bewitched #poem #poetry

 

perhaps I was bewitched by the North Star
or by a ballad as dateless as my blood
geography of feelings populates unwanted interludes
my eyes, the nests of dewy grass and leaves
emerald eyelashes flaunt
black taffeta chirps between my fingers like piano keys
inside my soul your kisses soar
soft lilac tones like prayers of the youngest nun
perhaps because I read your poetry last night
and cut my soul between a stanza and a strife
perhaps a child played with a kite
a kingdom for a sup
maybe it was the wind
that woke me up

Published in the Indian Periodical, March 3, 2019

@short-prose-fiction

image: Irina Alexandrovna, Shutterstock; [link]

astral mandolin #poetry #poem

 

play in your room the mandolin tonight
paint the air with aurora borealis’ chant
arabesque designs awake my soul
the shining sound the time reverses

play in the streets your mandolin tonight
its cords,
your love for me…
my heart choreographs the scenes…

fragment from the poem “Astral Mandolin”

@short-prose-fiction

Shadow-Boxing #short prose #flash fiction

 

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. 

‘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, Clara.”

My hands pressed on Miguel’s.  Miguel’s lips shivered.

Angelo turned toward Miriam and froze. 

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

excerpt from the manuscript Glass Lovers 

@short-prose-fiction

hunter #poem #poetry

 

the destiny that calls me
will have to wait tonight
for I am hunting Judas
and I am hunting Brutus
blood boils in my veins
I’m sharpening my arrows
I strangulate the time
I coil around your thoughts
hunter of desires
the Mount of Olives cries
my hands are fighting lions
the mystery of me
is bursting into fires

@short-prose-fiction

image: Eugene Partyzan; Shutterstock; [link]

triolets #poem #poetry

 

I wish to see you walk through the Arco de Elvira, to find out your name and shed a tear.” Federico García Lorca.

 

a violet sunset laments in the city
saps of triolets flow on my neck
ah, Granada
I stretch inside your memory
like felines on grasslands
a lily cries
my bracelets dangle
the eyes of candles flicker in your Spanish nights

fingers of lascivious desires
steal from my neck the saps of triolets
Granada
play your magical guitars
unleash the beauty hidden in your walls
the frenzy of the flesh which dies
into the ardent gestures of your dance
under La Puerta de Elvira
yesterday two lovers met
and I,
I wait in tears
for the love
which knows the mysteries of triolets

 

published by Spillwords Press on February 26, 2019

@short-prose-fiction 

mardi matin (Tuesday morning) #short prose #flash fiction

 

“If things were always what they seemed, how impoverished would be the imagination of man!”
Lawrence Durrell, Balthazar. 
 
Debout face à moi, Miguel, les bras croisés, porte son regard au-delà de moi. Que fixe-t-il ? Voudrait-on lui voler son droit au bonheur? Je lis la lettre tandis que Miguel ne détache pas son regard du rideau fleuri, derrière moi.
*
 « Dans la rumeur de la rue parisienne, j’entends ta voix comme si tu étais près de moi. Tremper les doigts dans l’eau froide de la Seine, c’était frôler tes cheveux. Tu me parles tout bas. Combien de temps a passé ? J’aperçois un bateau éclairé qui descend le fleuve. Je t’ai toujours aimée, car j’ai toujours su que t’aimer était pour moi un besoin. Jamais mon amour n’a altéré la magie de ton être. Tout au début, je t’ai gardée telle que tu étais, contemplée de loin, de crainte de parcourir seul, par delà le temps, le chemin frayé par toi dans mon âme. Plus tard… Je te voyais encore tripoter une marionnette dans ce magasin… Rue de Vaugirard. En ce temps, tes paroles n’arrivaient pas jusqu’à moi. Mais je me sentais attiré vers toi par un fil invisible et, une fois entré dans le jeu, ma raison chavirait : étais-je la marionnette animée par ta main ou bien la main caressant le chaud velours de ta robe ? … Les bateaux remontent et redescendent la Seine…Jacques.»

@short-prose-fiction
image: franckpoupart; Shutterstock; [link]