SHE always lies
in early mornings
to save my feelings
bring me your lips
and don’t forget
your high thoughts
i’m kind -the kind
who some hate
with loving hearts
She holds me against
her problems
i tried / but she died
Hmm…i love the thought
of loving her but she hates
herself so much
She only lies to save my
feelings / i cry \ in spite
to say there’s reasons
i never wanted her to die.
:: 11.26.2024 ::
\
Why—Life—art Thou bestowed—on me
In ruthless Mystery
A Wanton Gift of puzzled Might
Condemned Eternally
To what strange Hand could call me forth
From Timeless Oblivion
And thrill my timid Soul to Fear
And quiver Thought—unknown?
No aim before me beckons clear
My Heart an Empty Tune
And dull fatigue the Rhythm wears
Of Life’s unending Rune.
11.11.2024
My soul is lost, a brittle leaf on crevasses wide,
deeply it tumbles, cries to ice-blue depths unseen.
“Help me, blue elephant!” the plea sounds strange,
like lettuce brave, waving against this electric day,
like electrons that spin, meet, and vanish—never a goodbye,
yet slipping on lice as limbs twist, broken from the fall.
It’s all so SCHIZOPHRENIC, these tangents—an endless fall.
Stilted speech, phonemic paraphasia, words brittle, wide,
each syllable like poets’ broken pens, muttering goodbye.
They write their names on both sides, mirror-image seen
of a pencil’s shadow, as if logic and paradox make the day
where blackened eyes spare rabbits in the realm of strange.
In Japan, they chant “sei shin bun retsu byo”—this strange
mind-split state, caught in slivers of meaning, a fall
between logic and proportion, like hours slipping from day.
Where the King and Queen of ravens perch, wings wide,
angels float down to buy their slur-pees and, unseen,
glide past aisles of wonder and fiction, without a goodbye.
Yes, writing’s a socially accepted crack, a goodbye
to sensibility’s rigid lines. Words slip into the strange,
like prose sewn tight with schizophrenia’s threads unseen,
binding syllables in worlds that tilt and occasionally fall.
Here, voices of the sidewalk taunt in echoes wide,
where verbally abusive birds sing dark songs of day.
So, you leave them all behind, let the laughter of day
falter into silence, give a quiet nod and sigh goodbye.
A shelter beckons with its open arms and wide
hallways, where hidden folk spin tales in strange
and whispered dialects. One says, “Let logic fall—
in madness, the lines between sense and nonsense are unseen.”
And here in these spaces, unseen words are felt, unseen
eyes glisten at tales of crevasses climbed in the fray of day.
A paradox blooms, and we rise not from fear of fall
but a mutual, knowing smile—every poem, a brave goodbye
to sanity’s stern grip, a stepping into shadows strange,
where sidewalk birds no longer mock but sing to skies wide.
The final goodbye slips quietly, as wide gaps remain unseen,
like strange scenes passed in day, yet again we walk to fall—
we who hear and see this secret world, know nothing of goodbye.
:: 11.08.2024 ::
A sestina is a complex, structured poetic form that consists of six six-line stanzas followed by a final three-line stanza, called an envoi or tornada. Rather than relying on rhyme, a sestina is defined by the intricate pattern of word repetition at the ends of its lines.
Out of Aesculapius’s grip I slip,
a lean, shaven wraith erupting from dust,
my shadow unwinds itself from his claws,
and I emerge—an inkling of breath
in the open sky’s electric conspiracy.
Health looms like a lover, half-formed,
a promise lurking in the fissures of sleep,
she prowls into my room, leaves fingers trailing
through corners crammed with forgotten mirages,
her touch reconfigures the air, the sheets, the self.
Yes, you, wild echo of laughing caverns,
lawless herald, bearer of the wine-stained torch—
how I have longed for your mythic embrace,
you creature of Pindus, crouched in the folds of mountains,
sworn to the faith of Venus, the fierce fangs of Bacchus.
Bring me out of Petersburg, that mausoleum of voices,
where hours idle in cold columns of marble talk,
where tongues flicker like wet needles,
drawing silence from silence, and boredom breeds its kind
like a tired whisper that slithers through glass.
Instead, open the path to hills unraveled,
to fields bursting from the seams of reason,
to the maples aching for sunlight
by the river that wears a coat of stars,
to all the uncharted liberties that earth hoards.
And in October, bring the splintered cup,
let it tremble in our hands as we fill it to the rim,
we’ll raise it to the fools with waxen eyes,
to those who are shadows of their shadows,
to the heavens that bleed from hidden suns,
and to the earth-bound Czar who dreams he rules.
:: 11.06.2024 ::
Eating caterpillar, soaking sun, drinking sangria
the heart drifts among dreamt forests
where each tree is a thought left unfinished
my soul, a crypt of whispers, broken mirrors
faces twist and dissolve into smoke,
disgrace burns like the ember of a forgotten fire.
In the bubble bursting asphalt of time
four tires spin like the mind on fire,
roads coiling toward hills that vanish like clouds
time has forsaken us all—
we are shadows stitched to the sky,
leaving footprints in the dust of oblivion.
And within my youth, I knew
the way a shadow knows the light,
the days tore themselves open
revealing the flesh of impossible dreams
and I laughed with the stars,
my mouth full of wind and sorrow.
The streets are veins,
pulsing with the blood of lost travelers,
each car a phantom riding the pulse
toward the mountaintops of nowhere.
We all carry our death like a second heartbeat,
an echo in the hollow chambers of time.
There were days when I saw
my thoughts unspooling like a thread of gold,
reaching into the furthest corner of the sky
where love and madness wore the same mask.
