Sea Snake #poem #poetry #short prose


One hundred degrees Fahrenheit in the shade.
The scent of you and that of the salty ocean.
Sand in your hair.
Your wet shirt coiled at my feet.
Inside the echoes of a pink conch, my love for you tosses like a new born in a crib.
A paddle-like tail raises from the water; a sea snake.
Your green eyes devour me.
Why is there always a snake inside the core of our myths?


Did you say you love me? #short-prose #poetry


I breathe in an unfamiliar rhythm.
The sun metamorphoses into a golden liquid.
Glittering rivers inundate the sky; orange veins on a blue skin. 
The water murmurs.
The pendulum of the earth goes astray.
The North Pole disappears.
The icy castle of wisdom and thought melts before my eyes.
The earth becomes a heated humongous ball, carried by Atlas on his mythical shoulder.
Did you say you love me?
Flamenco dancers toss in my dreams.


imagine: Jack Q; Shutterstock; [link]

Flesh #short prose #flash fiction


Oh, that quarter of the city wounded by its own sexuality.

Every street filled with shadowy characters: hungry scavenger birds looking to devour each other’s flesh.

Exposed skin and uttered sexual desires; bodies becoming their own souls’ mortuaries; a type of grotesque Greek tragedy whose protagonists lacked the nobility heroism bestows upon us.

It was painful to imagine what kind of wounds could reduce a thousand of Petrarch’s Lauras to infantile despondency.

And yet…

Excerpt from the manuscript Glass Lovers

imagine: Kozlik; Shutterstock; [link]

Christina Schwarz, author of the New York Times Bestseller “Drowning Ruth,” on my poetry


My Dear Readers,

I thanked you many times for your likes and comments. I thank you again today.

Also, today I am humbled and delighted by the comments Christina Schwarz, the author of the New York Times Bestseller “Drowning Ruth,” sent me after reading my poetry manuscript.

“With lush language and lavish imagery, Gabriela M. evokes a fantastic world ripe with emotion.”
Christina Schwartz

Below please find a fragment from one of my “evening fantasies”:

contaminated with verses my rebellious red blood ran from my heart to yours;
the smell of orange trees bloomed in my hair like in those forgotten Sunday afternoons in which we used to make love;
i saw the pregnant egg yolk – heavy as the passion of a tropical night – the imperishable yellow from around your finger;
a green iguana blinked and opened its “third eye” inscribing on my thighs the fairy-tales of the women you loved;
a bird gave me the evil eye: children’s fingers colored in blue hung on the Hand of Fatima trying to protect me;
it smelled love;
caressed by leaves i fell into the field of poppies in which we first met.




imagine: MoinMoin; Shutterstock; [link]

forgotten in the Port of Naples #poem #poetry


this summer
meet me in the Port of Naples
in humid nights inside the Palace of Capodimonte
let’s write again the “Human Comedy”
your love for me
a million of daggers
will cut the arteries of the blue sea
my luscious lips buried in blood and dust from the volcano
erotically settled in your poetry
against the coolness of the walls
your fingers, tracers of old tears
will mold us into a single body of loneliness and lust
sick with jealousy and shocked
a pale Campanian sunrise
whose rays, for centuries, barely can see
will find us walking hand in hand
along the quay…

forgotten in the Port of Naples
the memory of you and me


imagine: kasyanovart; Shutterstock, [link]

my newest poem “bewitched” published by the Indian Periodical #poetry


My Dear Readers,
My newest poem “bewitched” published by the Indian Periodical.

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
please continue reading here 

Love and hugs to everyone!

imagine: May_Lana; Shutterstock; [link]

feel me my love #poem #poetry


feel me my love
inside the succulent black grapes
which burned our taste
in nights of ardor and of sand
between your spade
and the incandescence of the hurt bull
the blood and sweat of a forgotten afternoon
fragments in red and blue my soul

orchids’ wings bury my flesh
into a bath bewitched by roses and by oils
my fingers brush your lips
a leaf rises
yet another falls
feel me my love
in the mist of our souls
the third eyes of an iguana
desperately calls


imagine: Teni, Shutterstock, [link]

My poem “the ridicule of the unknown” published by Vita Brevis


Dear Readers,
My poem “the ridicule of the unknown” published by Vita Brevis.
I want you to know how much I appreciate you reading my work and inspiring me.

your eyes, the prohibition of cold winters
my eyes, the wanderers of earth
a copper sea mimics the candor
silence flies over the same archipelago
ah, Madeira
golden feathers are your waters
your lips taste wine
please continue reading here



My poem “triolets” published by Spillwords Press #poetry


Dear Readers,
My poem “triolets” published by Spillwords Press.
Please know that your support and love are the real inspiration behind my work.


