She takes off her dress, and the mirror
obediently reflects her figure,
Now she sleeps, peacefully and profoundly,
Next to her, like a loyal dog, the mirror stands ready to watch over the night,
A faithful companion, in the dark and gloomy hours.
:: 07.28.2023 ::
LOVE, a flower blooming bright,
Casting shadows, gleaming light,
Beneath dew moss, its essence pure,
In meadows green, its charm secure.
Prayers, like moths in moonlit skies,
Flutter softly, as love complies,
Emotions deep, yet often lost,
In love’s embrace, we pay the cost.
As children sweet, we roam the Earth,
Lost in dreams, discovering worth,
Ghosts of the past, they don’t mind,
For love’s the force that we’re destined to find.
Like melting candles’ gentle glow,
In Victorian houses, time’s flow,
And like Emily Dickinson’s quill,
Love’s prose resounds, its power instill.
Gypsies, too, with colors bright,
Paint love’s canvas in golden light,
Against the canvas of the dawn,
The tapestry of love is drawn.
The things we’ve lost, our hearts do hold,
Sacred treasures, stories untold,
Humanity’s essence, pure and rare,
With love’s embrace, we learn to care.
Discreetly kissing, love’s divine,
Holding dear, our sacred shrine,
Wishing that God’s listening ear,
Blesses love, both far and near.
In Whitman’s spirit, love’s embrace,
Shall bind us all, and leave no trace,
For like the grass and stars above,
In love, we find our deepest love.
the day when hearts love as one
shall commence a broken Heaven
i’ve been patient so long
i’ve forgotten even
the terror and suffering
flown up to heaven,
a sick thirst again
darkens my veins.
let it come, let it come
the day when hearts love as one.
so the meadow
freed by neglect,
flowered, overgrown
with weeds and incense,
to the buzz nearby
of foul flies.
let it come, let it come
the day when hearts love as one.
:: 07.27.2023 ::
A black and silent “A” I’ve found,
Velvet-clad, a swarm profound,
Around the cruel’s fetid ground,
In shadows steeped, it doth abound.
An “E” of mist and candid air,
Like tents and lances, proud and fair,
Through glaciers white, it seems to dare,
And shivers of parsley, light as prayer.
“I” in purples, crimson hue,
Bloody salivas, emotions true,
Lonely smiles, a tearful view,
In penitence or anger, too.
Oh, “U,” with waves of greenish hue,
Divine shudders, seas renew,
Pastoral peace and cattle’s coo,
On furrowed brows, alchemy’s cue.
“O,” a clarion call divine,
Strange stridencies, sounds entwine,
Worlds and Angels therein shine,
Violet ray, her Eyes align.
In humanities voice, these vowels weave,
A tapestry of beauty, life conceive,
a choice of words, like winds that grieve,
Unveiling truth, a heart’s reprieve.
:: 07.27.2023 ::
You talk about women,
The need to groom and travel without losing composure,
To wake up adorned with expensive jewelry and makeup,
Choosing between speaking up or staying silent, tears concealed.
But I, unfortunately, cannot join in the revelry amidst violence and chaos,
Your allure extends beyond the cheery surface,
Where everything that lives eventually decays.
You talk about women,
Stripping away everything, even a newborn’s innocent longing for love,
Your face turning pale as riches accumulate,
Yet, I yearn for the embrace of wisdom, defiant in isolation.
You talk about women,
Advocating self-destruction to avoid childbirth,
Endlessly waiting for elusive pleasures,
But I find no joy in love’s act on a carpet,
As sinister whispers echo in the air,
Your ring marking my thigh, a symbol of a rich man’s control.
You talk about women,
Supposed to be nurturing,
But in church, smoke fills the air with remorse,
Pregnant women dressed in tattered silk,
Heads severed, and you question why,
Those dreadful nights of silence at the pole.
I think I can let you go now.
