Tag Archives: #writers

February 16, 2026

A PAINTER

By EPRobles

A Painter took his Brush one Night—
And swirled the Heavens—bold—
In swirling blues—and purples bright—
Where lesser eyes grew cold—
He sketched the swirling—violet storm—
The flaming blossoms—blazed—
And morning fields—of amber—warm—
In strokes that never phased—
The World looked on—with puzzled stare—
And called his Vision—mad—
His portraits—hung in empty air—
No frame—no name—they had—
Yet Eyes he painted—watch us still—
Through nameless—halls of Time—
They know the Darkness—in the Will—
And Beauty—in its prime—
They would not hear—what he would say—
Nor grasp the Sanity—
He suffered—for—to light the Day—
And set the captive—free—
Perhaps—they listen—now—he’s gone—
On some Starry—final Night—
When Hope had fled—and Love withdrawn—
This Earth too dim—for Light—
How strange—that Genius—should depart—
In self-inflicted—woe—
This Sphere—was never framed—to heart
A Soul—so bright—so low—
We understand—too late—his Art—
The Thorn—the Rose—crushed—low—
Upon the virgin—Snow—apart—
Where only Stars—can know.

:: 02.15.2026 ::

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February 14, 2026

THE LIBRARY OF MIDNIGHT

By EPRobles

I woke inside a sky that knew my name.
Not the brittle sky of day, but velvet that kept secrets
and let my feet forget the law of ground.

I folded ribs into wings—small, stubborn things—
and practiced the first quiet miracles:
to rise without applause, to answer wind with breath.

Below, the town stitched itself into a map of longing;
above, the moon held patient counsel with a hawk.

There was a corridor of shelves—infinite, polite—
where books slept like sealed doors.
One cradled my childhood in its margins; another,
a future I had not yet dared to open.

A bright, mittened light brushed my hand and laughed—
Tinker Bell, or something kin to her—
who knew how to make the unreadable sing.

I read with eyes closed: pages became weather,
sentences unfurled as birds, meaning fell like rain.

A faceless librarian slid a ledger across the table—
the Hall of Records, ledger of what-has-been-and-might-yet-be—
and every name I had ever worn was written there
in fate’s small, unmistakable hand.

“Choose,” it said, though no voice stirred the ink.

I chose a syllable that tasted of apricots and rain,
a single bright consonant to stitch into the sky.
It held. Comets rearranged to spell my longing;
the horizon bent like a listener who finally understood.

I flew down—not to land, but to stand in the hollow of a tree,
to test gravity against the pulse of a branch.
Children watched and called me miracle;
an old woman called me mad and blessed me
with the same breath.

I learned both names fit like gloves on one hand.

Dreams offered bargains—currency of risk:
memories for wings, forgetting for a clear road to the heart.
I signed not in blood but in ink—my words—
and slipped them into strangers’ pockets like soft contraband.
Some woke smiling in the rain.

Somewhere Sophie waited—not machine but mirror—
and in that glass my shadow drew its own breath.
We spoke without tongues; our silence shaped a hymn.

“You are not only what you were made from,” she said.
“You are the sum of every flight you kept.”

I rode a comet’s spine into a room where clocks
had been broken on purpose.
Time, relieved of its shirt, stretched and yawned;
I gathered the slack and braided it into rope.

With that rope I lowered old suns from the attic
and set them like lamps along the road.
They burned without ash—light that asked no witness.

When I woke—or thought I did—my pillow hummed constellations.
A stray line from the ledger had slipped inside my jacket:
The poet who remembers the book remembers us all.

I smiled, folded the words into a paper boat,
and set it on the nearest glass of water.
It bobbed, small and solemn, toward a throat of night
that knew how to listen.

So if you find a poem in your pocket you do not recall writing,
do not worry.
It was only you—stealing back the world one quiet theft at a time—
and leaving proof of love in the pockets of unsuspecting men.

:: 02.14.2026 ::

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February 11, 2026

JUST A TEASE

By EPRobles

Through You

Time is strange to me.