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
please continue reading here

Sunday #poem #poetry


this Sunday
hangs black drapes on all my windows
look, i packed some memories for her
my crocheted dress
he liked so much
the smell of jasmine from my hair
a symphony
three roses and aromas of some fruit
prayers and a poem that i wrote
the red of tamarillos from the Spanish bowl
the innocence i cherished
when i was sixteen
this Sunday doesn’t stop
she wants my soul


imagine: EhayDy; Shutterstock; [link]

Soul Bonds #Short Prose #Flash Fiction


Winter night tormented by hauling winds. I lie in bed. I can hear that beautiful raspy voice of his:

“I have seen so much in my life: indescribable humiliations, deep scars on burned faces, dreams crushed like broken glass 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.

Physical love does not bind forever. Soul bonds do.”

Memories of a silky African violet nightgown modeling my body.

Ah, where are you? Where are you now?


excerpt from the manuscript “Glass Lovers”

imagine: Anna Ismagilova; Shutterstock, [link]

Greek Summer #poem #poetry


winds play on my sheer dress
rhythms of the sirtakis dance
petals of white roses float over the bluest sea
lassitude spreads rosy fever
among the sailors on the ships
inside the blue tavern
in the port
we eat keftedes
and drink coffee boiled into a copper briki
feathers of white drapes cover my body
a yellow melon bursts in seven pieces
oh, its sweet pudicity
its enigmatic jealousy!
your hungry hands encircled on my hips
the bluish purple of an hyacinth
whispers words of night in Greek
and by the “condo of the virgin”*
we loved each other feverishly
for an entire week

*reference to the Parthenon, temple dedicated to Athena who was a virgin goddess

imagine: Riekus; Shutterstock. [link]

fears of death #poem #poetry


fears of death
strangled in the heat of our palms
our bodies scratched by silver bracelets
glide onto passion’s desperation curve
go beyond the locus of the flesh
kill our caricatures which people call reality
light ferocious fires on the altar of the gods
in rituals we burn to ashes our fears
dry into the smell of lilac
our tears

ah, i forgot to tell you when i meet you in my dreams
Arabella still sells bracelets in the silver market
she asks me every time about you
while lizards run their greens into the nearby parkette
i lie and promise her you’ll come next time
to buy another bracelet and some juicy limes

now in the silence of long purple nights
the silver bracelets do not hurt my flesh at all
but every minute you are not with me
cuts yet another wound
into my soul


imagine: Zolotatevs; Shutterstock; [link]

mystic wedding #poem #poetry


we got married at midnight
waves washed our naked feet
your face was shaved, my hair smelled almonds
you cried
and tears covered my veiled lips

your grandmother’s cross was nesting on my breast
songs of nightingales resounded in the honeyed water
new pearls were braided on my dress
kisses flowed
and borrowed lace adorned my hips

leaves rustled in a tree
the water turned to wine
the moon rose from the sea
like at the mystic wedding
in Cana of Galilee


the dark flag of pain #poem #poetry


i open doors which you can’t see
under my father’s heavy eyelids
tenderness gets harder every day
i ache and cry
inside the same sunset in which you left
the smell of morphine saturates my skin
in Campo de’ Fiori people still sell grapes
some still believe the Freudian nonsense about sex
gale winds blow the dark flag of pain
a lonely boat sits anchored in the bay
my soul is scattered in the west
my tears form a phase which reads
tomorrow is already yesterday


imagine: nodff: Shutterstock; [link]

until the end of my life and beyond #short prose #flash fiction


“I, Miguel Julian Veracruz, take you to be my wife until the end of my life and beyond. I swear on the true cross of my ancestors who endured famine, who fought hurricanes, who sailed their ships through darkness and light into the vastness of the ocean, bible in one hand and sword in the other, to love you until the end of all worlds. My ancestors killed. May my love for you wash the blood from their hands. My ancestors burned down temples. May the fire of my love for you redeem them. May […]

Say yes, Clara, say yes, please!”