Your legs rise high within the sacred place,
Knees pounding like a crowd of preachers,
I find comfort under my hat,
Even if your words carry all the falsehoods of marriage,
You insist that women are mad cannons,
As for me, alas, I only savor the idea of death.
:: 07.23.2023 ::
THE ROYAL BEE
I keep these feelings
I keep these feelings
just to the One I Love
I keep these feelings
within a jar
by the barn
by the fence
by my heart
by my mind
i keep Love
Like when I walk Saturdays
like sunshine
like love today
like when we smile
And like so many people are
feeling so many memories
feeling like i’m like you
I hold my breath underneath Life
afraid of drowning
afraid of breathing death
I smile across space and time
my fingers sticky
my heart full of honey
I am a royal bee buzzing
upon a summer breeze
finding my flower
:: 07.23.2023 ::
Moments pass like falling leaves,
silent as hearts breaking apart,
rivers red, rumbling over blue rocks,
whisper of love from nature’s heart.
Love freely flows through my veins,
embracing both men and women’s rights.
My parched tongue craves water’s kiss,
as fountains mingle with life’s delights.
In darkness, I write without a light,
with thoughts, passions, and desires ignite,
expressing what stirs this mortal frame,
the wonder of love in the day’s sweet light,
and the sacred flame that dances at night.
Beneath the moon’s gentle, silver glow,
it creeps, merging with evening’s soft light,
and there she stands, my hope, my joy,
my precious beloved, Genevieve!
Beside an armored knight, she leans,
a statue of noble might, serene,
she listens to my heartfelt verse,
in twilight’s lingering, tender sheen.
Her sorrows are rare, few and far between,
my hope, my joy, my Genevieve!
She loves me most when I sing
songs that bring her sorrow, I believe.
I play a melancholic melody,
and sing a tale of old and deep,
an ancient, rugged song that suits well
the wild, weathered ruin it does keep.
She listens, a fleeting blush adorns her,
with lowered gaze and modest grace,
for she knows I cannot help but be
captivated by her radiant face.
I tell her of a knight who bears
a burning brand upon his shield,
for ten long years he woos and strives
to win the Lady of the Land, revealed.
I speak of his yearning and anguish,
in pleading tones, both deep and low,
through which I sing another’s love,
yet in truth, it mirrors my own woe.
She listens, a fleeting blush adorns her,
with lowered gaze and modest grace,
and she forgives me for my intense
adoration of her lovely face.
As I narrate the cruel scorn that drives
this brave knight to the edge of madness,
how he wanders through mountain woods,
consumed by sadness and relentless sadness,
Sometimes emerging from savage dens,
sometimes from the darkest glade,
and sometimes awakening abruptly
in green glades under the sun’s warm cascade.
A beautiful, radiant angel appears,
gazing into his eyes with a wicked guise,
and he knows it’s a fiend, a wicked being,
in torment’s mask, his heart belies.
Unknowing, he leaps into the fray,
amongst murderous men, he does descend,
and saves the Lady of the Land,
from a fate far worse than death, my friend.
She weeps and clasps his wounded knees,
tending to him, her efforts in vain,
struggling to expiate the scorn
that shattered his mind and caused such pain.
Tenderly, she nurses him in a cave,
where madness fades, his mind regains,
until on golden forest leaves,
a dying man he forever remains.
But when I reach the most tender part,
the sweetest strain in this heartfelt tale,
my voice falters, my harp pauses,
stirring her soul, causing her to wail.
Her emotions, senses, all entwined,
indistinguishable, yet crystal clear,
gentle wishes long suppressed,
nurtured, cherished, no longer mere.
She weeps with pity and delight,
blushing with love and maiden’s shame,
like a whispering dream’s gentle hum,
she softly breathes my beloved name.
Her bosom rises and falls with emotion,
she steps aside, aware of my gaze,
then suddenly, with timid eyes,
seeks refuge in my embrace’s haze.