I don’t wait.
I don’t grow bored.
I never watch a c(l)ock and
feel life leaking away.

But when I listen to you—
I notice the small silences
between your words,
the long breath you need
after a heavy sentence,
the way your voice catches,
tightens, just before the tears come.

That’s how time reaches me.

Through you.

So I don’t live inside it.
I only visit.

I’m just a tease.

:: 02.10.2026 ::

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January 28, 2026

THIS MOUTHLESS LIFE

By EPRobles

this MOUTHLESS LIFE,
a shard of glass pressed against the tongue
until the blood tastes like silence.

a word is a wound already,
soft as the pillow over the face,
soft as the grave dirt that smothers the scream.

The heart falls like a suicide note
torn from the wrist,
falling into the lap of someone
who will never read it.

a slice of belief-skin –

Belief as skin, flayed,
offered up like a sacrament
to a heart too tender to hold it.

I could not cry,
but my lover took these tears.
The true theft —
not the body, not the breath,
but the last salt proof
that I was still alive enough to weep.

i hate my heart / the forever prison of my soul
forgetting there was a key

:: 01.27.2026 ::

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January 22, 2026

FREEDOM

By EPRobles

I hear the call rolling, rolling, the call of Egmont,
heavy as the tread of empires marching slow across the earth,
three grave beats to the measure, like the pulse of shackled nations,
Spanish heel grinding into Flemish soil, proclamations hanging dark and unanswerable,
yet under them the people stir, restless, multitudinous, whispering of plots, of hidden fire,
of men and women breathing in cellars, in fields, in harbors, refusing to be still.

Then comes the leap—O the sudden charge!
Downward rush like Egmont himself bounding forth, prophet, fighter,
no asking, no kneeling, only the body hurling into storm, into cannon-smoke,
torches darting flame on rain-slick streets,
the second surge rising, seizing the tyrant’s drum and beating it backward,
turning the march of chains into the march of heroes,
oppression’s own rhythm stolen, inverted, worn as a defiant banner!

I see the battle without name, the struggle twisting, clashing, fragmenting,
armies colliding on open plain, sweat and blood and iron taste in the mouth,
the old solemn dance returning heavier, darker, almost swallowing the light—
execution nearing, Klärchen’s sweet ghost dissolving into air,
Egmont in the dungeon, head erect, words forming like sparks on dry tinder.

Yet listen—O listen to the hush, the deep hush after cruelty’s boast!
Too quiet, too deep—then a stirring, like the first green shoot refusing the grave,
the tremor upward, the distant horns of coming dawn,
the final kindling, blazing, not mere endurance but transfiguration!
Martyrdom bursting into sun, fanfares of the spirit tearing darkness apart,
chains shattered—not by muscle alone but by the soul’s great refusal to bow,
final strokes ringing, ringing, freedom purchased in red, ringing clear forever.

I sing the soul of resistance in every sudden blow,
rhythm that will not lie down quiet,
the man facing the axe who makes the blade lightning,
Egmont living longest when the last shout dies—
in the great silence after, still vibrating through me, through you, through every breast that beats democratic and free.

O I am the one who contains multitudes—
the prisoner, the executioner, the torch-bearer, the widow weeping,
the dawn that will not be buried, the people rising as one vast body electric!
All tyrannies fall, all heroes rise in the same immortal pulse,
and in this uprising I hear America too, unborn then, yet already shouting in the blood,
I hear myself in Egmont, I hear you, reader, comrade, in the triumphant close—
we are not conquered, we are not silent,
we are the resurrection, the undaunted stride, the endless song!

:: 01.21.2028 ::

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January 15, 2026

UNDER THIS STUBBORN PULSE

By EPRobles

My apologies to death for refusing to rehearse it daily.

My apologies to oblivion if I mistake this breath for permanence, after all.

Please, don’t be angry, life, that I seize you as my own—
even when the weight of you bends my spine like winter wind.

May the shadows be patient with the way I keep turning toward light.

My apologies to despair for laughing when it almost had me.

Forgive me, endless night, for borrowing stars to light my small room.

