tattooed love #poetry


on my right arm

tattoo your love

insert the pigment of the legends

under my skin

battered by oceans

color my arm

in scents of red

snatched from Pompei

when the sun sets

insert my soul

with violent gusts of pain

that Lancelot once felt for Guinevere

so, every night I cross myself

i’ll put that love and pain

into the hands of my own god

and then i’ll sleep.



OpenLinkNight #214



fated loves #poetry


remain with me tonight

when books surrender

their wisdom to the deepest sleep

i want your palms to feel

the purple of the jacaranda in the room

i want your eyes to carve again

old mysteries on naked shoulders

on your white shirt

now laying at my feet

i want you to rewrite in red

the Celtic ancient root

of fated loves

like that of Tristan and Isolde

love without compromise.

Fires of the Mind #Flash Fiction


First, one’s mind catered to the other.


Then they started praying upon each other’s art: one’s imagination crawling on and playing with the other’s like two lion cubs frolicking on Africa’s grasslands.


By the time physical love came into play they were already burning like two pieces of glass in a Murano furnace.

It would have been much easier if they would have kept their art separate. Yet they did not.

you are the only kiss #poetry


do not disturb the hidden shadows

which costume the corners of my room

let them sleep in deep lavender scents

do no weaken them from centuries old dreams

and do not ask forgotten loves

how did they passionately used to kiss


deep in the orange silence of my room

into the mist of butterflies which crown my hair

touch me with a dream I’ve never dreamed

for you are the only kiss

which preys upon my mind

and not my lips.



forever love #poetry


my love, receive my spade and take my cross

my heart will always be with you

i’m going to the realm of the unknown

remember me from time to time

on torrid nights

when conjured Spanish fountains

softly moan in pain.


my love for you will shine in every star

and it will be in every cloud you see

now time has come to swear to me

my beauty from the lands i’ve never known

that you’ll remember:

stars are far

leopards are by you.



Greek Chorus #collaborative poetry


a voice says

to begin again

another voice says

there is no beginning

caught between

the two insistent voices

the Greek chorus stops.


into the purple autumn

of your heart

i cry

i wait

for the Greek chorus

to murmur

something must end

then I will

love you forever.


Thank you to Grabbety Covens, (Surviving the Struggle to Success), for leading this instance of collaborative poetry.

Please find more poems written by other authors here


Destinies # Glass Lovers


Our destinies caught into the deep lines of my left palm.


With my right index finger, I trace those lines again and again, until I cannot breathe anymore, until my left palm bleeds.


None of us can be judged outside endless flights between continents, outside of our profuse tears and of our love for art, outside of the slippery slope that runs from amitié amoureuse to deep impassioned love.


One day all of us will have to understand that the past should stay in the past. That day is inscribed in my left palm together with our pain, and our tendencies toward the kind of love that transcends any earthly boundaries.


Excerpt from the manuscript Glass Lovers 


Battlefield #Glass Lovers (excerpt)


I can still hear that deep voice of his and see his striking profile against the walls of the Chartres Cathedral: tormented French Gothic autumn; agonizing blue eyes; gelid rain lingering on stained glass, trickling on my face like liquid wax at the feet of saints.


“Clara, please! This needs to stop!”

We have judged ourselves so many times that the space around us metamorphosed into a battlefield packed with carrion birds.

We became Don Quixotesque characters battling windmills.”


Oh, how well I understood Jacques! Yet, he could not understand that no matter what I was going to say or do, Miguel would not give up. The verb “to give up” was not part of Miguel’s vocabulary.

Miguel was not General Santa Anna who lost the Battle of San Jacinto. Miguel was Cortés who conquered an empire; Cortés who enrolled god to help him; Cortés who destroyed the Aztec temples and raised the flag of Christianity.

Jacques had no chance.


Now, when I look back, alone in the mist of those haunting memories, my eyes lids heavy, my hands trembling, my lips cracked by fever, Angelo was right when he said:

“Wait, Clara, wait, you do not know Jacques yet.”

Oh, how right he was! In fact, none of us knew Jacques.  Not even Angelo.


Excerpt from the manuscript Glass Lovers.


The Other Man’s Woman #Glass Lovers (excerpt)


“Clara, Jacques is in love with you!”

At 4 am in the morning calling from Bruges Miguel was beyond angry when he spoke.


“The entire evening Jacques talked only about you!  It was like Miriam and I were not even there!

