MY beautiful nothings
whom which i have held
Sometimes
In)great PAIN
somethings
which heart has
given: all of my–> ME!
oh! so throughout ignorance
which disappears me
as love sometimes become
vastness of hurting!
i hold the rose-stem
which is firmly strong
and smells like our love
remembering what life
means!
:: 01072016 ::
I was laying in the grass so tall and smelled so well. Yes
the lazy clouds slipping across the cellophane
membrane of God’s eyelids, He smiled down upon me, and birds
and motes of dust orchestrated music in motion
and I was taken to an easy moment, just a silent paradise
and lady bug crossed my chest and laid her sexy self-down,
the butterfly too; all of God’s nature upon my soul and then
the lady came walking in foot-loose sandals, there were flowers
in her hair and stars within her eyes and ladybug rolled her eyes
saying, “not again.” The grass swayed each move to her hips
and I sighed. God, “if He were a lady, this is her walking up to me.”
And I lost my mind! I said Lord good\\ She blew my mind and she,
fine vine, kissed my lips, so high upon my mountain-hop top.
She took me to a place, where the birds speak angelic words
& fish sing and water paints //love is a food and you never get fat
upon her heart. Oh girl you make me make me lose my mind
The Ladybug says so good, and kissed me goodbye &
left a note and a bottle of wine!
And I lost my mind! Ladybug my sweet thing!
Black and red dream love you no matter what
but this lady – makes me lose my mind!
//..//
my confession to you:
i wish to dig my flesh
inside of your skull
and feel your soul
quiver –>trembling
tears of joy
an animal lust
beyond passion
surpassed only by
resurrection
–the immaculate
conception of
all dying souls
:: ~~ ::
i wrote a poem inside the sun today
and though my words are late it is
so ordinary, girl. and who is to blame
and love was her name and not so
ordinary was her heart — for a long
what time it took to bloom but a field
waiting like a lovely melody // everyone
can sing and who’s to blame? i waited
so long to see a bloom of love and life
no one to blame for the hearts that never
bleed into one from two and like a word
that rhymes and love was her name and
we tripped the light and danced until June
and the merry-go-round never made a sound
and so maybe we were moving too fast
catching all the words but never knew
“God, I miss this girl” to be closer
to her than my own heart beats within me
i wrote a poem inside my soul today
and i never knew her but loved her name
and though my words are late it is so
ordinary, if I can’t have her i’ll do
without her until the end of time
just to say, “i love you”
:: 12202015 ::
“I’m not going to cry all the time” said Frank O’hara.
I felt it was the end and if it’s the end
— a friend of the end so beautiful a friend
oh, my only friend, the end If I am half of life leaving
love I leave memories lost within a Roman wilderness
of pain and all adults (who are child dead) are insane
all by crested birds within the middle of my vein-
heart of believing the very fact i am a dying poet
Do you see the space of time beyond eyes and love —
where God cannot go it is the season of childhood
leaving our friend: flesh. And there’s danger at the edge
of life riding the King’s highway, where pictures of what we’ll be
desperately strangely — a desperate land of lake, miles,
oldest skin as coldest westerly best — the romance of humanity
and all the leaves falling and children singing : all insane
and I’m not going to cry all the time said Frank O’Hara while the King’s
henchmen rode and found the face of ancient glory — and we ride the snake
into the room where his sister lived ,old, skin is cold, and paid a visit to
the brother and – the rest. I won’t won’t cry when I see the blue bird
it’s calling out…traveling where you take us.
:: 122202015 ::
WHEN she died the world carried on
some knew and bled others fled
some stood instead but the ladies
hearing she’d passed cried
wishing they’d be the one to
greet her on the other side
these beautiful souls wore red
and some pink thinking bees
Emily wrote to the world
who never wrote her back
and finally one day by the door
a carriage stopped just for her
and they rode down a gravel road
and some in orange dresses
and some always in red
When finally the world heard
her voice she was already
buried and poetry is much the
richer by her.
:: 12242015 ::
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E.P. Robles | Poetry 
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