the kiss of no return #poem #poetry

 

pain is dripping from guitars
into sunsets with no end
pigeons guide ships lost at sea
tears drop from plumy skies

oh, how your fingers touch the chords
how my heart swells at your sight
how your kisses burn my neck
how the mountain splits
the sky

listen,
to the night of oleanders
to the magic of the key which turns
take me to the kiss of no return
when the sky is turning blue
and we’re centuries apart
let me kneel
in front of you

@short-prose-fiction (Gabriela M)

image: nodff; Shutterstock; [link]

Fires of the mind #short prose #flash fiction #prose poem

 

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.

In the end, a lonely man found a mound of shattered glass on a back alley.

It would have been much easier if they would have kept their art separate.

Yet they didn’t.

Excerpt from the manuscript Passion: Love Poems and Other Writings

@short-prose-fiction (Gabriela M)

image: Sandratsky Dmitriy; Shutterstock; [link]

Destinies #short prose #flash fiction #amwriting

 

Our destinies caught inside the 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 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 earthly boundaries.

Excerpt from the manuscript Glass Lovers 

@short-prose-fiction (Gabriela M)

image: agsandrew; Shutterstock; [link]

before you came (the day of the fallen saints) #poem #poetry

 

you do not know
how many countries I have traveled
how many marvels I have shown myself
the names of the dead I’ve resurrected
my victims’ kisses buried in a pink conch shell
inside the whispers of the messianic Nazareth
He who knew of His crucifixion
picked up my tears
broke the bread
so I could lock the memory of my first kiss
inside the rocks of the eternal Spanish Steps
and walk again through fields of roses and lavender
into gestating dreams of no constraints

yet see,
all that happened
before the day you came into my life
the day when all the fallen saints
with their fingers stretched the sky
so we could have
one single hour
just for ourselves

 

first published September 22, 2019 (text slightly modified)

@short-prose-fiction (Gabriela M.)

Vereshchagin Dmitry; Shutterstock; [link]

my poem “Initiation” up to Vita Brevis Poetry Magazine #poem #published

 

deification of the virgin nymph
within my palms
the flesh of violet sunsets flips like fish on land
my eyes, inheritors of light
singular sinkholes punctuating a low sky
your love…
continue reading with WP here
or
on Vita Brevis Press here.

@short-prose-fiction (Gabriela M.)

image: Everett – Art; Shutterstock; [link]

Two of my poems included in “Pain & Renewal: A Poetry Anthology” published by Vita Brevis Press #poetry #anthology

 

My Dear Readers,

Vita Brevis just published Pain & Renewal: A Poetry Anthology. I have two poems included: The Dark Flag of Pain and Autumn Healing.

Pain & Renewal features a collection of incredible voices — from Pulitzer and Pushcart prize winners to brand new poets, it’s filled with moving poetry about the highs and lows of the human experience.”

You can get the digital version here.

And you can get the print version here.

Here is a snippet from my poem Autumn Healing:

..this autumn stretches purple shadows
over unending fields of sweet corn and hurt souls
it brings from the depth the lacustrine goddess
who heals all wounds with yesterday’s mirth…

@Short-prose-fiction (Gabriela M)

 

In the shadows of those streets #short prose #flash fiction

 

I lurked in the shadows of those streets the entire night: solitaries, madmen, prostitutes, somnambulists. After a while I couldn’t distinguish among them.

My steps were meaningless. My senses were tranquilized by that vision of him scribbling his last letter to me under a pale winter moon. The child was probably happy, playing at his feet. It wasn’t his child, but…

The beat of the streets became one with the unstoppable movements of his heart in my own chest. He left his love to me like some kind of inheritance.

Why retreat alone with the child on a remote island?

Afterall the city did not do more than compromise the least part of him: his ego.

Blood is dateless. The ego is not. Which part did he not understand?

 

Excerpt from the manuscript Glass Lovers

@short-prose-fiction (Gabriela M)

image:  Dmytro Vietrov; Shutterstock; [link]

The stunning JaZzArt of Francisco Bravo Cabrera – Jazz Art In Valencia #guest post

 

My Dear Readers,

A video presentation of the JaZzArt of Francisco Bravo Cabrera. Please take two minutes to enjoy Francisco’s  stunning paintings and music.

First, Francisco in his own words:

My name is Francisco Bravo Cabrera and I consider myself a poet that paints, writes and at times does musical composition.  I live and work in Valencia, Spain.  I call my work “Jazz Art” because I paint using the definition of Jazz, which is that it must be the performer’s art, that it must have ample improvisation and that it must swing. I apply this definition, more or less, to all of my artistic expressions.

I love to draw because I love the line, the solid, black line, sometimes strong and definite, other times ready to compromise or even to fade away.  The line is the artist that creates as he/she performs, improvises and swings. 

Please visit Francisco’s site here.

JAZZ ART IN VALENCIA

@short-prose-fiction (Gabriela M)

Andalusian Resurrection #poem #poetry

 

 

In Spain, the dead are more alive than the dead of any other country in the world.
Federico García Lorca

open your veins Andalusia
let him drink from your lynx blood
inject the rhythms of the flamenco
under the coldness of his eyes
tattoo his flesh with tiles of azurite
pour the sounds of castanets
into his arms
my fingers swirl
the flesh of ripened olives
covers the old shroud
the flow of blood from the white shirt
has stopped
I hear his voice
there is one cross
and you’re my only love
my body arches
oils flame in my hair
a Moorish verse falls from a wall
covering my cries

Andalusia
I kneel among your cacti fed by salt
your wounded lashes
resurrected him
for yet
another night

@short-prose-fiction (Gabriela M.)

image: Fernando Cortes; Shutterstock; [link]