i would be your love
if love was to be had.
i would have half of
love if love had me.
To show my precious
heart….to be so kind
and still as a flower
as no other ever saw:
grown and brilliant
in mire and growing
till the day my
petals were gone___
i would be your love
if i were to be had
i would be half of me.
To give my precious
kisses in morning’s dew
and nighttime hugs
always and forever.
:: 06.20.2022 ::
:: 06.20.2022 ::
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 ::
So love! Sow love!
All the greatness
we see in expansive
hearts and blue skies
my sweet love!
That short potential
stir in eyes;
that storm of heart
is the eclat of hungry
souls ~~ when thinking
a right to be whole
may only smell roses
and all seasons of spirit
chashed by imperial officers
of a hidden universe:
so love! sow love!
That your hands are within
mine makes me whole!
:: 07-01-2015 ::
(c) E.P. Robles 2011
And when did you forget
living is for those
that trust feelings
and shed a tear or two
the fields are dry
and the crows cry
scare be that heart
a husk bleached bone
one never owned
it is the end of winter
and I fear your Spring
more than late in coming
:: 02-05-2014 ::
|
My love affair so ineffable
surely description falls
as gently as the leaves
Like rich hot chocolate
you cover in color
the ground – a blanket of leaves
Soothing – so active a sound
of trembling acorns
that plunk across the roof —
Life, like the taste of apple
that covers cinnamom sticks…
My farm — this life has tilled
the spirit of a certain few
so touched am I — even thrilled
But no thing comes close
to the apparel of mother nature
on any day — in her autumn regal
::::
E.P. Robles | Poetry 
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