OH! Such fair weather and what storm-burst hearts!
When caressing heat-touch’d brilliant morning’s sun each light drench-steep’d
warring showers within the beautiful sorrows!
On a blue sky mourning my bruised heart singing
songs-blue jay melodies in meadows kissing me.
To gather the wood as we build a new nest
for our eggs and young birds.
Sweet arranged new sun and sonnet new form day.
All for love and hearts.
:: 1019.2021 ::
WHEN I AWAKE i find all my dreams were awake
she sleeps and my days are mysterious
And within my mirror i cry for no one
She awakes and dreams of days of love
and within her eyes there’s nothing
crying for no one — she says home
You go out and work for food.
The day breaks into evening and when
you come home the tears are for no one.
She cries and you weep silently.
We wake up and we make up.
Finding Love that grows stronger
as we realize we love each other
and need each other to grow in life.
:: 10.19.2021 ::
We must meet in a toast you gave to me that other morning in the wood where the boughs of the woodlot are ragged and snagged with ice.
When you were gone I filled a glass with water and put the sunflower seeds in it and made this toast to you.
And then I wiped the water off of my cheek and put the sunflower seeds in a pile on the counter, and put the water in the sink.
When you came back that afternoon I told you that you should stick your fist out of the car window to prove that you were alive.
I wondered if you heard.
We must mow a grass lot of lies through, we will be mowing that grass lot a grass lot, lying.
It will be grass, lying on a hay, who at the base of that hay, dead in all her glory of flying away.
There will be broken pictures left where they fall, so many broken pictures that they fall to one side and miss the pictures they meet and forget about those they lose.
And then we will be mowing that grass lot a grass lot, lying.
:: 10.19.2021 ::
JOY or misery …
contain the storm that sets
within your eyes
Lights at night upon bridges
or a bed of nails at night
___/feel that torn twist in
your side\ and the beat of
furious wings in black air.
AND nightingale bird sings
whilst i dream i c o uld sing
but n’ver are the joys of its
Voice.
Until once a dream came with
a song like a this bird with
a song.
under wings
beneath the skies of my eyes.
:: 10.13. 2021 ::
Down went the bare-assed Sun
UP came the silver cock Moon
devouring light and eating
the twilight desert of that
insatiable monster that is
Between her thighs.
:: 10.13.2021 ::
SEXY untouchable woman
in her silk nun’s habit
One praying for God
the Other praying for Her
stuck her tongue in my mouth
while prostate i prayed
i creamed within my heavenly
prayers. She screamed.
:: 10.13.2021 ::
IN anguish i am alive. As we are whenever
a tear drop has always meant. Fiery and
at times absolute coldness – of all
recorded time and as our yesterdays have
confounded minds always forward toward
a dusty death of revelation.
Always (sometimes?) told by a poet full of
anguish and unrequited love —
that which signifies Nothingness.
:: 10.13.2021 ::
TEARS
. . . . . . TEARS // fear dreaming tonight
/-/ how my eyes drain these watery rivers
of aching fearing dreams tonight sleeping
i knew. ….oh dear my loving light
i wondered : \ : when as a baby i knew
how you held me. As you whispered within my
little ear, “you are my love always and forever
and as always.”
I believe your voice in my little darkness.
Mother.
:: 10.10.2021 ::
WHAT is love that love does?
Oh n’ver dies!
Shall by choice or cupid’s whim?
Our hearts decidedly care thou
art more lovely than itself as Life.
As when and then everywhere as rough winds
change life as furious seasons may,
as processional change touch brilliant stars
and as summer’s lease hath too kindly
memories of love without losing.
To be half a part of what life gave
this by chance or heaven’s course
untrimm’d; what o’ love is love
that love does?
oh n’ver dies!
:: 10.05.2021 ::
TODAY I saw creation in that act of submission
with my human hands / a crafted answer
– did I do
not of God’s-breath nor cosmic fire-brew
but through passion a deeply–passion dew
my works of art, alive!
A life longer than my own
my love, to you I give
what is love if not art than
only my simple beating heart.
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E.P. Robles | Poetry 
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