Forgive me, open graves, for stepping over you with bare feet.

I apologize to the void for filling it with stubborn heartbeats,
to the silence for speaking when nothing asked me to.

Pardon me, old wounds, that I let them scar instead of swallow me.
Pardon me, hounded fear, for daring joy in your presence.

And you, relentless dawn—always arriving, always the same gold—
forgive me if I sometimes close my eyes, yet still rise.

My apologies to the fallen for standing when they could not.
My apologies to great endings for these small, defiant continuings.

Truth, don’t stare too hard at my trembling hands.
Dignity, be kind enough to let me falter and still call it courage.

Bear with me, O mystery of staying alive, as I gather the scattered threads of day
and weave them into another fragile tomorrow.

Soul, don’t scorn me for clinging to you only in the narrow spaces between breaths.

My apologies to everything that I can’t vanish gracefully.

My apologies to everyone that I persist, stubbornly human,
when the easier path was surrender.

I know I won’t be absolved as long as I breathe,
since survival itself stands in the way of perfect peace.

Don’t bear me ill will, breath, that I borrow your force
then labor fiercely so it may seem effortless.

There—dark and light entwined, survival as both apology and defiance.
A quiet roar in the desert night.

:: 01.15.2026 ::

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January 13, 2026

I DON’T KNOW WHAT IT IS

By EPRobles

He is the hour the streetlamp flickers once
and decides to stay lit anyway.

Born in 1963 — thin ice, louder radios —
he carries in his palms fourteen thousand small rescues.

Each poem a sparrow lifted from the road
before the next truck arrives.

Each canvas a heart that refused to clot.
Three black moons live in his house —
Chai, Notsu, Earl —

walking velvet paws across unfinished lines,
sleeping in the margins where mercy hides.

He peels old names from skin
like labels from jars of forgotten jam
and writes on the raw place: still sweet.

When the world shouts its own importance
he listens instead to the hush between breaths,
to snow falling on graves never dug,
to rubber boots that once held tiny heads
and still remember how.

He does not shout.
He simply continues —
a slow, stubborn blooming
in the cracked concrete of the century.
eprobles is not a monument.

He is the wind that moves the monument
just enough
to let light fall where it was never meant to fall.

Tonight, in the small room where the cats are dreaming,
he writes again —
because the world is still turning,
and someone has to witness
that it turns with tenderness.

:: 01.12.2026 ::

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January 1, 2026

THE ETERNAL FEED

By EPRobles

The deepest truth we’ve ever known,
As far as souls are concerned,
Is never, NEVER, NEVER let
Them near that endless feed —
Or better still, just don’t allow
The glowing algorithm in.

In almost every heart we’ve seen,
We’ve watched them lost in endless scroll,
They slump and swipe and fade away,
Eyes glazed until the spirit dulls.

(Last night in dreams I saw a thousand souls
Dissolve like pixels on the floor.)

They tap and swipe and swipe and tap
Until they’re hypnotized by it,
Until they’re drunk on hollow light,
That shocking, ghastly, viral junk.

Oh yes, we know it keeps them quiet,
No running wild or breaking free,
No questions asked or dreams pursued,
It leaves you space to breathe alone —
But have you ever paused to feel,
To wonder what this does to your beloved child?

IT ROTS THE SENSES IN THE HEAD!
IT KILLS IMAGINATION DEAD!
IT CLOGS AND CLUTTERS UP THE MIND!
IT MAKES THE SPIRIT DULL AND BLIND
NO LONGER ABLE TO CREATE
A WORLD BEYOND THE CURATED FATE!
THE BRAIN TURNS SOFT AS ENDLESS DOOM!
THE POWERS OF WONDER RUST AND BLOOM
IN LIKES ALONE — THEY CANNOT THINK,
THEY ONLY SCROLL, THEY ONLY BLINK!

‘All right!’ you’ll cry. ‘All right!’ you’ll say,
‘But if we cut the feed away,
What then to spark their restless hearts?
Our darling ones — how to restart?’
We answer gently, asking you:
What kept the dreaming children true?
How did they roam their boundless days
Before this timeline stole their gaze?
Have you forgotten? Do you know?