Clara, do you have an inkling how it feels to listen to another man, describing for hours the women that you love? Your dress, the violet one made from taffeta, your estate diamond ring, the way you turn your head, the flares of your eyes, even your knees a bit closer than they should be when you walk, the fullness …”


I did not listen anymore. A pale moon was shedding its poisonous light on our bed; ghosts of Miguel and I making love still buried in the warmth of the peachy sheets.


I walked to the wardrobe. I took out my taffeta violet dress.  I started cutting it furiously: bit by bit, piece by piece.  From each piece the perfume that Jacques bought me for my birthday was permeating my lungs, crawling on my skin, poisoning my eyes.

Why did it happen? Why?


Excerpt from the manuscript Glass Lovers 

i wish #poetry


i wish

i had the talent of the poet

who once wrote

Calm down, my Sorrow,

We must move with care.


I’ll have the shadow

of the autumn

when you’ll


like a seagull

heaving upward

an aching


choking call.


prompt: inscrutable


“Calm down, my Sorrow, We must move with care.”, Charles Baudelaire, Meditation

Painting: Paul Delaroche, The Young Martyr

The Beginning #Glass Lovers (excerpts from the introduction)


Our story began in France. From there it took us to the United States, to Mexico, to Canada, and back to France. On the shadows of Sacré-Cœur, our laughter gone, our wills broken, our souls scarred, longing for what once was us. Our future, heavy darkness starring back at us from a white abstract past:  like Malevich’s famous Black Square hanging on an indifferent wall.


Who was to blame for all that happened? As the story progresses I invite you, my dear readers to be the judges and the jurors. We could not judge ourselves anymore. We did that too many times. We got nowhere.


There were four of us:

Miguel, my mirific Conquistador: Moorish passions bursting from his Mediterranean skin, gleaming green eyes only half open in our nights filled with lust. His eyes look almost white in the dark. Oh, those nights when after making love he used to hold me in his arms against the window of our condo watching the lights of the city reflecting into the sky. He used to murmur rhythms of Mariachi songs while kissing my neck. Miguel, and his love for me. Miguel, my mundo nuevo.


Jacques, a Norman knight at heart: blue eyes cold like ice, expensive, impeccable shirts.  Jacques, in love with the complicities of the smiles that one only finds in the streets of Paris. Jacques and those cuff-links of his made from gold, and encrusted with roses.  Oh, how I remember Jacques’ laughter! It sounded like the reverberations of an iceberg falling into the sea.  Jacques, who used to say: “The beauty of this city dominates us, creates us, for we cannot create beauty anymore.” Was he right?


Miriam and that seraphic face of hers, her short black dresses scented with jasmine, her love for Jacques whispering like shadows on the roofs of Paris during purple dawns.  Miriam and her paintings violating the silence of her studio from which one could see Notre-Dame. Miriam watching silently Rodin’s Gates of Hell. I always wondered what she thought about it.


And then there was me: Clara. Who was I? We have time for that later.


How could four people who tried so much not to hurt others, end up hurting each other so deeply? How could we let all that happen to us?

According to our dear friend Angelo, a Greek born in America, it was my fault. I was the one who mistook reality for my imagination. I was supposed to know better.

Oh, no, Angelo, no! It was not like that! It was more like the Billy Goat curse. We were not destined to win until the curse was broken.


Excerpt from the manuscript Glass Lovers

Rain-forest Dreams #Glass Lovers


Aroma of cherry cigars permeates the room.


Miguel’s tensed body lies against the bedroom door; his eyes closed; his jaw taut; perspiration trickling on his golden skin.


I continue reading Jacques’ candid letter:

“Clara, I saw you through the window of my soul. I cracked the window to inhale you from afar; to get drunk in your freesia scented hair. Just for a moment.  A whirling wind blew in intoxicating scents of the rain-forest: palms filled with sweet red berries, enormous wimba trees fogged in ancient legends, raindrops of violet orchids; anacondas coiling on the soil. I choked. I couldn’t help it, Clara!”


I stop. Grief.

Miguel’s eyes open; forgotten green clouds and thunder foment inside.

I walk toward him. Slowly I start unbuttoning his shirt.  My lips touch his humid skin. He does not move. His breath accelerates, his eyes stare into nowhere. Filled with pain, his voice resonates inside me.

“I love you.”


Excerpt from the manuscript Glass Lovers

  • wimba trees are among the tallest tress in the Amazon Rain-forest.

Shadow Boxing #Glass Lovers


Glass of tequila in his hand, white shirt half open on his chest, raillery in his powerful voice, Jacques’ eyes pierced into Miquel’s:

‘Salud Conquistador!’

