Tag Archives: #soul

MY MOTHER AND OUR LOVE

MY MOTHER said she loved me
and bar tended drinks to keep
me clothed.

AND ONE NIGHT: she was raped
and I fought two brute men
and they destroyed mother
and me.

I wept. She wept.

The howl of despair ate
our Souls.

Then there we knew humanity
and all its pain within our
heart.

She died recently.

I died then. Many years ago.

:: 10.03.2021 ::


TIME IS NEVER OWNED

OH time is never owned cause time is always loaned
you can never give more to it and you can never leave
without leaving a piece of you
so the yesterdays we were others
today we believe we are we
and how life can help one
believe we’re better than yesterday — hold up yourself
to the Living Light: i once was youth and now ageless
so believe me.
And how the sun rises
and how the seas undulate
and hearts beat…
time is never owned.

:: 08.18.2021 ::


IF YOU LOVE ME THIS MUCH

What have I said about our being soon together? It is to be believed–I hope?
Oh, what shall I do? What shall I say to you? . . . What a drama that was! . . . What sorrow! What a struggle! . . . Let’s not quarrel. May we not look only at each other for the next few days–rather let us drink in the smile of another face–let us speak so much that we forget ourselves and know of one another–there can be no sorrow, and no conflict, between friendship and love–Be so affectionate with one another as to command the two horses which are at our command to walk at a good rate–may we be only an ordinary pair of travelers, who will so walk, who will speak of ordinary things–may we have no crises, no pain, no affliction, no complaints–may we walk, walk and talk, walk and talk with one another–and thus never part–that is all I ask of you now–only to be with me–to love me with all your heart, with all your soul and with all your mind.

If you love me this much, this is enough, it’s enough, is it not? There is no room for anything else, if you love me.

I hope and desire that you love me as much as I do. If you cannot love me, I will never allow you to act in that way. If you have some special love for me, I shall always know it. I hope you will come as quickly as possible–that is what I desire. In return, let me tell you: it’s not that I want you to go away from me; I can always go with you–because I feel safe with you–you are the only sure security for my peace of mind. If you were no longer my confidant, my protector and my friend, I should not care a damn for myself.

Friend, you are the only great woman in my life. I have no one else. You are the mother of my dreams, the model of my life, the only model of my life–and you know it; I have only my home, a ruined country, as far as the edge of a dreaming frontier, from which to express my unhappiness. Oh, how I would be glad, if I could, to choose a woman–a wife!–just for myself–a good woman, rich in virtues and great respectability–but, alas, that is of no interest to me. I will not take advantage of your good nature to seek out other women. This is the limit of my sacrifice. I want no other joy. I don’t need them. I am not seeking something for myself, no–it’s that no one else should love me as you do, as I do you.

:: 08.07.2021 ::


A HUNDRED POEMS – LIII

I feared a thing untold & unseen
that thing i feared within my mind
a thing too!
Split by half in such unknowns
i strove to know:
Unraveled too which spilled upon the floor!
Imperfect thoughts rolled from higher ground to low!
Then reality’s curtain fell; my needle tired to stitch
the past when love was good!
But life ran beyond the needle and instead stitched time
within my soul.

:: E.P. ROBLES (c) 2018::

:: 05-15-2014 ::
:: 10-20-2018 ::


FRAMELESS HEADS UPON EMPTY WALLS

On the single side of my art song—my parodic air—the loveliness is perfect
because I am “last in the line.” When you sit there pondering how you got
from here to there, you forget to be there, and the years hurry by like birds,
yet without wings.

Maybe that is what poets mean by the grass between the toes: it is the kind of beauty
that strikes me as singular, and then makes me forget where I was going.

Could that be the air I am inhaling, that gorgeous little dew, the sort of fragrance
that one asks questions about. That one is good, and leaves you for another week.
I am not asking about the individual, about the wit or the sex, that one; the other
thinks she is too good for poetry and wants to hang out her pants.

The trees on Central Park West have not only dimples, but very high struts.
Many passers-by make like jumping spiders and creep along the white beech bark,
tearing off the strange multicolored pods that are the leaves of the American locust
and varnish the unenclosed bark.

For a while they seem to be all yellow, then the green reasserts itself and they all turn red.
Red like earth, red like hell. I say what I mean. Why do we make so much of appearance
and so little of meaning? If you were to sneeze on a weekday you’d make a million dollars. I’m lucky
to get one or two dollars a day for my poems, and that’s all. All my life, I’ve been scraping
and clipping in hundreds of un-sexy places. I once walked out of an interview with a magazine
that had hired me because I was willing to work for peanuts. So I said to the editor,

“I think you have the wrong guy. I’ll get a job in a steel mill, or on a frickin’ airplane,
anywhere I want.” He seemed to like that, but I can’t remember what the magazine did later. I suppose
it was less than they wanted. But that’s what I mean by avoiding the cheap. I mean always for the mind
and the intellect, as if one day the outer world were going to fall apart. When it does, maybe it will be like a tenement balcony—the floor’s going to fall out from under us.