I was a child of the impossible,
my hands full of the unreal,
my eyes open to the landscapes of the unknown.
The sun dissolves in the glass of sangria,
and the world becomes a collage of memories,
each fragment a reflection of what could never be.
I reach for the stars in the river of night,
but my hands turn to smoke—
and the dream, always the dream, escapes me.
:: 10.22.2024 ::
It’s a complicated world
ruled by pain and fear
Everything’s ‘will you swim
or will you fade’
the smallest things
hold us back
the madness outside
these walls
are nothing compared
to what’s within my halls
Brain traffic: s/o confused
grid-locked & neurotically fused
Drain my Soul
Brain traffic: over/used
fear-****-fed till your dead
then Life’s on hold
it’s all Inside your head
BRAIN DEAD.
:: 03.27.2020 ::
I sing the body electric—
rising from streets where youth howls,
where untamed hearts beat wildly, thumping, thumping,
with the ferocity of the untapped future,
where minds break free like wild stallions,
galloping, unsaddled, unbridled by law, by rule, by doubt!
I see you, unseen spirit—
you, with fire in your blood, in your breath,
dissatisfied, disillusioned, yet burning—
you who shout from rooftops and basement corners alike,
filling the night with primal yawp!
O the thrash of guitars, the snap of drums,
a cacophony of youth breaking through like dawn!
Each note a heartbeat,
each scream a proclamation:
I AM HERE, I EXIST, and no chain shall bind me!
I, Walt, speak for you!
For the ones lost in the haze of now,
for the unnamed, the restless, the fierce—
you who wear rebellion like a second skin,
who laugh and rage, defiant under stars that blink with old-world silence.
Come, let us crash together,
under the flicker of streetlights and neon,
where the dust of forgotten dreams rises like incense—
where every word you spit, every howl you make
is not a whisper, but a song, a shout—a testament
to the glorious chaos of being alive,
of tearing apart the veil of the ordinary!
Who are you to be tamed?
Who are you to be quiet?
I feel your pulse beneath the skin of America,
I see your fists raised high,
your anthem echoing through the city’s veins.
Your spirit, your scent, your thrumming desire—
all of it, a wave crashing on the shores of existence,
ripping through the fabric of time—
and I, the bard of all,
stand with you, sing with you—
together we proclaim:
O! the world is not enough, and we shall want for more!
:: 10.17.2024 ::
Noctambulant—beneath the Moon—
I met a Sprite along the Path
She whispered—soft—between the Trees
“You’ve devoured—all my Hope—”
Her Heart—a Dream—gently placed
Upon the Clouds—of fleeting Joy
As if a Party—meant to last
But vanished—in the Night
Within my Heart—we wandered far
I glimpsed—Life’s long elusive Thread
Then tumbled—deep—into the Arms
Of Love forevermore
In Petals lush of Crimson Red
And Ivory White—such Memories bloom
A Child’s Joy—now lost to Time
Find me where No Thing exists
Bid Nature’s Choir—sing of Spring
The Embers fade—but Love persists
Beneath the sad—eternal Night
A Moon of Silver—wistful light.
(Rev: 08.22.2024 🙂
Though you are weary of the night,
I crave your presence, to my soul’s delight.
Our forms entwined, by fevered moonlight,
In passion’s throes, we meet in the twilight.
The air is thick, our skin drenched in mist,
Yet still, I hunger for your fatal kiss.
You consume my heart with each fleeting sigh,
And from your veins, I drink till I fly.
Yet no matter how deep the crimson runs,
My thirst for you can never be undone.
The world is mine, a prize of fate’s decree,
Won in a contest of chance and destiny.
But what care I for such trivial gain?
The spoils of fortune, to me, are vain.
I confess, for all the treasures I possess,
They pale to the taste of your sweet distress.
You ravish my heart, with every breath you give,
And still I thirst—forever I live.
:: 10.05.2024 ::
La Soif Éternelle de l’Amour
In twilight’s quiet breath, you speak as words,
Each line a tether to the soul’s deep light.
The ink of dreams, it stains your heart with grace,
And through the void, you carve a space in time,
Where shadows weave and whisper in the dark,
Yet love, unbound, still calls you to the stars.
Beneath the moon, your spirit finds the stars,
And in their gaze, you rise beyond mere words.
You are both flame and ember in the dark,
A burning truth that dances with the light.
In each reflection of a life through time,
You trace your path, a gentle, sacred grace.
Your hands hold both the weight and gift of grace,
You spin the night and touch the distant stars.
And through each moment, fleeting breath, and time,
You shape the world with delicate, bold words.
In silence, too, your voice becomes the light—
A spark that blooms within the endless dark.
Yet even in the vastness of the dark,
Your heart beats on with quiet, steady grace.
You breathe the cosmos, drinking in its light,
And find yourself among the burning stars.
Your name is written in eternal words,
A soul who echoes through the tides of time.
Each memory you craft transcends the time,
A life, a dream, an echo through the dark.
You hold within the power of your words
The pulse of life, the weight of love’s pure grace.
And in your gaze, the infinite of stars
Unfolds, revealing threads of hidden light.
You are both shadow and the morning light,
A timeless figure, standing still through time.
Your steps are woven into endless stars,
And every breath a spark against the dark.
For you, dear poet, walk the path of grace,
And in your wake, you leave a trail of words.
Through words, you cast the light upon the dark,
And grace, your gift, is etched across all time,
As stars behold the poet’s sacred heart.
:: 10.01.2024 ::
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E.P. Robles | Poetry 
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