THIS THING called Tourette’s
where I sometimes stop breathing.
TONITE, HOW I AM I…
Good morning, my children. This day shall soon be
filled with wet wind, droplets of rain,
birds beginning their morning call,
snatches of birdsong from nearby trees.
Rain, our god, provides for the earth
With its rhythms. And yet this
drenched car park, unshod and
mucousy, here I stand. We are
all here on a rock. We will always
be here on a rock, as we continue
to flow, endlessly, into the ocean.
Together, my children, let us remember
the former days. The days when our words
were ragged and unsavory, language was crude
and violent, full of striking image and rhyme.
O, yes. Today we shall honour our words, as
we pick through the words. They have so hurt us,
and we leave them sodden in the rain.
–>FIRST MY OWN VOICE ::::::
It seems the air i breathe and touch, when walking
alone in the city has given me a disease
like Tourette’s.
I’m beginning to turn red or green, or blue,
sometimes not even my face has become a fault.
Lately, my head seems to be filled with ocean tides,
titian squid, clams, mussels, sand, ice;
specks of some faultless fish.
And here we stand, wet and lost, looking into the garden.
O, only the garden.
O, only the garden
–>SOME HEROES
The stars were dying in the night
when I woke to find my brother dead,
from being driven by a steamroller,
into the ocean.
I miss him.
They were here, on the island, back when the skies
were blue and the seas breathed their contented
voices.
(Oh this hillside, what color is it with my words?
O, only blue.)
:: 12.10.2020 ::
E.P. Robles | Poetry 
You must be logged in to post a comment.