WINTER her final Spring
in bed ridden fashion
such life fiercely battled
Industriousness bought
through pain and tears
Through force of life
and broad strokes of art
travels she made
upon creative youth
And Death spoke, assuredly
but crept in delicate fear
and begged a pardon
— a release of guilt
Her flower withered…
but not from existence
a pollination across hills
to the fields of other-there
:: 01-29-2014 ::
SUCH a surprise
that time brings
a larger span
of knowing
by existing
and living
That life at youth
— bitter sweet
but upon the bed
of death
— sweetly bitter
:: 01-29-2014 ::
MANY secrets hide away
which man nor woman see
Plainly before us they lay
But the trained eye knows
only that which it sees
:: 01-29-2014 ::
WHAT majesty the tender heart
dressed in heaven’s regalia
of red, purple and blue
morning sunrise against you
I more than once, thought
your voice a violin
sweeps me off my feet
a saintly hymn
— magnificence wrought
I tremble when you speak
hearing any chorus I agree
and quiver at the knee
Tender heart stay with me
Majestic heart
believe in me
:: 01-29-2014 ::
“AND what of me?” asked fear.
“I have no thing that hugs nor kisses or desires me…”
Compassion stared then gently replied.
“But you are not real therefore of no concern.
When you realize this then shall you be set free.”
:: 01-29-2014 ::
Disparate dreams of a sort
between day and night
One bathes in light
the other in twilight
One be diurnal —
the other nocturnal
To touch a daydream
under blue sky
is lost to those
who only dream at night
But the night does offer
the grey shade of moon
where lunatics bask
whilst chasing eternity
:: 01-29-2014 ::
TIME abides no one
but speak gently
love surrenders
hearts so true
I give to you
a sliver of time
laced in feeling
it is the divine
a cloth of penance
redeemed in red
softly treading
upon my soul
:: 01-28-2014 ::
IF the world be held
by a thread of despair
let our love repair
Such state of disrepair
reeks injustice for life
and conjures illness
Where is the outrage
against such injustice
that derange dictate
My asylum is well
but the madness runs
and the keys it holds
My world such beauty
nature states refinement
In the end love repairs
:: 01-28-2014 ::
AND if the night could scream
who would hear such a thing
the burrowing night creature
maybe a mockingbird or two
It is not a practical thought
but one of abstract feeling
I know the sound of anguish
to hear such sound each night
— upon my window pane
:: 01-28-2014 ::
WHAT am I
if not
what I dreamed
Who dissuade
my imperial dream
that I am not me
What power
dissolves me
I say nothing
for I am more
— a soul to reckon
:: 01-27-2014 ::
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E.P. Robles | Poetry 
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