With fewer butterflies how fields
pollinate and spread golden glory
by just imagination — heretics they
said for millions of years dissolve
within the glory of forgetfulness___
is why i am still thriving
as once knew now purged
of life’s little horrors which
scar us for a lifetime!
:: 10.07.2022 ::
BE it lithium light
from the sun
OR the grand field
of poetic words
i know not
but do know this:
Learning a new
Word a Day is as making
a long lasting friend.
:: 10.07.2022 ::
The moment of the rose and the moment of the yew-tree are of equal duration. A people without history is not redeemed from time, for history is a pattern of timeless moments.
Even the memory of love lasts only so long, and has to fade, as if from cold, like breath of the night. How strange it is that two more towering trees, hardy and sharp as they are, should meet and then fall in perfect balance like an old door, but still there is in the background a suggestion of sunshine and a bird sings a song of song to the rustle of the leaves, when the roses are bright and the yews still leafless and brown.
A bird sang with such intense meaning, which it had only heard once, when it had lived in harmony with its creator. But now it feels as though it had lived in the song, and its existence is as brief as that of its ancestors, which did not die because they had forgotten their time, or because they had no time, and their love did not last as long as that of those roses, whose scent was theirs alone to enjoy.
The tree, of perfect beauty, is dead now, and has lost the story of its life. Farewell my lovers, dear sons. Your life ended when their time expired. The yew-tree lived on for another fifteen years before finally dying, like the son who lived on in the song. And so it was that as their love slept, the men of the land knew the memory of the child and the song of the bird, their love, and when the bird died and the rain fell
And the leaves and the bark and the roots no longer remembered the true name which was long forgotten, a mountain fell into the stream, and the water rose into the centre of the land, and changed it and the waterfall ceased to be a waterfall and became the Sea. How might we remember the dead, if we could bring with us the world, without sadness and anger, without jealousy and envy, without all the trammels of time? The memory of the children, and the bird, and the tree is as old as the trees themselves and as it becomes old and dead, it is absorbed into the living trees and all the stories are forgotten. But the poor roses die still, the one, and the many, they cannot remember the other, but die in the arms of the men who thought they knew them. What does the world mourn for?
The dead have no such love.
They simply know the terrible darkness of grief without end.
They know no great beauty.
Their skins are no richer than those of the living.
Only the people who live, who suffer, who weep, and perhaps remember, could say that they lived once. so the song, the memory, was sung for what it was worth and the memory of love was stillborn.
But the leaves had started to fall again, and the wind blew from the sea, where the dead rose from the bottom of the water. It was the tears of the people that awoke the dying trees
So that they may grow, as in time they will die and so us all.
:: 10.04.2022 ::
What is true and what is false? They are a mirror in which each is reflected.
What is real is just as true and real? As the falsity of what is false.
Time past and time future ~~ are a mirrored window through which each man sees what he is.
Go, go, go, go, said the bird, for the leaves were full of children, hidden excitedly, containing laughter. And the table on the gravel, beneath its fat gourds, dropped its fruit to the ground, and we, its guests, found The fat swollen gourds had become red and juicy, and the fruit was bright and delicious to the eye.
Hear our story, then, the story of time past and time future. The story of all centuries since and the stories yet to come. About to fall upon us is the nettles, The nettles, with their soft white stems, there is in each stem a sharp blue spike, Comes upon its prey with a sudden point
And pierces the flesh as the teeth of the nettle Pierce the ribs of a potato. Here lies the rat, struggling, straining, dying, dying, fighting to rise up. A thousand small bites from the nettles have enveloped the flesh of his body, we will strip him, pull him, tear him open, eat him, cut him in half, make him into soup,
burp out his meat and eat.
But this is time past and time future a story of all the centuries since and the stories yet to come.
The nettles, with their soft white stems, their poisonous spikes, are an imposing gate; I walk around them, looking through the glazed surface. From within, the grass is dancing, the flowers are darting.
They change color in the sun, their faces are blue, they change color in the rain, their faces are red and full of color when the last glow of the sun is gone.
They love and the flowers love and the insects love.
I can hear the birds in the trees fly to the nettles and sing to them with beautiful songs so sweet and true and loving.
“Go,” said the bird, for the leaves were full of children, hidden excitedly, containing laughter.
“Go, go, go,” said the bird, for the leaves were full of children, hidden excitedly, containing laughter.
The wind came, snapped the nettles, ripped them up. The flowers shrieked, and they all came running, all the flowers, the flowers fled in all directions, they scattered like fire. The little girl came, singing with a smile on her face, chirping, babbling, gathering the scattered flowers.
Her face was blue in the sunlight, so was the flower face and her blue eyes looked at me and I followed her into the forest to find out all the greatest secrets of the universe.
:: 09.29.2022 ::
This, my song of love, is my song of hate for the silent clock.
Are you wasting your time? Are you taking advantage of those around you?
Are you missing out?
Every moment is significant, every act a choice. Every instant infinitesimally different from every other moment. Every moment, one year, three decades, a lifetime, is a lifetime, where past and future coexist equally — irreconcilable as the present and the past.
