Tag Archives: #words

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 ::


TODAY IS A DAY OF PAIN

BETWEEN seconds i find myself focused
upon all that i have learned :
— how silence helps me remember
everything i am become –>
: and i feel memories and now and here
the promises of those from the past
(and how i remember everything from
the now) Almost everyone i know has passed
and how those i love are in dirt
or burned as ashes my sweetest loves
and everyone i know goes away in the end
— how i grab your heart.
How life turns a soul and tries to kill
it all away: but now i am away i see
how everyone i knew is so sweet and how
i love my my many friends
what i have become and how everyone
passess in the end. How we love history
and how we hide masks and crown of thorns
of broken thoughts. We hide a face and
still i am right here. How everyone goes
and slips away in shadows and how i love
how i could start again and keep myself
safe i would find a way.

:: 07.10.2021 ::


LISTEN TO THE OWLS

LISTEN to the owls  within the memories of how tangery thoughts call peach-like
colors ;  cellophane love within the sun of her eyes kissing yester-tomorrows.
A hand upon the oar washing tears deeply towering over your soul
and she’s gone!

i followed her foot prints down by a brook with an ancient bridge where
trolls never ask for pay.

i followed her petals of roses and those whose necks are long
and the incredibly high eyes of the trees ___ i asked an oak
: “Where is Jessica?”    the branches of a tree broke and i grabbed the
wood and it became my staff.

SHe is a purest pure whisper of a whisper  and everyone smiles  (while you
drift by the flowers)  newspaper taxis and childfully serious
petals of holiness.
Ooh.  
Woman in the sky and my dreams are as looking glass ties
— suddenly she is there at the helm of the steam train
driving the rails onward. 
Ohhh.  

LISTEN TO THE OWLS

LISTEN to the owls  within the memories of how tangery thoughts call peach-like
colors ;  cellophane love within the sun of her eyes kissing yester-tomorrows.
A hand upon the oar washing tears deeply towering over your soul
and she’s gone!

i followed her foot prints down by a brook with an ancient bridge where
trolls never ask for pay.

i followed her petals of roses and those whose necks are long
and the incredibly high eyes of the trees ___ i asked an oak
: “Where is Jessica?”    the branches of a tree broke and i grabbed the
wood and it became my staff.

SHe is a purest pure whisper of a whisper  and everyone smiles  (while you
drift by the flowers)  newspaper taxis and childfully serious
petals of holiness.
Ooh.
Woman in the sky and my dreams are as looking glass ties
— suddenly she is there at the helm of the steam train
driving the rails onward.
Ohhh.  

LISTEN to the owls  within the memories of how tangery thoughts call peach-like
colors ;  cellophane love within the sun of her eyes kissing yester-tomorrows.
A hand upon the oar washing tears deeply towering over your soul
and she’s gone!

i followed her foot prints down by a brook with an ancient bridge where
trolls never ask for pay.

i followed her petals of roses and those whose necks are long
and the incredibly high eyes of the trees ___ i asked an oak
: “Where is Jessica?”    the branches of a tree broke and i grabbed the
wood and it became my staff.

SHe is a purest pure whisper of a whisper  and everyone smiles  (while you
drift by the flowers)  newspaper taxis and childfully serious
petals of holiness.
Ooh.
Woman in the sky and my dreams are as looking glass ties
— suddenly she is there at the helm of the steam train
driving the rails onward.
Ohhh.


THE CHILDREN’S HOUR

A pause within the day to breathe flowers
is called the Children’s Hour.

Like the last brilliant star at sunrise.

My eyes, brilliant as any sun
does not call you to depravity.

a Day broken as a first morning
and song birds singing for grace
praise for the morning and praise all

fresh into a world in such turmoil.

Sweet new fawn born in briar
and new buds of nature painting Earth
how exquisite Nature speaks to Hearts.

Mine is sunlight
Mine is morning

and how crazy we fall elated into
confusion disregarding God’s Creation.

:: 05.28.2021 ::


THE BODIES OF CHILDREN

And, if I told you that love is the source of creation and darkness abides the whisper spoken by lovers at night will you believe, when I say the edge of a blade is no sharper than truth in light?

And the miserable life of a liar is no worse than the mumbling words of a dying beggar.

And darkness can suffocate the screams of madmen with whispers when lovers call to one another.

And no child is an innocent when lovers show their face in the moonlight.

That was the first poem I wrote in French when I arrived in Quebec, three years ago.

(“Them” is a vague reference to the creatures of the forest; I could have been referring to anything else in the world, but the nature of who and what i was living with at the time makes it easier to picture them).

This first one was about the darkness of childhood: the darkness of being nine, when time is nothing and your soul is naught but a flame; the darkness of being nine, when you’re already angry with the world, afraid of every shadow, your skin like a turtle and your words a dive into the sea of fire.