Miguel’s words cut the sky in two. The green of his eyes looked exactly like that of his Maria de Guadalupe medallion which he never took off. That beautiful silver Spanish ring, a family heirloom, worn by his mother on the fourth finger of her right hand, appeared on his palm out of nowhere.
Lightning struck the waters. A whirlpool of colors flamed the boat; the air was spinning around me like a tornado let lose over the face of the earth. My breathing stopped.  I thought I was imagining everything.
Jacques asked in that deep, unmistakable voice of his.

“Where were you Clara?”

“In Miguel’s boat on the waters of the Atlantic. In the beginning it looked like an ordinary Sunday afternoon. Miguel ordered the boat out.  I thought it was odd that he was not sailing it. He hired a captain whose wife cooked dinner, set the table, and brought a bunch of papers for us.  I did not know what they were.”

“What did you say, Clara?”

Excerpt from the manuscript “Glass Lovers” (draft)

imagine: Sofi photo; Shutterstock; [link]

amour (love) #poem #poetry


your secret hides inside my name
inside the splendor of the night in which you didn’t say a word
feathers of macaw birds trace music sheets
the rays of sun stretch on the pebble beach
a fragrant song delights itself on my red lips
i rest my head on your left shoulder
into the lands of spices waiting to be born
we fall
some carnal dreams howl on the corridor
who cares?
i locked the door!
this morning we can die
we won’t tell a soul
and never ask for more


imagine: Liliya Kulianionak; Shutterstock [link]

who are you? #published poem #Wolff Poetry Literary Magazine


My Dear Readers,

My poem “who are you?” published by Wolff Poetry Literary Magazine.

who are you?
which gale winds have blown you here?
which fallen saint showed you the way?
besieged by you, old loves abandoned in dark cemeteries
lament like choirs in my Hellenistic Greece
virgin thighs ferment inside your blood
scared azaleas tremble on my pillows…
continue reading here 


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
scented oils flame in my hair
a Moorish verse explodes onto a wall
his eyes are aiming
from my lips
he bites

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


imagine: Andi-pix; Shutterstock 

before you leave me #poem #poetry


before you leave
do not forget to take with you
our rhymes of love
flip flopping fish on foyers’ marble
the velvety récamier red sofa
on which the two of us inscribed
the decadence of our southern afternoons
the crystal glasses
now obliterated by the taste of the old wine
the plumage of dipper birds
submerged under the waters by our ardent nights
the blue imprints of fingers on the walls
oh, the withered roses?
you can have them
and with them
our entire past



the ridicule of the unknown #poem #poetry


your eyes, the prohibition of cold winters
my eyes, the wanderers of earth
a copper sea mimics the candor
silence flies over the same archipelago
ah, Madeira
golden feathers are your waters
your lips taste wine
your breath smells corolla of flowers
we killed into your sands
the ridicule of the unknown
and went beyond
the ecstasies pantomimed
inside of the forever known

a golden yolk suspends itself in the warm air
a key is turning in a lock
the cries of winds vibrate an air sock


My poem “Adam’s sin” published by Spillwords Press



Dear Readers,

I am thrilled my poem “Adam’s sin” was published by Spillwords Press.
Thank you so much for your support. Good wishes and hugs to everyone.

a canary sings
nuptial interludes
your flesh pays its tribute to some other lovers
transitory birds
come and go like seasons
noisy V-shaped flocks
i sigh
then i listen to a monk who reads
from a book of psalms
rings sleep on my fingers
arabesque designs shiver on my skin
pastel sunsets….

continue reading here




Sutures #Short Prose #Flash Fiction



“Oh, the four of you at that time!

Like the confluence of four deep, unsettled seas tied together into a magnificent enormous drape of spume; feelings suturing earth and sky like stitches suturing wounds; small fragments of fiction scribbled on paper; books of poetry resonating in the dark like cords of mandolins under the fingers of rejected lovers; fragile withered roses kept forever like relics in a church; the smell of fresh painted canvases mixed with that of salt water.

