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Ebi Robert Poem
Bewail paltry ministry that gentle breeze ch aunt.
Impatience and dream hack milestone and whisper, a hailstorm of ornery ilk hum.
Go by the gentle breeze and bring hope.
Leif Leif kink lackey of milky joy.
Gently, gently, gentle breeze,
flag the rags on the meadow where you sleep
and declaim the meager ruddy leaves that ruin thee,
of immaculate mole illusory.
Gently, gently grip me,
or else thrash of licking whip.
Will bemoan laconically in our ill-bred head.
But still impede the witch-cash
with your gentle touch that comes from the measureless pretense of eve
like the halt of your gentle spoil that
Scour our coltish heart.
Copyright © Ebi Robert | Year Posted 2011
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Ebi Robert Poem
Licking honey with blue lips of barley.
Sleeping on bed covered,
with stain made of roses.
Kissing the lips of an infant fairy.
This will disturb the music of kings.
Dancing in steps made of music and mazes.
Magically twirling steps out of verses.
Crashing the violin old of music,
which will change verse of the music of kings.
Watching the sea SWALLOW WAVES OUT OF Shaken.
Painting the day without paint out of clothing.
Praising the birds running home with their wings,
which will invite O’ a day to an 'in'.
Behold fairies holding lamps out of limping.
Flying and failing of wings less of breezes.
Hopefully flying high, lamp made of wing,
this will deliver a fairy to sleep.
When the king drinks.
When the queen eats
When the maid keep serve.
While the music keep verse
of the tremor and strings.
and you know what it means
‘I will sing loud…..
Note on my faeries by Ebi Robert............
My fairies are green lights.
My fairies might be blue.
My fairies are cute.
Mild and few.
My fairies are like dreams
beyond this earth. fairies, fairies, fairies, faeries,
oh fairies.
fairies are pure and young.
fairies are one. Drew to dreams
Copyright © Ebi Robert | Year Posted 2011
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Ebi Robert Poem
Base can enter my spirit voice
to come out from the feet of my legs.
My artillery may sloop and head may die.
The world is about to kill myself,
It has already crown myself.
A range that amour gurgling spizzle
and wet an aura of ridding suns.
Why not meditate, who measures fruit
of our quad,
and why not it an unnecessary good?
Or who tend for tepid things.
The spirit is dead
and the sun is lumped.
Touch of the universe from ultimate
fusion, bearing the blood who swears,
and fears that drops from the mouth..
The baling eye that see darkness in the
coast of the house of sight.
Raptors faith of tomorrow’s morrow
I need thermometer,
I want to know the temp of mars,
Earth and Jupiter must know.
Do you mars, still breath in blood?
For the stars counted, where two million
and half.
Copyright © Ebi Robert | Year Posted 2011
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Ebi Robert Poem
The code we receive in-
The code he receives in
Seems correct, he receives it
Erring we, when we answer
This is what we receive in-
Our personality, persons we be
Inaccurate, incomplete, five plus one
And six and three plus three
It is in and not pasted on the face
The Code we receive in will die-
And seven and seven and six plus one
Will then be in them like the half
Plus close-to-half that operated
The code of death is a wisdom missed
It dies next tomorrow
Next tomorrow is a day before yesterday
Behold the day to follow-
Past, as we quote and quote
Before the judgment seat of senses
That code of death was
Interpreted long before day perishes
There are only few not marked-
There are only a few not enemies
Copyright © Ebi Robert | Year Posted 2012
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Ebi Robert Poem
Long I left this room of rhymes
Where verses bought my pens
A Price-tool that seems priceless
But full of ink-prices-dress
Where a lord, a noble and a king
Read of the rhymes I bring;
Where the table is set of a writer’s ten
A fat pen plumping a poet’s pen'
The rebirth is the spring of an offspring.
Better I don't swear and loss my hair.
Better I don’t drink from a vow’s spring,
Better I don’t swear and loss my hair,
Better I don't hide and stand fully naked,
Like those Adams in their Eden.
Better I don’t wonder and be fainted
And be near death by then.
That I know is true; that I grow is a growth.
That I flow in my soul makes me a sacred soul,
This is my load, this is my growth.
This is my head under a coal.
This is my head under a coal
Oh! Weary soul put in a hole.
Summer sank and sang me once before I died.
For times are ever no waiting,
But Stories ever telling, Music singing,
Sound summer verses ever tied.
Poets are called to write News in the sky
Muse masked thoughts that never come by
One sky to birth; the rebirth to write
One wise and pen ready to write
Do I fail to let my pen lie?
Beneath the scroll, ancient deny?
Do I let my ink pour the ground-?
And offer my lips: do-d-hand?
Kill, kill my stanza-shield
And reap from a thousand mester’s field
Pregnant are the woods
After reading the minstrel’s tones
Still, still stealing are those who steal
They are replica of how they heal,
A Regalia; same of an English man
Speaking their lines as they can
But there are many who heal like thee
Unique, different just like me
There are many who shall be
The versifiers of now and thee
O' morning grave shall bury youth
With the moon mourning to eat the tooth
O’ Evening stars shall we write
And speak and speech from left to right
Thou, parting pages of time
Can we sing thou as a hymn?
Thou ancient verse and wise
Canst thou hose my knowledge wise?
Copyright © Ebi Robert | Year Posted 2012
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