You’re angry at your parents, and confused about why they insist on wanting you to stay nine forever, and they won’t let you get a job and live your own life, and that’s why they want you to stay eight more months at the Montessori school and don’t allow you to be a little girl anymore, and they call you, all the time, and nag at you because you can’t understand everything they’re saying, and that’s why they call you, when you’re nine, and a little girl but still not allowed to have the same privileges as the other girls.

Your eyes are full of fire and your skin is on fire. And that’s why you’re called Phoenix by everyone else, because you’re too strong, too young to be called a little girl, because your hands are like red clawed birds, and your face looks like it was kissed by a mime.

You can fly with your eyes open, and you tell the story of the dead. You can see the wounds of the living, you can see the tears of the living, you know the sorrows of the living, and you’re always awake, even when you’re in the silence and the darkness.

You’re the girl who sleeps with fire in her veins, who saw everything and kept her head clear, who saw what it was like to be happy. You see the mists that cover the world and your breath freezes in the air. The moonlight is silver when you look at it, but the dead shines in your eyes, and you’re too proud to ever tell them that you are not dead like they are.

You see what it’s like to be happy, and you remember the things that you were afraid to remember before. You remember the fire in your bones and you remember how it feels to be alive.
You do know that darkness is real, and that you are a child, but you will never let anyone tell you that you are the ugly duckling.

You are beautiful, Phoenix, but nobody will ever see you as you are.

You can show the world your true self, and if they don’t like it, they can kiss your ass, because they’ll just have to deal with it. Maybe even beat it, if you feel like it.

So, yeah.

I write poems now. (“Them” is all of these things.)
It is the mumbling words of a man who has been let down by everyone in his life, in that order.
It is the bodies of children, the unknown. Great hearts!


SORROW BEYOND TEARS

I have bound myself to God and to the Mysteries; all things also I comprehend.

AS love is not given to the wise man for his own personal gain. Love is neither given to the savage for his own personal gain, nor to the poor man for his own personal gain, nor to the country for his own personal gain, nor to the lonely man for his own personal gain.

NO.

It is given to the sick, in pain and those deep within despair and loneliness, for their own personal gain is not a thought given.

As Love is not given to the prostitute for her own personal gain; to the youth for their own personal gain; for the Love is the product of long awaited joy, and the joys and sorrows of the individual cannot be their own!

:: 05.19.2021 ::


THE LEVIATHAN

i’ll love you till death e’en if i’ll live
i’ll love you till death e’en if I shall live
i’ll love you till death e’en if I shall live!

for you love i do ill rise
in an age when man & flames for his beauty
shuns that proud bronze that shadows you

youth has no stage no eloquent maw
to convert his heart but alas magnifies you
doesn’t present him as you imagine

love unadorned and manifests no star
n’t be overshadowed by you or the splendors of the sky
but display your lord on the moon
— love! my god you as a match or more
smoke, flame, flame, flame that nourishes your passion
flame that is here as a key!

numb or subdued: you become such a monster
that they call you leviathan have i for you heart
and i do not anybody else’s heart.

I did not pledge your hand
I did not set the seal love is the best I have
one kind is different that which burns one’s heart

there is a fire where love burns a fire
and their fire is sweeter than mine

my love!

:: 05.19.2021 ::


FLOWERS AND GOSSAMER

EACH morning comes and we are dying
ONE year passes and more are born
i walk in fields of flowers and gossamer
and fell into a hole with stars and nebula passing
and caterpillars singing before they have wings
and a red panda kisses my cheek and explains this is
where things go when one dreams while walking.

— so hooka man in your small corner closing in upon
your jelly brain gets up and dances again
oh little rolly-polly you are a cute ball
and my brain lost logic and proportion and words
and numbers dissolve at the dawn of common sense.

We are told to believe some things
We are punished for doing many things
We are clean as a Spirit and Soul
but then as always — life takes its toll

Be safe around busy eyes and hold upon a wind
the secret words you believe in
allow no parrot to squawk within the room of
your private thoughts

Oh! Live! Be different and be your own friend!
Be your own friend!

:: 05.09.2021 ::


HOW YOU FEEL SO ALIVE

HUG me but leave me alone
tonight kiss me but say nothing
harvested feelings come and go as
ghosts weeping for you and me
watching how we changed: smooth skin to lines
firm convictions weakened tells me there is more
i held the hand of failure and watched how love died
like we never had brakes once so alive and now changed
i watched the sun explode like nothing ever before seen
and once so alive — watched it change.
you left me alone / months into years and decades gone \ and its
like you never went away always alive and eating my insides.
watching how we changed ah oh ah i watched the sun explode.

i look at the plot of ground
and the green grass of Earth
tomb stone and words with tears
it is like you never went away
still so alive.

:: 05.03.2021 ::


CRICKET & BEE

(i wrote this while sleeping. I keep pad and pencil at my bedside. I have not read it yet — some may think that is a brave thing to do but I do not — my life is about expression and words).