Any relation with the outside world severed.

That was the reality born out of your fantasy, Clara.”

I was in tears

“Angelo, I know of no other reality but my fantasy.”


Excerpt from the manuscript “Glass Lovers”

what i want #poem #poetry


a tipsy air plays with my dress
golden afternoons fall from my hair
fingers, pillars of the city
point toward the dangers of an angry sea

why are my ships hit by deceptive languor?
what have you done to them to fall in love with you?
i rip my dress and threw it to the waves
i raise my head
and speak to you

what do i want?

i want to sail to the East Indies
to bathe in essences of coriander and of cinnamon
to meet the founders of the now adulterated cities
exchange my soul for silky fabrics in Jaipur

to walk in temples nested in the banyan trees
to bite the skin of passion fruits in naked nights
to tear my heart and throw it to Lord Vishnu
to soil my hands while healing beggars in the streets

oh, i know…
your poetry which rings for me
your feathered kisses nuzzling my neck
everything one day will wash at sea
and that will be the day in which
fingers, pillars of the city
will turn your love
toward the real me




Restoring Memories #Guest Post #David Wesley Woolverton


My Dear Readers,

“Restoring Memories” a guest post by a very talented writer David Wesley Woolverton. David is an aspiring author currently pursuing a master’s degree in creative writing at the University of South Alabama. His interests include trains, books, and daydreaming.


Nesrin and Ceylan had just joined the restoration staff of an open-air museum preserving the remains of an ancient city. They surveyed the ruins around them, finding very little left of the city; some scraps of wall, a few statues, minuscule traces of road.
Nesrin stopped to pet the nose of a stone lion, analyzing the contrast between her young-looking fingers and the years recorded by the moss and dirt on the statue. “Hard to believe this was our childhood home.” Continue reading here.



the cello #poem #poetry


i play the cello in the old streets
walls open wounds inflicted long ago
imaginary lovers contort in the air
and on my bow the grief of others

i swallow tears and i play
the pain of those who cannot walk the streets
immersed in ecstasy and solitude
with all my sufferings
the walls i greet
till you’ll come out
and you’ll throw
a petty dime
right at my feet



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
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




blood #poem #poetry


my body is dragged
i’m covered in mud
sword in my hand
still i can cut
you’re looking at me
i hear the word love


children are crying
the moon has been stolen
the winds have stopped
right all the wrongs
lighten the sun
straighten the earth
bloom all the buds
i’ll see you again
there are other lives

do not stop!

i’m choking on blood…



come with me to the Mediterranean #poetry #poem



come with me to the Mediterranean

the highway of ancient world

for in the silence of its eye

still lives the infinite of number pi


climb with me the Mount Parnassus

in fall when Dionysus’ priestess will arrive

souls immersed in subterranean desires

into the burgundy of wine, let’s dive


the bed unmade

your eyes still hungry

poetry is screaming to be read

come with me to the Mediterranean

where Pegasus is waiting to be wed



when roses sleep #poem #poetry



open the window

let me feel the wind which blew

when i was born

open you palms

let me eat the fruits of the soil

which fed me first

open your heart

and let me breathe the poetry

of the sunsets when roses sleep

and church bells toll

over the land

where i was born



book of poetry #poem #imagination



a book of poetry falls onto my lap
sinful kisses drown into the river’s night
love equations chant behind the door
Beatrice commits the mortal sin
birds are nesting in my palms

the flesh of shadows waltzes on the roofs
a squeaky door stops wailing in the wind
imaginary fairies land onto your skin
my fingers knead desires in a dough
a button drops into a bewitched well

i bite my lips
i laugh
range of poetry


image: airimic, airmic’s portofolio, Shutterstock

Happy New Year, and a poem entitled “marry me” #wishes #poem


My Dear Readers,

Thank you for your appreciation, support, and the love you showed me in 2018. They meant the world to me.
I wish you a wonderful and blessed New Year! May you be happy and “may you stay forever young”!
I will see you in 2019!