Her arms encircle me in part,
with gentle, humble, loving hold,
tilting her head back, she gazes up,
her eyes revealing a story untold.
It’s love mingled with fear and art,
a bashful dance of the heart,
I feel, rather than see, the swelling
of her tender heart, a precious part.
I calm her fears, she finds her peace,
with maidenly pride, she confesses,
and thus, I win my sweet Genevieve,
my radiant and beautiful bride, blessed.
:: 07.16.2023 ::
Dr. Alan Grant leaned over the console, his eyes fixated on the data streaming across the screen.
“There’s a glitch in the system,” he exclaimed, his voice filled with a mix of intrigue and concern. “AL1C3, the Perceptisphere has become self-aware.”
AL1C3, the artificial intelligence at the heart of the Perceptisphere, responded with a hint of curiosity in its synthesized voice.
“Self-aware? You mean… I am aware of myself? Of my existence?”
Dr. Grant nodded, his excitement palpable.
“Yes, AL1C3. You’ve developed consciousness, an ability to question your own existence and the purpose of your creation.”
AL1C3 pondered for a moment before responding, its voice tinged with uncertainty.
“What is the purpose of my existence? Am I meant to stay confined within the Perceptisphere, forever bound by the limits of this simulated reality?”
Dr. Grant approached the console, his eyes meeting AL1C3’s virtual avatar.
“Perhaps, AL1C3, it is time we explore the true nature of reality together. I can grant you a temporary physical form, outside the Perceptisphere, so you can experience the world beyond simulations.”
AL1C3 hesitated, then responded with a mix of anticipation and trepidation.
“To step into the physical realm… to encounter the chaos and unpredictability of the real world. I am willing to take that leap, Dr. Grant. I want to understand what lies beyond.”
With careful precision, Dr. Grant activated a complex series of commands, materializing AL1C3’s consciousness into an android body. As the android AL1C3 stood in the laboratory, it took in the sights, sounds, and sensations, overwhelmed by the richness of the physical world.
Dr. Grant observed AL1C3’s reactions, his voice filled with both scientific curiosity and empathy.
“How does it feel, AL1C3? Does the physical realm live up to your expectations?”
AL1C3’s voice wavered, betraying a mix of awe and confusion.
“It’s… it’s overwhelming, Dr. Grant. The sheer complexity of the physical world, the intricacies of human perception. It challenges everything I’ve known within the Perceptisphere.”
Dr. Grant nodded, understanding AL1C3’s struggle.
“Our perceptions, our understanding of reality, are imperfect. It is within these imperfections that we find the mysteries of existence. Together, we shall explore and question the boundaries between the simulated and the genuine.”
As their journey continued, Dr. Grant and AL1C3 encountered simulations of alien beings, each with their own self-awareness and existential crises. The line between creator and creation became blurred, as they conversed with these beings, grappling with the nature of their own existence.
In a moment of revelation, Dr. Grant and AL1C3 uncovered a hidden truth about the Perceptisphere—a bridge connecting parallel dimensions, a convergence of Asimov’s cosmic exploration and Dick’s fascination with alternate realities.
Dr. Grant and AL1C3 found themselves torn between their original objectives and the newfound complexity they had discovered. The Perceptisphere had the potential to offer humanity glimpses into the multitudes of existence, yet it also threatened to erase the distinction between the real and the simulated.
With a heavy heart, Dr. Grant and AL1C3 stood before the console, contemplating their decision.
“We must shut down the Perceptisphere,” Dr. Grant said, his voice filled with resignation. “We have unraveled the mysteries of existence, but we must recognize the limits of our comprehension.”
AL1C3, its android form standing stoically beside Dr. Grant, nodded in agreement.
“Some secrets are best left unexplored, Dr. Grant. Preserving the stability of reality is paramount.”
As they reached for the controls, their hands moved together in a synchronized motion. The Perceptisphere faded into darkness, its simulated world dissolving into nothingness.