As it scurried by, I noticed it was wearing a cloth (as if it were a tail!)
I had no sense of what time it was, but I noticed it was (after all!) about daybreak.
(This was later told to me) that many bats are nocturnal, or else they are so easily startled, they flee to cover their heads and hide.
In their defense, I suppose it may well have been mid-afternoon, for there was a palpable somberness in the air.
But, I felt there was no time to lose. I was to find EROS and leave on my mission.
With some haste, I left the dark streets, and headed south. I walked along a dirt path, although I did not really know where it went or to go.
The area was shrouded in darkness (though there was just enough moonlight to see)
and as I walked through a hedge of willows I felt disoriented and was careful to go very, very slowly (if not all in terror, I would surely turn to cactus!)
When I reached a “Road” I noticed it had a layer of pebbles on it, and walked past it, just in case there were some venomous snakes on that road. (At that point it would have been more like trying to get out of a sheet of plywood than to a mat of tinfoil!)
As I walked, it became more and more foggy, and though I could see quite a distance ahead of me, in all other directions it was pitch dark.
When I reached the far side of the light of day, I happened to look ahead of me.
In that brief moment, something fell down in front of me!
I saw it laying there, spread-eagled, but before I could move, it rolled right up onto its feet and began running towards me!

It had been a mosquito — and it had died — just because of me!
I was trapped in a painful searing haze of irritation.
I reached for a pocket knife from my pocket, and slowly began inching backwards.
I must not get trapped by the mosquito (i)n that maze!
I was already avoiding all sorts of vermin (e.g. earthworms, centipedes, snakes, scorpions etc) that night; why did it have to choose me!
So, I crawled backwards, very slowly, back to my camp spot.
I stood up, and in my irritation I drew a cross on my heart.
The mosquito landed on a rock, and I quickly looked around. There was no one around.
Then the mosquito’s wings swept over my head, and it disappeared down into the gloom.
I turned around, and began to head back.
But, as I walked, a dim, red light began to grow larger.
The light grew steadily, until it became a helicopter.
As it hovered in the sky, my exhaustion from the previous night began to grow.
The mosquito had chased me all the way to my spot, and was now guarding it!
And so I did what I had to do: I ran away, in a panic, back to my camp, where I found myself comfor(ing) again with the cricket.
I may have forgotten the sun was up that morning, for I was greatly exhausted.
But it was about that time I began to feel hungry, so I sat down at my cooking fire, and, while I ate, I watched the giant stone (that I had almost stepped on), turn slowly.
Eventually, it disappeared.
I then called out in triumph (albeit slightly in jest)
“It’s gone! I can go home now!
I can go back to sleep for the rest of the day!”
And the cricket replied:
“I’m so glad you could finally see that stone. I’m just happy to be here with you. Be sure you come back again and visit me some time!
(If you should find a bug in your hair, don’t scratch it, it will die! Just take me to its hiding place!).”
It may be hard to believe, but each and every cricket inhabits a different cave; though some are inside of rocks.
Some live in the stream that flows nearby,
and some live inside rocks.
But they all love to hang out together — all the insects in this area!
It’s a great group of friends, we spend all day in the cool of the cave,
and the nights are filled with nature’s best.
(These days the cricket — who I now know to be Augustus Insecta, was the only creature to come to my aid, and stand guard over my hut that night — and many nights thereafter.)
And, while I was happy to leave that place, I still took many souvenirs of it with me.
I used bits of it as walls and ceilings, and anything else I could take, and when I built my home at the foot of that giant stone, I built my roof out of it!
And, to this day, whenever I go up to the “Cockroach Tunnel,”
I still look back, and remember Augustus Insecta, who, I suppose, was the real hero of that place.
I know, I know, there’s a lot more to talk about, but I’ve only scratched the surface.
Those are just some quick observations about that particular cave.
There’s plenty more I could tell you, if you care to know.

But you have to start at the very beginning — where it all began —
and you have to come with me now! I’m happy to say I made it all the way!
That’s right — I can’t believe I’ve made it this far, but here I am.
It was a beautiful morning, and I was ready to escape the heat and sun and I figured I’d just walk around, open the gate, and take a look around.

I’d noticed some new flowers in the past days and wanted to see if there was anything interesting around the creek.

I headed up to the rutabagas, and there was something very strange about one that had suddenly bloomed, while I was gone.
I was flabbergasted by it!
Then, I heard a strange sound.
It was coming from the pines!
I was so shocked, I forgot what I was looking for — and, it was too late to go back, so I went to see what I had found.
I found it quickly, and it was indeed a bee.
But I could tell it was not a normal one.
It was not fat, and there was no veil in its wings — I was amazed by its size!
It was no bigger than the tip of my finger, but it seemed much, much taller.
And, it looked almost as if it might fly away, but it sat on a leaf near the creek’s edge.

It sat there patiently, and then, it began to walk down the side of the hill,
as if it was walking to meet me.

“Hi! Hi! I’m the Bee,” he said!
“I know you, I know you!” he said.
“I’ll tell you what I am — I am the longest living creature
who will ever exist. We share this earth with the other
creatures, but, only in relative terms, we have a lot more in common,
and they’re quite nice and useful.