Miguel laughed, handsome as sin, wind in his inky hair, flames in his green eyes, hands caressing my hips.

‘A votre santé, mon Maréchal de France!’ 

His laughter resonated in the depths of the night. A shrill echo came back through the cool air.


Jacques’ blue eyes fixed into mine. My eyes flickered into his. He spoke:

“Sin takes place in the mind not in the flesh.”

Shock. Jacques was forcing me to fight my own shadows. My hands pressed on Miguel’s; my body tensed. Miguel’s lips shivered.

Knifes were out. All bets were off.  One of us was going to break.


Excerpt from the manuscript Glass Lovers

Photo credit: Pixabay

i am love #poetry


i am the soul

of the unknown

the one

who locked the mystery

of number Pi

within your heart

the one

whose life

was saved

from stoning by

his words

the Desdemona

that Othello couldn’t kill

the Guinevere that Lancelot

had loved

i am the agile hands

that you allow

to spread

Moroccan oil

onto your skin

in moonless nights


i am love.

Agonizing Nights #Glass Lovers


A whole week.

Seven agonizing nights; seven suffocating nights rushing over me, parching my soul with their torrid breezes.

Myriads of mosquitoes murmuring in the dark, looking for prey: my own flesh, my own blood.

Nights extending their heavy tentacles over the city, strangling it as a venomous octopus; abandoning it at sunrise lacking vigor, emptied of hopes, filled with trash.


I am getting out of bed. Lace and silk soaked in perspiration, glued to my heated body. I am looking out of the window.  I cannot see you.


In this city clocks have no hands, years have no months, months have no days.  Outside of time, the city is innocent, perverse, philosophical, suicidal. You will have to find a loophole to live here without surrendering your soul.


Shadows of your eyes; fragments of your voice hidden inside me. I cannot see you. It’s dark.


Excerpt from the manuscript Glass Lovers 

ropes of destiny #poetry


you’re looking to the vial

i’m looking to the dagger

neither of us worthy of

the redemption of Verona’s lovers

the die is cast

vain efforts to escape each other

end nowhere


erotic pollen

settles between our skins

it rips my heart apart

it makes your heart bit faster

ropes of destiny

tie us


Prompt: static



My liquid shoulders touched by wings of Laysan albatrosses shiver.

The Hawaiian chest delights in the occult aroma of the volcano goddess.

My desirous, pregnant soul in(vokes) my ancestors.

Your eyes are lusting with Dionysian ecstasy.

No, don’t touch me now, my prince, for you’ll be cursed forever to yearn for me in the world of your immortal dreams!


Daily prompt evoke

Tahitian Nights #Poetry


i can see things

without my eyes

in the gap between your soul and mine

i can see a dark violet birth

of a golden yolk

your body moves toward mine

the silky sheets ignite

your eyes above crave heaven

my eyes below speak earth

your head rests on my shoulder

i can feel red colors

inscribing roses into earth

my body undulates

into Tahitian nights

rhythms of your guitar.


for you – whose mirific words inspire me


love letters #poetry


I am looking over your love letters

my hands are shaking

winds are trying

to take them away from me

bury them

into the depths of the roiling ocean


i am fighting the winds

i am back with you in that place

palm trees born from violet skies

white drapes covering adrenalized lovers

i am laughing

follies of love

your teeth leave painful marks

on my shoulder


winds funnelled through my heart

push me into the ocean

salty waters corrode my nostrils

stingrays puncture my arteries

a church bell tolls

your letters

where are they?


Creation (Un mundo nuevo) #Glass Lovers #manuscript


There were no moon, no stars, no scented roses.

Just rough landscape: red mountains rising straight from the desert, fragmenting a blue tired sky.


Wind drying our bodies, sand glued on our skins.

Oh, but all those things were no going to stop Miguel!

He was determined to defy the impossible.

His rich laughter crashed into the mounting stone; his green eyes pierced into mine; his teeth bit into my lips.

My nails pressed deeply into his back.

His Maria de Guadalupe medallion flickered before my eyes.


Un mundo nuevo was about to bloom inside me.

Miguel’s new serrated moons, new ardent stars, new mystical scented roses stood ready to welcome it.



Excerpt from the manuscript Glass Lovers. 

Photo Credit: Pixabay.


self-sacrifice #excerpt from glass lovers #manuscript


The great poet was expelled from Florence.

Miguel expelled himself from himself to make room for me.

Self-sacrifice. No reservation.

I melted into his being like an enormous orange sun into dark, desert sands.

Neither of us saw the eight bad omens of the conquest.