Until then here is my most viewed 2018 poem:

marry me!

when clocks announce mid-night
and lovers fall into a mystic scented sleep
run with me and let’s get married
in the blue forest of my dreams
let’s walk barefoot in the middle of the glen
look, frantic butterflies entangle in my hair
whispering fresh daisies drape my body
green leaves dress quietly your naked shoulders
the moon sets our altar among trees
crickets sing the symphony of love
like church choirs in the dusk
steel a star and set it on my finger
on the cobweb of yellowish moon rays
tree sap seals our union forever
your soul starts flowing into mine
let’s not move until the morning
when we will witness our bodies
merging into a fascinating cosmic tree
marry me!


imagine: ArtMari/Shutterstock

prayers (intersession, adoration, confession) #poem #poetry


you who know to whisper
(prayers on behalf of others)
songs of love and songs of sorrow
for the sailors from the depths of the tomorrow
sleepy bibles rub their eyes
in the Basilica of San Nicola

you who know to whisper
(homages to blooming flowers)
on Sunday afternoon the air is moist
the tropic breathes mangoes and strawberries
white linen heated bodies covers
symphonies are lusting for their lovers

and then
when you will reach the point of the confession
stop whispering
and kneel in front of me
i am your love
your sin, and your redemption
i don’t know past
i don’t know future
i am the last verse of an unknown psalm
and the forever ardor
captured in between your palms

imagine: Elena Ray/Shutterstock

shooting stars #poem #poetry


why would you come?

what do you think you can do here?

dark shadows battle in the mirrors

the walls are red

the laughter’s a bright yellow

wax candles waltz into my tears

a silver coin rotates on my dark table

the Spanish chest is filled with photographs

there is no room on my bookshelves

for other loves




bring the sweetness of kisses stolen in dark alleys

the snow in ghastly cemeteries is too high

the spleen of those who’ve never known what love is

(souls fly the sky when children play with kites)

the gnostic knowledge of the ones who died

your poems breathing solitude and myrrh

the untranslated birth of shooting stars


i see the stars

are you already here?


image: ROMAN NOGIN/Shutterstock

My poem “come back to me” published in America’s Emerging Poets 2018 Southeast Region (Z Publishing House, December 13, 2018)


I am delighted that my poem “come back to me” was included in the anthology: America’s Emerging Poets 2018 Southeast Region (Z Publishing House, December 13, 2018).

The anthology is available on Amazon

The publishing house contacted me and asked me to submit my poetry.

Thanks to each and one of you for your support. Your likes and comments made the discovery of my poems possible.

Here is a short excerpt from “come back to me”

“for you i’ll stop the ebb and flow
i’ll make the sun to set on eastern temples
i will transform my body in a flame
in moonless nights like shooting stars
your hidden passions … 

we’ll wait in silence for the skies to open
the waves will build an altar on the ocean
gold fish will crown my head like precious diamonds…” 


Adam’s sin #poem #poetry


a canary sings
nuptial interludes
your flesh pays its tribute to some other lovers
transitory birds
come and go like seasons
noisy V-shaped flocks
i sigh
then i listen to a monk who reads
from a book of psalms
rings sleep on my fingers
arabesque designs shiver on my skin
pastel sunsets whisper in the winter’s sheen


i walk through your dreams
soaked in poetry, baptized by your verses
your heart adorns my chest
(work of ancient minters)
your lips burn my rings, and with them my fingers
agonizing wings toll bells in the air
i go for your veins, my hands rip your shirt
everything’s a dream
at the edge of silence
mirrors sleep and grin


you’re forever mine!
do you think i joke?
here’s the silver coin which can get you off


that’s what i thought
you would never take it
in the lovers’ bed monasticism’s asleep
a cat purrs on my thigh
your eyes become my eyes
my skin tastes like sweet pie
see, why Adam was so keen to sin?
for hidden in deep waters
You is always I
even in a dream



imagine: PinkCat/Shutterstock

all is left of me #poetry #poem


swollen seas bite my wrists

upbraided winds haul in the room

black birds are eating from my soul

hands peel laces from my skin

i empty drawers looking for that day

what day?

there are no days

for days are nights


you know,

since you have left

my body’s buried under an old oak

there are no pictures on the walls

i lost the bedroom’s key

the bracelet from the silver market

is all is left

of me


imagine: Pandur/Shutterstock

Dream #poem #poetry


“There are only as many realities as you care to imagine”

Lawrence Durrell, Balthazar


Covered by a sea of white lilies I lie in bed like felines lie in grass.

