, #angels, #angst, #Apocalypse, #art, #belief, #poems, #poet, #poetess, #poetry, #poets

December 24, 2020

FOURTEEN

By EPRobles

i wish I had more time and opportunity to explain my disgust to your rust-stained sarcophagus. To offer a calm palate of meditative colors for our feelings (why not) — you seemed so surprised to be called from a glass prison.

Oh, blessed crystal, what do I have to do to kiss your hand with a succulent kiss for you have forgotten the grain of truth to your rust-stained sarcophagus!

To offer a calm palate of meditative colors for our feelings (why not) — you seemed so surprised to be called from a glass prison.

Oh, blessed crystal, what do I have to do to kiss your hand with a succulent kiss for you have forgotten the grain of truth and your heart could only love the person who feeds it for nourishment — is a difficult task; so you resorted to Cupid’s slingshot!
But here’s an alternative: follow my heart down the garden path, until my sticky feet block the entrance of Cupid’s grave.

Here — get me the jar of colorful paint and I will show you the
sparkle of love.

Here — get me the fork and I will show you the flavor of our love
that came from one man.

Here — get me the ball and I will smash it across my canvas of life.
Here — get me the pencil and I will draw you a gentle, tender picture.
Here — get me the jar of colorful paint and I will show you the
sparkle of love.
Here — get me the fork and I will show you the flavor of our love
that came from one man.
Here — get me the ball and I will smash it across my canvas of life.
Here — get me the pencil and I will draw you a gentle, tender picture.
Here — get me the paint bucket and I will lay it on a canvas of life

It was exactly 14 days since you told me you left the store early.
14 dreary days and I do not think you’ve been here once (not that I
would blame you for believing it).

14 days since I was mean to you, and then you said you’d be back
by 14.

:: 12.24.2020 ::

Leave a comment   |  tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | posted in #1800s, #abstract, #aching, #analogies, #confession, #depression, #fascination, #poems, #poet, #poetess, #poetry, #poets, #prose

December 21, 2020

THE WOMAN

By EPRobles

SHE can bring love with her smile and devastation with indifference
and ruin faith with the turn of her face;

SHE can bring paradise with her arms and paint masterpieces with her lips
and only reveal what she wishes you to see

SHE can bring passion to your life or steal the meaning of all things
breath the deep blue skies and bring a perfect day

Oh, mystery is beneath her footfalls and how her dress bellows while she
never gives out or gives in — she just changes her mind while promising
the Garden of Eden

So love i followed every motion of your emotion as you took care of yourself
and waiting as you want — ooh, she never gives in while singing angelic songs
and cuts you while you bleed

Hmm, hmm, hmm, hmm.

She just changes her mind while so kind does anything but gives hope to the lesser
Souls who ache for Love.

:: 12.21.2020 ::

Leave a comment   |  tags: , , , , , , , | posted in #aching, #all of me, #alone, #art, #brilliant wordsmith, #crying, #love, #poet, #poetess, #poets

December 19, 2020

BURNING FEELING DEEP INSIDE

By EPRobles

THERE’S a burning feeling deep inside me
: — /so i find it so very easy to be true
, and admit i am easily a fool \

i hug the sun at day break
and kiss the moon at nightfall

hmmm.

But everytime you are by my side
i count the moments and watch you
and every move you make: it’s art and
as an ocean’s tide i’m pulled into you.

i know i am not worthy of a treasure
such as you but find it very very
easy to just be me — to be true:
because your mine. So at day and night
you’re upon my mind because you’re mind.

hmmm.

i have fallen inside a deep truth of hearts
figured out fruit flies but not cucumbers
and went down down inside a passion that almost
destroyed me — then your hand pulled me out
of poetic insanity.

:: 12.18.2020 ::

Leave a comment   |  tags: | posted in #aching, #adult, #art, #artists, #beauty, #horror, #poems, #poet, #poetry, #poets, #uncharted, #underground, #universal

December 14, 2020

BURNING CITIES

By EPRobles

AS cities burn without regret
while people have hysteria
many weep — \for what is lost:
our Republic and common sense/
  Parents hugging their little ones
as many lose their faith,
this once great land sliding into
mysterious madness / an abyss \
All these threats are made by you
and me and them.
if we never confront the madness
before us —
  Oh, how i fear both sides of this
political fence and especially
Oppenheimer’s little toy
where gift of light and love has
no hope nor control!

Believe me as I write to you:
no one wins and everyone loses then!

:: 12.14.2020 ::

Leave a comment   |  tags: , , , , , , , | posted in #abstract, #aching, #philosophy, #poems, #poet

September 11, 2020

L I S T E N

By EPRobles

Listen. Today i lost my voice — it left upward looking for my mind.
sometimes the strangeness of Life becomes reality and nothing more.
today i found myself within a garden of snakes and meat-devouring
plants. If not for the purple skies it would have been a wasted
experience. Meeting God was an experience before i found myself
inside a fetus that became my physical body.
the doves sang a brilliant but sometimes somber song;
peace of a piece so small it became nothing before i could
touch it’s sharp and exquisite edge.
Listen.
Today i lost my mind.
and my voice flew downward looking for sanity.

:: 09.11.2020 ::

1 Comment   |  tags: , , , , , , , , , | posted in #abstract, #aching, #all of me, #angst, #art, #beautiful day, #bedtime stories, #poetry, #prose, #publishers