I hold little value for time
these days when I am always
writing. Compressed into
a vacuum of love and past life!
I do rarely know what I scribe —
automaton are we, many minds!
But each poem is a life I love
when I write. I die each night
and the beauty of resurrection
my each morning!
:: 10-23-2014 ::
I have fornicated with ego
it was by the trees one day
where stood the divine light
and we admired each soul,
us — tall standing trunks
with nature and her lusty gown
I fell in love with the leaf
and She with me — my brow,
the tree and me
and I saw a golden ring
of twig and grass by my soul
it was upon the tree, a nest.
And the tiny beak of hunger
chirped and chipped away
my ego this day.
I walk in life and by path
through the heart of love,
the nature trail aside my soul
:: 10-23-2014 ::
I apologized as you tripped
into the summer’s flowerBed
to retrieve you from buttercups
I pressed your gown down
from above it reached the up!
And the laughter shared by us!
Me, just a poet and you the words.
I assumed cotton paper that day
along with jewellery quarter’s
best dip-pen ink could help me say
“This day is/will always be my best’,
:: 10-23-2014 ::
and I die(d) “thanking my word: so long ago”
“would you; yes you would”
“and, everything, everything…”
“if you try to breath…”
“I choke upon the flesh of my dying skin…”
“you used to be a little boy”
“…and everything, tries — and I choke believing,”
“do you?”
“and every feather, petal, leaf, and heart,
speaks (cry) loving (hugs)
M E
:: 10-22-2014 ::
My lady, the gentle nature
of your grace did smitten
softly all my sensibility!
In a word — impossibility!
The shift and stockings,
and kerchief and shoes!
What hair and mittens
and pockets and stays —
my adoration for your
pin ball and scissor clip too!
My adoration for you
the loveliest woman!
:: 10-21-2014 ::
If you saw a world
made of love
would the light
destroy your eyes
even if the heart
rejoiced in all
greatness by God
And all the dead
arisen by Grace
to meet loved ones
would the light
destroy your heart
Not if I was one,
like a pebble
in a cold river,
getting by,
by the eddies
of life’s currents
Oh, the heartache
and greatness
just the tip
of a butterfly wing
and the sky above
reaches out to me
And the one who
sold all of this
just a lie —
the price of a soul
all for His glory,
silver for blood.
The Mystery of His Glory.
:: 10-20-2014 ::
The enormous crowd of my secret thoughts
knocked upon the door-soul of my heart
Just today, absent any butler
I had to answer — I saw his coattails
fleeing summer that was my butler.
And the face of the door smiled
but the knob too hot to hold
and my feet a pool of cold sweat
knowing my thoughts that revisit today.
I only had — wished I had, a new thought
but could only feel the deepening dread.
And the door opened…
:: 10-20-2014 ::
We are comforted within my skin
the pillow-clouds of revelation,
by self and ‘me’ are easy on us.
The ugly scars of life my lips.
The bruised heart my portrait
for the blooming fields of love.
We are comforting within this skin.
The hands calloused by lying souls,
my self and ‘we’ are this grip,
that no strongest wind can break.
We are the verified self.
:: 10-20-2014 ::
I my dear
only one
a disappointment
is my f e ar
the Me of my own
just what you see
(and I judge not
by eye) but mostly
others do
not understand
just a pebble
and lesser
if a grain of
indescribable
something
Let just be
the crown jewel
a gem never
touched by others
it makes artThing
and weeping hearts
:: 10-18-2014 ::
IF wars were waged by words
in place of bombs and bullets
then wars would wage a battle
upon the countryside of Souls
— more than flesh or mind!
Who would victory embrace
if all our words were fear and hate?
No one my kindred spirit!
:: 10-18-2014 ::
 | EPRobles on OWL MILK AND INDIGO SMOKE |
 | Adam Fisher on OWL MILK AND INDIGO SMOKE |
| EPRobles on ECSTASIES OF THE REPULSIV… |
 | R. Marshall on ECSTASIES OF THE REPULSIV… |
 | Stefan on ECSTASIES OF THE REPULSIV… |
E.P. Robles | Poetry 
You must be logged in to post a comment.