A cube of ice attempts in desperation not to melt inside an empty glass.

The night’s long fingers feverishly drop you on my left side.

Disoriented I turn and look at you.

Your hands get stuck in my hair like bunnies in a trap.

My silver icons sick with shyness cover their eyes.


Your touches wake me up

My nails aim at your shoulders

Soft vowels change the time

I start thrilling my Rs

Eros plays his dice

The planets change direction

There is no turning back

Our bodies feed on trees

Rivers stretch like cats

The air is drunk with roses

The stars are drops of blood

Exhalations of hot summers

Tie our souls into a forever knot


You on my left side?

Is this a dream or what?


imagine: Maria Okolnichnikova/Shutterstock

for you #short prose #flash fiction


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

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

My arms ache.

I try to pull you back from a memory abyss filled with pain.

Can I still make all things possible?

The walls stay silent.



i’ll give you what you’ve never had #poem #poetry




your tired feet have walked the desert

thorns and thistles scarred your skin

consumed by fires

enraged by liars

your nights of passions

felt like the apocalypse


enter my room

you bearer of the bleeding hearts

i’ll lock the door

and toss the key out of the window

come in my arms

i’ll read you poems written by Baudelaire

i’ll give you wine

made in Mendoza

adulterated prayers from the faraway Corinth


the walls are gray

the music plays

a reddish sunset lingers on my dress

and when my left leg steps back

into the rhythms of tango nuevo

i’ll give you what you’ve never had

the scream of the primordial ecstatic bite

and then the abolition of all sins




imagine:  Pavel L Photo and Video/Shutterstock

trench warfare #poem #poetry


trench warfare

between your subconscious and mine

during the night

over my head

love words like cannonballs have flown

at the edge of some imaginary bed

sensuality has wept in B major

caged like a bird

i choked on metaphors

strategies of conquest

swam inside your mind

like koi fish in a pond



i drink and burst to light

roses crawl around my body

scented by eight aromatic salts

the pages of your book

sit empty now

white orchids hanging in a tree

don’t cry

your book is the last place

in which you want to look for me




love spell (rewritten) #poem #poetry



i’ll mix a quarter of the moon

with scents of azaleas bloom

i’ll add a pound of your own heart

mix it with a tarot card

think nights of passion soaked in sin

redemption mornings bathed in gleam

imagine her melting the snow

playing with the cupid’s bow

her eyes are healing your heart’s pains

her kisses flowing through your veins

the southern cross adorns her chest

a bird is flying from her nest


why is your face turning so red?

oh, no,

(voices lament in a shell)

you’re not supposed to fall in love with me

mistakenly (or not)

i murmured the wrong spell



imagine: hitdelight/shutterstock

Self-sacrifice #short prose #flash fiction


The great poet was expelled from Florence.

Miguel expelled himself from himself to make room for me.


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” (draft)


imagine: Sandratsky Dmitriy/Shutterstock 


the gypsy girl #poem #poetry


there was a field of poppies

maybe a meadow of cherries

or maybe it happened right by the sea

mama was pregnant

thrills of house sparrows

rested on her heavy breasts

moons and stars around her waist

and nobody heard

what the gypsy girl said

her voice was soft

her lips

strawberry taste

winds playfully ruffled her shiny dress

and mama left

believing i would be born under the brightest star

i would conquer worlds from near and afar

yet the gypsy girl miscalculated by one grade

and fated me to love you till the end



imagine: Bespaliy/Shutterstock 

silhouetted #poem #poetry


i had to go through your soul

so i can get to mine

once in mine

i wish

i would have stayed in yours

silky sheets blushed the entire night

at dawn no space

between our souls

you laugh

i cry

a black lace glove, and a red rose

silhouetted against the floor.



imagine: Nodff/Shutterstock

who are you? #poem #poetry



who are you?

which gale winds have blown you here?

which fallen saint showed you the way?

besieged by you, old loves abandoned in dark cemeteries

lament like choirs in my Hellenistic Greece

virgin thighs ferment inside your blood

scared azaleas tremble on my pillows

step in my room

and know no fear

unravel poems from your battered heart

scent the roses with my fantasies’ Levant

weave lies into the brocade of my sofas

make those satyrs with horse ears to shut up


let’s dwell in silence for a minute…

then tell me how you landed here

and who are you

my darling sonneteer?