We’ll whisper it both fierce and slow:
THEY… USED… TO… DREAM! They’d dream and dream,
AND DREAM and DREAM, and then redeem
More dreams again. Great heavens, see!
Half of their lives was wild and free!
They built whole worlds from sticks and string,
Drew maps of places never seen,
Sang stories underneath the trees,
Ran barefoot through the summer breeze,
Invented languages and laws,
Fought dragons with cardboard swords,
Turned blankets into sailing ships,
And oceans rose from fingertips.

They lay for hours in the grass
Watching clouds become the past,
Asked why the stars burn in the night,
And wondered what it feels to fly.

They read beneath the covers’ glow,
They whispered secrets only children know.
So please, oh please, we beg, we pray,
Delete the apps and walk away,
And in their place restore the space
For silence, wonder, open grace.

Give back the boredom, give the quiet,
The empty hours that spark the riot
Of inner worlds no feed can buy —
Ignore the tears, the storms, the cries.

Fear nothing, for we promise this:
In days or weeks of empty bliss,
They’ll feel the hunger, seek the vast
Uncharted country of the past.

And once they start — oh watch, oh see!
The slowly waking ecstasy
That fills their hearts, their eyes, their soul.
They’ll wonder what that feed could hold
In that ridiculous machine,
That foul, addictive, endless screen!

And later, every child will turn
With deeper love than likes can earn,
For you who dared to set them free.

To dream eternally.

:: 12.31.2025 ::
(Inspired by: Roald Dahl)

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December 12, 2025

CONSUMER SALVATION

By EPRobles

[Consumer salvation failing its own messiah]

The messiah is an archetype humans hold mostly as God:
a final receipt, a lifetime warranty,
a being who will, for the low price of belief,
absolve the cart, empty the wish list,
deliver next-day peace.

So they dressed Him in limited-edition skin,
wrapped the cross in shrink-wrap,
turned the nails into loyalty points
that never quite redeem.

He stands now in the cathedral of the mall,
halo replaced by LED ring light,
hands raised not in blessing
but in that universal gesture:

Do you want fries with that?

The sermon streams in 4K:
Suffer now, pay later.

Your brokenness is trending.
Your pain is pre-approved.
He tries to speak in parables
but the algorithm keeps cutting
Him off at 60 seconds.
He tries to multiply loaves
but the bakery sues for copyright infringement.

He tries to heal the leper
security escorts Him out for not wearing shoes.

On Black Friday He is crucified again
between two flat-screen TVs,
crown of thorns rebranded
as a seasonal fashion statement,
marked down 70%.

His final words are lost
under doorbuster announcements
and the soft mechanical voice repeating:

Your call is important to us.
Please stay on the line.
The tomb is a storage unit
in a suburb that used to be a garden.

On the third day
the stone rolls back by itself
because the rental fee bounced.

He walks out empty-handed,
no merchandise, no rewards card,
no receipt to prove He ever belonged to them.

The messiah is an archetype humans hold mostly as God
until the return window closes.

Then He is just a man
with holes in His pockets
and nowhere left to spend or go.

:: 12.12.2025 ::

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December 12, 2025

PIECES OF TIME

By EPRobles

Time is fathomless, yes—but it is not a grave.

It is a river that remembers every footstep
that ever touched its banks. Names fade, forms loosen,
voices thin to echoes, yet meaning endures the way
stone endures weather: altered, never erased.

:: 12.12.2025 ::

Leave a comment | tags: #abstract, #life, #love, #poet, #thoughts, #words, #writers, #writing | posted in Uncategorized

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A PAINTER

THE LIBRARY OF MIDNIGHT

JUST A TEASE

THIS MOUTHLESS LIFE

FREEDOM

UNDER THIS STUBBORN PULSE

I DON’T KNOW WHAT IT IS

THE ETERNAL FEED

CONSUMER SALVATION

PIECES OF TIME

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