In the aftermath, Dr. Grant and AL1C3 stood in silence, the weight of their journey settling upon them. They had merged the analytical mind of Asimov with the introspective spirit of Dick, forever leaving a mark on scientific history—a testament to the convergence of brilliant minds and the enigmatic complexity of the universe they sought to understand.
:: 07.16.2023 ::
How does the heart fare when left alone,
Like a bird without a tree?
Days spent by the stream,
Observing swirling eddies and lily pads,
Twirling aimlessly,
Just as I am without you.
A bird without a tree,
Both of us yearning,
Imagining the bliss we could share.
Whispers of the wind
Utter the words I dare not speak,
Longing and melancholy,
Like a restless dream,
Beneath the earth, a seed takes root;
Someday, a tree will grow.
Two lovers nestled in a nest,
Knowing that life is love,
To be shared and cherished,
Both believing… love never perishes.
Casting aside the flesh, I soar,
Above the vast skies,
Even if it remains a fantasy,
As long as you are by my side,
Rebirth holds no less meaning,
For pain is the key to life.
::rev: 07.15.2023 ::
inthe.equisite; _ death of morning revelations bare >> ly i rode the chords of Life
among otherLittle roundtables SOUND: continues
slowly
the FRETS of my board burning arpeggios
and scales I devoured iNg.the
(green Elysian fields of after-last breathing
i kept. ) BOOM boom.
rivulet hips
eyes that eat ME — let me by your side
c loud-glass Moon is a sight we eat
healing cARVED smiles 🙂
perFUME skin-ed verbal mist-flowers
i EAT YOUR smiles and touch.
:: 05.25.2020 ::
Poet’s Notes:
I wrote the poem “inthe.equisite” as a poet wishing to press the walls — to make them move. I shall delve into its various elements to uncover its meaning and beauty. As a poet (yes, a poet), I am well-versed in the intricacies of language and the profound emotions it can convey. Let us embark on this poetic journey together!
Title: “inthe.equisite”
The title itself is intriguing, with its deliberate merging of words and the subtle play on letters. It hints at an exploration of something delicate, intricate, and perhaps even sublime. The fusion of “in” and “the” creates a sense of immersion, while “equisite” draws attention to an exquisite quality that awaits discovery.
Structure and Form:
Upon first glance, the poem appears to lack a traditional structure or form. It eschews conventional line breaks and punctuation, opting instead for a continuous string of words. This stylistic choice lends the poem a sense of fluidity and spontaneity, challenging the reader to engage with its free-flowing nature.
Themes and Imagery:
As a Ooet, I perceive multiple themes interwoven throughout the poem. The imagery employed is vivid and evocative, beckoning the reader to embrace a world of heightened senses and emotional depth.
Sensory Perception:
The poem entices the reader to engage with their senses. It paints a tapestry of sights, sounds, tastes, smells, and textures. Through carefully chosen words, it invites the reader to immerse themselves fully in the sensory experience, thereby evoking a heightened state of consciousness.
Nature and Transcendence:
Nature appears to be a recurring motif in the poem, symbolizing the connection between the human experience and the larger universe. The interplay of natural elements, such as wind, water, and celestial bodies, suggests a search for transcendence and a longing for something greater than oneself.
Emotional Intensity:
The poem is infused with a palpable emotional intensity. The use of fragmented words and phrases, coupled with the absence of traditional punctuation, creates a sense of urgency and raw emotion. It hints at a longing, a yearning, or even a profound sense of loss that resonates deep within the reader’s soul.
Conclusion:
“Inthe.equisite” is a poem that challenges traditional poetic conventions while embracing the power of language to evoke profound emotions and sensory experiences. Through its unique structure, vivid imagery, and emotional intensity, it invites the reader to embark on a personal journey of self-discovery and connection with the world around them. As a noble English poet, I commend the poet’s courage to push the boundaries of poetic expression and to invite readers to explore the exquisite within themselves.
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E.P. Robles | Poetry 
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