You may not be able to change anything or anyone. However, with powerful and frightening power of your own self-awareness, you can change your attitude to life and make positive, productive changes to your life. The choice is yours to make.
They were dreaming of a blue sky, they were dreaming of a blue sky.
The air where I stood Is Harsh. It is nothing. The past that was in the air, the dead flowers, the bird’s innocent mind, the strange insects, has nothing to do with Me, I am not the soul in the air, I am something else, something else.
The swallow does not see me, I am simply a phenomenon.
Nothing. Brown skin, empty, cracked.
Love is the tragedy of this world, it is a curiouser power, a certain power, and from it comes, quite rare in the world. Though we have seen it enough to know, it comes as a seed of great suffering, it comes, sometimes, as a pheromone, an Eros, as an alchemy, a beautiful fragrance, as a Scarlet streak of the mind, from it comes, when I gaze at the leaves, seeds of despair and ecstasy.
The bones of the world are as the bones of Madonna. A nun is taller than a zebra. On a parochial level, we see, for a moment, the bones of the woman ~ our housekeeper who died of an illness. A wise mother sees the woman to whom her daughter speaks in sleep.
The answer is God and the monster who is and who has been but never will be is the master of our Soul.
A key within the locked palace of our Souls.
:: 09.29.2022 ::
SWEET faith come to me
that darkness seeps
and my weather vane
so empty
a petal- less flower weep
stare i do above my fear
and see a golden glow
it rises kissing horizon
that is my faith
my dear
that shower my vane
until it full
of the power of light
to feed my wither
soul
“The blood is the life!” she kept repeating in one of her more melancholy moods.
“The blood is the life.”
One morning, The Baron lost a finger during a sword practice.
He knew instantly what it was.
He quickly grabbed his sword and prepared himself for the oncoming stampede.
The Baron desperately asked for a priest to come and put the finger back.
The Baron, at that moment, felt he must know a way to get back his lost finger.
The Baron’s badger, as he is named, knew of a way to put the finger back and give the Baron the use of it again. It was the way to get back at Elspeth.
The Baron started to practice his routine in the morning, at noon, and then again at night.
After a few days of practice, the Baron’s badger noticed a change in The Baron’s behavior.
It appeared as if he was under the power of the ring.
For the first time in his life, The Baron was performing and caring about what he was doing.
For the first time in his life, The Baron had a goal to be achieved and felt he was a man who deserved to have a sword at his side.
On the sixth day, The Baron attacked Elspeth.
She fled to her bed, screaming as she passed out of pure fear.
The Baron knew that she wouldn’t wake up again.
The Baron was angry.
Elspeth’s quick recovery from the kiss earlier in the day was a dark sign.
The Baron asked for no more amorous interruptions.
“I demand a wedding ring!” The Baron growled as he fought off the rest of the band.
The Baron defeated every band member, destroyed the bar, and spent the rest of the evening stripping the bodies of all valuables and firewood.
The Baron did not return home until morning.
The Baron had a plan.
The servant.
The servant realized that he was being manipulated by a ring.
He knew if he went to The Baron, the Baron would never wear the ring again.
And the Baron would never play piano again.
:: 09.21.2022 ::
OUR minds are concocted by Machines
those who control space and time/
the incredible magicians of old age
and our government is corrupt
We are trapped in the belly of
the monster called civilization
and the machine is bleeding to death.
Our time has now come to pass.
And we are to see reality.
The many millions of suicides
are now beginning /out of sight\
our animal tendency is one that requires
a sense of humanity. But the many
screams are carried by a dark wind
that blows : there is no government
but the radio is on. We are bleeding
to death and the sun has fallen down
and the billboards are unlit.
It was a moment when the buildings
fell down while mother’s clutched their
babies and fathers fought the faceless
enemies of evils spirits.
The world had forgotten.
There is a devil.
And he is worst than men.
:: 09.18.2022 ::
One dimly-seen sunset to the next…
And all will be well, then.
Let me hear the sound of my voice
And it will be O
O you’ll wake up dead…
And I’ll sit looking through the red door,
A clock on its delicate stand…
It will be there on Christmas morning,
You will go on your knees and pray,
As the clock chimes four.
Then the doors will open once more.
And you’ll go to the altar,
Then I’ll show you my body,
And my spirit,
Like the thing of hell itself,
A hairy thing, rotten…
You’ll feel you’ve come to a place…
That’s different.
To have your spirit stopped,
As it presses against the bed,
Is worse than death…
And your hands will feel a ghastly little thing,
You’ll think, oh, god…
Then suddenly…
You’ll feel yourself,
Like you’ve always been,
Like I was,
Like I’ve been in my whole life
And the sea…
Let me hear the sound of my voice,
And it will be O
O you’ll wake up dead.
:: 09.13.2022 ::
THE WORLD is beside me
eating my dreams
the footsteps of souls
wet from wept tears
forever my unwritten story
cowered scribe inside
destroying all god’s light
becomes dry dirt
and lost eversecent
words.
My collapsed heart.
:: 09.13.2022 ::
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E.P. Robles | Poetry 
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