Our bodies were flaming mightily in the Aztec sky.


That inky night the fire of our flesh destroyed the temple of Huitzilopochtli.

What have we done?


Excerpt from the manuscript Glass Lovers 


Mental Bonds #Glass Lovers


Winter night tormented by hauling winds. Lying in bed, mulling over our conversation, I could hear that beautiful raspy voice of his:

“I have seen so much in my life: indescribable humiliations; deep scars on burned souls; dreams crushed like broken glass reverberating on empty floors.

We desperately want to love, to possess each other, caught in a perpetual rush to justify our existence.

Yet, there is no love that can fully satisfy us.  The passions of the flesh get exhausted in bed. What is left is exhausted by our imagination.

Love does not bind forever. Mental bonds do.”

Memories of a silky African violet nightgown modeling my flesh. Oh, where are you? Where are you now?


Miguel hit the door of the bedroom with his boot. His metallic shirt buttons were shining in the moonlight. He was fuming. I could feel the heat of his body. I froze.


From the manuscript Glass Lovers

languor of love


White drapes undulating in the calm ocean breeze.

Clocks dripping languor.

My wet hair blossoming with orange smell.

Unknown mysteries of the warm ocean exuding from your salty skin.

Your teeth moving slowly, engraving Moorish patterns on my thighs.

Teardrops of abandoned occult passions scenting the air.

Those Sunday afternoons never born, never allowed to die.

Blue, white, green. Almost. 

Love Battles #Glass Lovers


Rage darkened Miguel’s green eyes; his blood was boiling; bible in one hand, sword in the other, breathing heavily, determined not to let his Spanish Armada be sunk the second time.

Ha! And by whom? By a Frenchman?!

Wasn’t Jacques supposed to spend his entire life just alluring the other sex?

Oh, how wrong all of us were to judge Jacques like that!

And how dearly we were to pay for that facile, juvenile judgement of ours.

Steely blue eyes, coat of arms engraved on his shield, Jacques was relentlessly fighting to conquer only one heart; the heart of the woman who Miguel loved.


Both of them reduced me to a war trophy.

In the cozy, beautifully tiled hacienda, darkness broke loose.


From the manuscript Glass Lovers



Miguel was there with me almost every day caressing my perfumed body, drinking every nuance of my spoken words, breathing in my abysmal silences.

I was his Mexico. He was my version of a mirific conquistador: magnificent green eyes, blood pulsating in his temples, bible in one hand, roses in the other.

We both knew that something much stronger than sexual attraction, or even love was growing between us. Yet we could not put a name on it.

Miguel had a proclivity for self-sacrifice.  He was the first to ask for redemption, before he even knew for which sin he was supposed to be forgiven.

Alas, I should have asked too.


Excerpt from the manuscript Glass Lovers   

love’s pain


Memories of a humid summer, dripping with love, when you finished your book.

In the night red wax is trickling over a torn page that says, “for you- whose love fills my life with joy and makes all things possible.”

My arms ache trying to pull you back from a memory abyss filled with pain.

Can I still make all things possible?

The walls stay silent.


solitude #poetry


my taffeta dress falling

on the floor

staining the carpet

with the violets of beach pea.


your kisses morphing

on my neck

into the loneliness

of sand castles lost to sea.


the shining mirror now reflecting

a golden painting of a nude

Márquez is finishing in silence

his hundred years filled with solitude.


reference to Gabriel García Márquez’s work One Hundred Years of Solitude


inheritance: don’t cast the stone


oh, don’t cast the stone

my dear reader

before you understand

what kind of love is hidden

into the ripping of the shirt

at midnight

when ancient rituals

are blessing

the meeting of the minds.


don’t cast the stone

my dear reader

until you know thyself

and step

into the wisdom of all ages

coming to know

mermaids from prophets

and courtesans from

Dante’s Beatrice.


and even then

don’t cast the stone

for you are not

without sin.


daily prompt: inheritance 

write me love letters


Write me love letters

Don Quixote is still standing in Madrid

Fighting windmills perpetually caught

In his imagination’s grid.


Like Dante using iambic pentameters

Write me the pain ripping your heart

Write me an epic like Homer

Armor my soul with magic art.


And build for me a citadel of love

Its walls the crystal of my tears

Its altar’s candles luminating

The path for lovers of all years.


Trap me! – Published in Vita Brevis


Please, trap me in the rhythms of the Flamenco

Whose sounds invade the nights of Southern Spain

To breathe the notes of the guitars which play,

And, fill the lustrous eyes with burning pain.