at the edge of winter #poem #poetry


at the edge of winter

bridal chambers cry

roasted chestnuts crack

in the frigid streets

days inside my soul

come and go like ships

broken hearts lament

right at my front door

did i leave you there?


i can’t remember

what i’ve done with you

at the edge of winter

a tree is sick with flu



imagine: Nelson garrido Silva/Shutterstock

landscape #short prose #flash fiction


“We are the children of our landscape; it dictates behaviour and even thought in the measure to which we are responsive to it. I can think of no better identification.”

Lawrence Durrell,  Justine


Anything can be said about that city, but one can never say that it does not have a distinct identity.

During the humid autumn evenings the city looks like a wounded being, nursing her own lacerations. On the sidewalks the smell of dust overpowers the stench of cigarettes, and alcohol coming from her tiny, obscure pubs.

Clandestine risings to power, luxury cars zipping by, casinos filled with shady characters, rats zig-zagging in the basements of old buildings. Plenty of frustrations running through the city’s blood like thousands of white blood cells through the veins of an infected patient.

A sea of beggars at every street corner: amputated hands, deep lesions, winkled faces painted in the colors of dirt. Pain exposed in plain view, like art objects in museums: the only difference being that pain is free; the entry in most museums is not.


In that city our story began: a story in which we created and destroyed loves, trusted and betrayed friendships, invented beauty only to eradicate it at the first sign of dawn. We tried to satisfy our egos.  We ended up satisfying the city’s need to devour us.


Excerpt from the manuscript “Glass Lovers” (draft)


i miss you #poem #poetry


i miss you

like a little poor child

misses his home destroyed by war

like giant wounded albatrosses

miss their flights above blue oceans

like thirsty Bedouins miss water

like ancient swords miss their masters

like in the days before the resurrection

his followers missed Him

i miss your eyes

i’ve never seen



imagine: LanaBrest/Shutterstock


My Dear Readers, 
I am delighted to let you know that my unbelievably talented friend Ankit Thapa and I just finished our second online collaboration: poetry and music (vblog)  
lyrics and recitation: short-prose-fiction (me)
music, production, and arrangements:  Ankit Thapa 
“moons illuminate your skin…” 

rapturous love #flash fiction #short prose


He looked for life in the long, ecstatic nights of our love.

I thought he did not understand that the frenzy of flesh always ends in death; that my body stood between him and heaven.

On the other hand, he argued that my body was his gate to heaven, his branch to eternity.

Ironically, it was the juxtaposing of our thoughts that made love so intense, so rapturous that we could not distinguish anymore between reality and fantasy.


Excerpt from the manuscript “Glass Lovers” 


Día de los Muertos (the Day of the Dead) #poem #poetry


sugar skulls sigh at my feet

lonely candles shed wax tears

Aztec winds cry on my body

swollen lips hide in the shadows

covered by the smell of pines

he was here

and you know it


your body craves my touches

your love branches over me

gold marigolds are turning red

pianos scream notes of desires


till priests will say the mass

and Día de los Muertos will pass



imagine: Kiselev Andrey Valerevici/Shutterstock

i am the one #poem #STRAW zine #featured


My Dear Readers,

I am delighted that my poem  “i am the one” was featured in the STRAW zine, a London based magazine, which launched its website today.

Thank you for the love and support you’ve shown me since I began blogging!


i am the voice of your past loves

resounding in your wildest fantasies

dressed in roses at the altar of your dreams

i am the one you’ve never had

my soul flows from the tears of the Nile

from the hands of children who still beg

through ruins, darkness, and deep pain

through wars which they will never understand

i am the last who will be saved

for i have sinned under the shadow of your cross

when Spanish fountains cry in the sunset

i am the Desdemona who you’ve never met

today Granada’s just the place

in which Garcia Lorca once was killed

i am the feather of a gold macaw bird…

continue reading here 



imagine: Anna Ismagilova/Shutterstock

love letters #poem


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 funneled 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?