My best poems are about love and death. I think my best poems are about women and death.
The romantic poems give me pleasure. I don’t want to forget about them; I want
to love them. I don’t want to kill them; I want to hold them.
A love that is not really love doesn’t interest me.
It is interesting to see the Queen of Sheba swat away a red and yellow butterfly that comes to you
and likes to rest on your shoulder.

But there are different kinds of love—one that wants to hold someone in a tight embrace even though
you both know that someone is going to shake loose—one that wants to hold someone
even when she’s going to leave—one that wants to hold someone when she has long learnt the fine art
of saying no.

I’m always looking for “the little door.” But there is no little door, and if there were,
I’d probably find something I’d rather do.

:: 03.24.2021 ::


TODAY HOW POETRY DAZZLES

TODAY how poetry dazzles gradually
  as rain falls slantly
our eyes surprised by equally
blind.

As children weep for adults
and adults ache for youth.

Within love lies a beating heart
and death echoes circuits of life.

Our often dismal living flesh
feels delightful in death.

:: 12.18.2020 ::


GOGH’S FIELDS OF GOLD

IT is dark down here & this awful reality
satisfies the ego and frightens the soul
but makes a state of distraction
; an abomination –an abhorrence
for all that it implies -a living organism
as a leaf or a particle.

There is no non-life only emptiness & this filth
whose existence is temporary– a first-trimester pregnancy
in an animal –a rejected spiritual soul, it is real-
life in simple terms– the personal growth we are
so ignorant of the brave face of existence –a thing
we will ‘never’ ever come to terms
with –the vagaries of Time which call to us
‘cross the bridge’ & walk the Yellow Streets
of Van Gogh.

Hav you never ever walked the edge of fields of
so yellow they smell of gold — the wheat fields
of Vincent Van Gogh: he was a bastard
to most but greatly to ‘self’ –> killed the personality
but never the Art
nor the Soul

:: 04.29.2020 ::
rev: 0-10.3.2020 ::


A HUNDRED MILLION ANGELS SINGING

“And there went out another voice from the four beasts and it was shouting with a great voice, saying, ‘Come now, and let us kill him, a horse, a horse, a horse!’

The four beasts, the four devils, were unanimous, “Who can withstand him?”

Come now, and let us kill him, while the virgins are all trimming their wings.

“I was shaken, and I fell to the ground, and I heard a voice saying to me,
‘Do not be afraid, my son, and go to your father and say to him,

‘Father, I have sinned against heaven, and against you, and am no more worthy to be called your son.’

“I said to him, ‘Here I am,’ and I threw myself at his feet, and I worshiped him and said, ‘My father, save me!’

“And he said to me, ‘My son, keep your voice, and do not make me angry, for you have rebelled against the word of God. I will deliver you with scourges and with horses.'”

There are people out there who will always blame someone else for their own sin. They will always place blame on someone else.

It will always be someone else’s fault for their own failures and for their own problems.

The funny thing is, they won’t ever admit that it’s their own actions that have caused their own pain and that it’s their own sinful nature that they will always find a way to blame someone else for their problems.

I don’t care who you are,

It’s your problem.

It’s your fault.

And there will be a golden ladder reaching down when the hairs stand up in all terror.

:: 10.03.2020 ::


DYING IN BED

08/24/2013

The bed, a crime scene of sorts a passion spilled in sweat
he comes to me in the night. Willingly i go – to my death:
he comes to me in the night. A sword sharpened by lust and
thrusts it into my soul. mother, I’m ready to come home but
the line between pain & pleasure is small compared to the
pleasant death (ORGASAMS); the coroner will say an untimely
passing but my murderous lover knew the timing each plunge
of his knife ever deeper (the hounds of winter).
The best way to slice off entrails — I’m at home like home
on the floor covered with wine and gizzards then I’ll slit
my wrists (the hounds of winters!) it was an accident
I just wanted to see my bruises replaced with this new thing
the slit wasn’t to deep

A season for Joy a Season for Sorrow! So brighten my day
within the winter of Hounds today.

A lonesome sound a lonesome sound this day.

:: maj rev – 10.03. 2020 ::



A PALE SOFTISH ROUND COFFIN

A PALE SOFTISH ROUND COFFIN

SKIN can make me cry as roses. Scents of a female? for i do forget
spoken clearly; i am not afraid of death but life.. to have control
means relenting focus for a perfect soul. my questions are purely
my own as though if i ask, ‘what has become of you?’ the world may
never know but i am here. my heart is a shape of a pale softish
round coffin yet to be buried within your mind.

:: 09.17.2020 ::