And trap me in the Florence of my dreams

To walk with Leonardo in its streets,

To verse in Greek, and cry with the Madonna

When the last word of Christ forever speaks.


Continue reading here


Into the winter of your soul



No murmurs of the mandolins tonight

Sensual caresses caught in tears

Snow flowing under lonely sheets

Heavy steps of musketeers.


The age of fable is now past

Dice shivering in Eros’ palms

Into the winter of your soul

A double of Dumas is reading

From a lonely book of psalms.


for the daily prompt: age

* reference to Thomas Bulfinch’s work The Age of Fable

our love reflection in the glass


Erotic butterflies

Punctuating your imagination

Half-moons deep hidden

In your metaphors

Roses dressed in carnal visions

Winter winds designing ores.


Amalgamations of semantics

Zephyr is blowing from the west

Cascades of pain are falling from the ceiling

White plants encroaching on my breasts

Love whispers on my lips are reeling.


Archaic veils are undulating

Within the sparkling times that passed

The hands of clocks are moving backwards


And let’s enthrall the mappemonde

With our love reflection in the glass.


daily prompt sparkle

Bedroom Tales – Published in Vita Brevis


Come, red carnations stain the sheets
And candles flicker in the heavy silver
Red wine is breathing in the crystal glasses
Fine lace is flowing in the alcoves like a river.

Come, watch the shadows playing on the wall
When aromatic air is resting on the pillows
The Siamese is purring in her basket
And bowls are filled with reddish tamarillo.

Read the entire poem here

Venetian Kiss


Let’s kiss into the shadows of the Pala D’Oro

Full moons are bathing Venice into gold

The door of the Basilica was opened

The tale of the Byzantine’s refinement told.


Let’s kiss into the sound of Adriatic waters

And ride Venetian horses built in stone

Let’s change the end of Thomas Mann’s novella

Erasing Death in Venice with our kiss’ cyclone.


Let our kisses be transformed in sparkling chandeliers

Made of Murano glass suspended on the ceilings

Of all the souls who cried in Venice

Unknown, rejected, wounded in their feelings.


Most of you will recognize the work of Gustav Klimt: “The Kiss”. However, the image here is a picture of a copy of his painting made entirely of Murano glass on the Island of Murano, Venice.

tropical love



The tropic dangling its shiny earnings

During its febrile summer nights

You opening the windows of the bedroom

Inviting in its luscious thighs.


Trade winds are playing the piano

Hibiscuses are rushing in the bed

Your hands are looking for my body

Clad in the moons’ prodigious red.


The mattress under us grows fragranced roots

Vivid hibiscuses entangle in my hair

Green ocean waters rushing from above

Caught in tropic’s thunderstorm of love.


betray me



Betray me the night Delilah

Cut in silence Samson’s hair

So I will understand that venom

Can dress itself into seraphic veils.


Betray me the day that Brutus

Betrayed Caesar by the door

So I will understand that darkness

Mostly walks on marble floors.


Betray me on Mount of Olives

The horrid night when Judas betrayed him

So I can bloom into the Sunday morning

Witnessing a beatific era now aborning.


Then let me bathe into the new apotheotic world

And understand the pain of those misunderstood

My hands forever diamonding your painful souls

With faithful kisses carved from scented wood.


Versing Together




And verse for me tonight

The mystery of the Kabbalah

The long forgotten gnostic knowledge

Sung in the evening by cicala.



I’ll verse for you tonight

On Mozart’s splendid magic flute

The scents of violets in the dusk

And the encoded mystic fruit.



Let’s verse together in aromas

Of candles craving to ascend

Ulysses’ s allegorical return

But you know what? Let’s rush the end.


Astral Mandolins



Play in your room the mandolin tonight

Painting the air with aurora borealis’ verses

When arabesque designs awake my soul

The shining sound the time reverses.


Play in the streets your mandolin tonight

Into the touching of the cords your love for me

The beatings of my heart will choreograph the scenes

Making the aurora australis never flee.


When you are done, come to my room

We can unmake the bed, and lie in silence still

Immersed into the sounds of astral mandolins

Watching hermetic lovers dancing the quadrille.


Midnight Prayer


Give me the power to endure

The wind that’s blowing from the oceans

Its colors mixing earth and sky

With magical, erotic potions.


Give me the power to surrender

To violent, burning rain of kisses

Under forgotten constellations

To understand what your soul misses.


finally now when I’m leaving,


Give me the power to survive

The pain of Mary Magdalene

In the three days of agony

Before the playing of last scene.