Time is fathomless, yes—but it is not a grave.
It is a river that remembers every footstep
that ever touched its banks. Names fade, forms loosen,
voices thin to echoes, yet meaning endures the way
stone endures weather: altered, never erased.
:: 12.12.2025 ::
He walked down Seventh Avenue
in a suit the color of storm-light,
Armani stitching holding together
what the world once nailed apart.
No halo—
only the low ember of a man
who has watched every century
try to erase him.
People stared
the way sheep stare at thunder,
uncertain whether to scatter
or kneel.
He did not speak.
He did not lift a hand
to bless or curse or gather.
He only walked—
sandals traded for leather,
robe traded for silk,
the same heart beating beneath.
As he passed
the glass cathedrals of want,
mannequins bowed
in their frozen hunger,
mirrors shivered,
recognizing their own reflection
in his quiet contempt.
A woman selling roses
felt her breath snag
on an old wound.
She offered one,
thorned and trembling.
He took it
the way only the ancient take anything—
with sorrow enough
to swallow empires
and mercy enough
to refuse the feast.
Some said model.
Some said ghost.
Some said madman
too expensive to ignore.
But the air bent around him
like light around a wound,
and the city—
dressed in its bright, glittering sins—
did what cities do:
it looked,
it lingered,
it forgot.
No sermon.
No miracle.
Just a man in Armani asking, without asking,
“Have you learned nothing?”
:: 12.11.2025 ::
I wished this poem would become
a flake of ice called snow—
one trembling shard of heaven,
pure enough to vanish on a warm palm,
yet brave enough to fall.
So the wind, ancient in its counsel,
took my whisper and lifted it
into the high blue chambers
where winter forges its silver truths.
There, among the quiet anvils of cold,
my words stiffened into crystal
each line folding upon itself,
each syllable narrowing into frost.
By dusk it was ready.
And the sky released it
my poem, now a single snowflake,
descending through the stillness
as though time itself held its breath.
The village did not notice.
Children continued their play,
the church bell tolled its tired hour,
and travelers hurried toward their shelter.
But one old woman at her window
saw it glint, and smiled
the way only memory can.
She held out her hand.
The flake landed gently,
melted instantly—
yet in that soft collapse
my poem entered her,
warm as a forgotten kindness,
light as forgiveness.
And the elders say
this is the true labor of snow:
to arrive without demand,
to bless without witness,
to vanish—
yet leave the world quieter
than it found it.
So let this poem fall again and again—
each time a new crystal,
each time a new grace
until your heart, Phillip,
is a field where winter’s silence
rests like a benediction.
:: 12.07.2025 ::
It was a breath I almost missed,
a hush against my skin,
the kind of touch that drifts to you
before the words begin.
It was a feeling without sound,
yet every beat replied,
the way a violet lifts its face
toward spring it can’t deny.
It was a hand I could not see
but felt within my own,
a warmth that eased the frozen parts
I thought were carved in stone.
Real love does not announce itself
nor rush for all to see;
it grows the way a hillside keeps
the snow in memory.
Slow as an early morning star,
faithful as falling dew,
it threads the heart with gentleness
and makes it brave and new.
:: 11.19.2025 ::
SOMETIMES, shadows walk like people
and talk senseless things—
sometimes geometry is just chance,
and broken numbers need to dance,
and Jack of Diamonds sheds the Queen of Hearts,
and her eyes are the swords of conflict,
the shape of your heart → broken love.
If I told you that I loved her—
you’d think something wrong;
just a man wearing many faces.
If I told you I loved you—
I met a woman with love hid in many places.
I know the space, the size of a soldier,
and the clubs of cards—
→ it’s not the shadow I walk.
Yet still the dusk leans in, listening,
as though it knows the truth of men:
that every borrowed face we wear
is stitched from longing’s ancient thread.
And sometimes dreams outrun their keepers,
seeking forms they cannot fill;
and sometimes hearts, like worn-out decks,
shuffle themselves against their will.
But here I stand—no mask, no mirror—
beneath the quiet, faithful moon,
confessing to the old night sky
that love, once loosed, returns too soon.
And if my steps seem split in two,
one toward her, one toward you—
know this: the heart, bewildered, still
chooses the path that feels most true.
For even when shadows walk like people,
and numbers break, and queens depart—
somewhere a single, steady flame
remembers the shape
of your
heart.
:: 11.16.2025 ::
If you seek to master English,
brace your spirit, steel your breath—
for its pathways twist like ivy
on the worn, ancestral hearth.
Say rough and then say through—
then bough, then bought, then bout, then beauty.
Hear how logic bows in shame
before this mongrel tongue’s capricious duty.
A cough will rack a sailor’s ribs,
a plough will turn the farmer’s ground;
yet hough lies hidden in the books
and scarcely dares to make a sound.
A kernel sprouts within the soil,
a colonel marches dressed in might—
and isle and aisle—two silent twins—
drift moonlit through the reader’s night.
Lead may guide the pilgrim home,
but lead (the metal) sinks instead;
and read is red when time has passed,
though present tense keeps its bright thread.
If sew is so, then why is dew
not doo, as logic might decree?
And why must queue (a lonely Q)
drag four mute letters hopelessly?
A modest tear may grace the cheek,
another tear may rend the seam;
and wind will blow across the fields,
yet wind will coil within a dream.
Now ponder break beside speak,
and steak beside a thirsty leak—
where vowels masquerade as kin
yet never utter what they speak.
Then whisper sword, abandoning S,
and yacht, that Dutch intruder bold;
and choir, whose letters break their ranks
to sing a tune no rules will hold.
O pilgrim of this printed maze,
take heart—though chaos seems to reign;
for English is an ancient quilt
of conquest, grief, and human strain.
Its riddles bear the mark of time,
of tribes that wandered, fought, and clung;
and every inconsistency
is history woven into tongue.
So study well these tangled ways,
yet see their beauty, fierce and true—
for in this grand confusion lives
the soul that speaks in me and you.
:: 11.15.2025 ::
I am a soul walking in flesh,
yet never contained by it.
I am a poet shaped by centuries,
though born in this brief age.
I am a man who moves like the elder winds—
one who remembers corners of existence
forgotten the moment most awaken.
I am both echo and origin—
the flame that leans toward heaven,
and the ash that still remembers the fire.
I am a sensitive spirit—
not fragile,
but finely strung,
like an old violin whose seasoned wood has known
storms, prayers, and trembling hands.
I am a maker of worlds—
one who dreams beyond the narrow frame of Earth
and carries the marks of elsewhere.
And you are—
in the simplest, oldest words—
a child of God
who has not forgotten
that you once knew the sky
from the inside.
That is what you are.
:: 11.15.2025 ::
at That last moment
I realized I am not
that man I thought;
and I saw him,
he was me, the name
and where to find me
is a cold place called Life
the World spins because
I am dizzy
and feelings became words
the first time I felt fear
after shifts / of time /
I found myself
…there the whole time.
:: 11.15.2025 ::
Fear is what it is
to be a slave?
I have no fear.
Just Love.
I’ve seen things
most living people
would not believe now
— I’ve spoken to one
who was born the year
Abraham Lincoln was
murdered.
The things I have seen
& learned.
Love.
:: 11.12.2025 ::
THAT love is not flesh
nor blood
that kisses are wet
and full of yes
is Love’s truest.
It lives where breath
is more than air,
where eyes confess
what tongues despair.
No vein can hold it,
no bone contain —
it moves through night,
through joy, through pain.
And when all bodies
turn to dust,
Love stays —
unbroken —
as all Loves must.
:: 11.09.2025 ::
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E.P. Robles | Poetry 
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