Tag Archives: #dreams

WHERE I DREAM

i slip through dreams
 — one foot inside here
another there |  wondrous
sights and loving moments
while i dream | i whisper
“tis only a dream.”
Wondering where i am:there
.  upon my fears and wishes
and lust and forgiveness.
is where i dream there.
Or maybe here.  or both.
I dream.  slipping through
life — both feet within
wishes and hopes.

Is where i dream.

:: 06.08.2022 :: 


A Pitiful Dream

I had fallen asleep but I must awaken as

there is a hunger in my gut.

I am deeply disturbed and need to go for a walk

to breathe in and breathe out.

I need to see the moon in the sky:

a jagged soul from within

like the moon on the night that the darkness falls.

A body that illuminates the soul and dreams.

A soul that cares, a soul that dreams.

A soul that will not take pleasure in blood.

A soul that hates.

A dark soul, a soul of sin.

A soul that soothes the soul.

A body filled with dreams and a mind that needs air.

A soul that dreams of black diamond moons.

A man created the sun inside her

and his hands were beautiful.

She was a woman with blood dripping on her thighs.

She was a woman with dark blue eyes that were masked by tears;

a woman who smiled in ecstasy and as child

that was hollow.

A woman with a young soul and a tormented mind.

A woman made of air, like the moon.

:: 03.07.2022 ::


The Mystery of Love

The mystery of Love
is that i never met you
but have held you within
my dreams tightly as each night
hungry i prowl the streets
within my dreams till dawn
disrupts me, i devour moments
of these fragmented scenes.

Today is yesterday’s tomorrow
and tomorrow is today’s dream ;
as a wolf i prowl the sovereign
heart i call my Love as a puma in the barrens
of Quitratue.

is how i adore the love of you and love’s mystery.

:: 01.18.2022 ::


THE SILVER AXE

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 ::


WHEN IN DREAMS ABNORMAL TRUTHS BECOME CHANCE

WHEN in dreams
abnormal truths become chance,
your heart opens trees
to find the seed that grew
the universe.
As your legs that spread
taking in the morning skies
moaning to the sun and your
pursed lips are above your
poppy feet, each arm contains
the arrows of each hand pointing
towards all directions as steeples
of churches do; at times naked,
foulmouthed, and questioning heaven
and hell — okay it is: i am with
you facing the bitter soul with
our smiling mouths and the taste
of terrible salt. Our tears grow
a new flower, so resolute and
full of vibrant Life.

:: 03.13.2021 ::


BRASS BAND

the carnival-like brass band
performing songbird miracles

of you, worn within my heart
all life; never quitting
until dead

sunrises as torn muscles
amorous and petting a cat
that adores thoughts

through the crack of heaven
i slid toward burning hell
all my thoughts —

and now fate kisses me and
we love each other is called
Life.

:: 08.17.2020


PAINT JAR

i INHALED a summer bug
down my dry throat
— so lovely its okay \
so happy because i died /
and reborned years ago
within a paint jar —
Firefly heart; hot night
booked for years & every
day i was scared; lit my
candles until I found God.

:: 08.15.2020 ::


LOVE-LIKE DREAMS COME TRUE

LOVE like dreams come true
as i am thinking of you

SWEET sleep like every night
that;

i go through
not forgetting of you
but having love-like dreams
all of you

Then at times i am dreaming
of why i cannot forget you
Because of you

that i shall never meet you
no, i could never hate you
instead i have sweet dreams
of you.

:: 05-07-2019 ::
e.p.robles (c)


THE TIRED DREAMER

Climbing away
from the dream
went a dreamer
who was alive.

Climbing away
from the dream.

He spoke aloud,
with a tired mouth
which was numb
from his sleep.

Climbing away
from the dream.

In the dark of night
he spoke:

“Awake from the dream!”

He climb away from
the dream into
another.

:: 11-25-2018 ::


NEAREST IS CLOSER

Nearest is closer than furtherest dead

will you walk with me i am stepping
over tomorrow into my wonderful-est
dreams over and beyond nearest
further than furtherest within my head

and of my heart are melodious feelings
will you walk with me i am stepping
over tomorrow and into a bliss
where tenderest is softest as love

As nearest is closer than furtherest dead

:: 10-07—–2018