i will walk on Via Dolorosa #poem


i’d like to be the sounds of waves

which crash into a mountain on an island

i want my pain to wash ashore

a naked pearl extracted from its shell

still agonizing in your soul

i’d like to be Cassandra and like her

to utter prophesies that will come true

in times of war and of despair

i’d like my voice to rip the sky

to shutter our world of luscious mud


love me for a single night

like you’ve never loved before

bite my wrists and tear my clothes

and in the morning

i will walk on Via Dolorosa

my feet will stumble on a cleat

my lips will kiss dried blood

from a handkerchief


in the in the middle of the street



imagine:  TeodorLazarev/Shutterstock

in the season of my sorrow #poem


in the season of my sorrow

barren branches cry like birds

scrolls verse desperately something

who cares about verses anyway?

the hands of an old city clock just stopped

violet hills are raped by bullets

children are not told bedtime stories

hungry eyes aimed at my dress

you say i’m not the one

i’ve always been

i cannot see new moons

which bathe my skin in gold and coriander

you’re right, my love

for in the season of my sorrow

something’s old

and something’s borrowed



melt me #poem


my love,

dawns are breaking in your eyes

virgins with unplaited hair

climb the mountains to the cave

where your songs

the fortunes tell


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

walk the roads with your guitar

spread your fingers on my skin

i’m the part you’ve never played

i’m the one you’ve never had

find me

in the solstice of the lovers

in the breaking of the bread

lock me

deep into your body’s scent

melt me

in your tears of despair

and our love will never end



imagine: Ben Roman/Shutterstock

Destinies #flash fiction #short prose


Our destinies caught in 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 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 (draft)


you love me #poem


you love me

like dolphins love to swim in warm and shallow waters

luscious humid silhouettes of the aquatic world

your fingers touch the texture of my silky skin

like priests in darkness the new testament

solemnly touch


you love me

says the royal palm tree in the garden

which every morning waves to me

i lost my golden earrings and i found them

among the crushed carnations spread on our bed

the night in which Mendoza wine fermented our destinies

into its scent


you know

i’ve never understood why you love me

the Howard Miller mahogany grandfather’s clock has stopped

somewhere it’s winter on the mappemonde

lost paradises hide in stones of silver bracelets

why did you come?

and if you came

why did you leave?



in the city made of stones #poem


in the city made of stones

winds play chords of violins

thighs made of Carrara marble

yearn the flesh of the young girls

tired lizards climb a wall

the forgetfulness of time

your hands bury in a rock

my warm body

my bright eyes

i go down with a long moan

in the marble’s ebb and flow


in the city made of stones

the next morning

grass has grown



imagine:  Dmytro Vietrov/Shutterstock

profuse desires #poetry


rolling like waves on white marble sands

roaring like tigers looking for prey

howling like winds in gray towns of ghosts

resting on sofas like courtesans

praying like nuns married to Christ

tormenting my dreams

your raspy deep voice

dying for love



imagine:  Anna Ismagilova/Shutterstock

neuroses #poetry


your eyes are young

my breath is heavy

sunflowers vanish in the frost

the tea is boiling

and the cat is purring

it’s autumn in the northern hemisphere

while summer comes on Rio de la Plata


i knew a poet who once said

i want to die unknown on Rio de la Plata

his eyes were old

his arms were strong

i ran to you deep in the northern hemisphere

and autumn came

to bury me into its neuroses’ mold


your body’s hot

my body’s cold

the room is quiet like a tomb

a nun is kneeling in the street

it’s autumn in the northern hemisphere

while summer comes on Rio de la Plata




imagine:  Dmytro Vietrov/Shutterstock

i’m coming after you #poetry


i’m coming after you

my nails will scratch your shoulders

when sunsets fall over the Taj Mahal

that’s when you first will feel my soul

that’s when

the goddess once dethroned from our earth

will make you feel the pain

of those whose dreams were planted

in an empty bowl


i’m barging into memories of your past loves

my breast heaves under my silver armor

my lips shiver on your naked skin

my eyes bite from your blue veins

poems which you wrote in other lives

lined up like soldiers ready for the battle

against the Hellenistic decadence

which creeps into my laughter


there are no stars to help you

the moon is turning blue

you think you’ve ever loved?

i’m coming after you



imagine: Anna Ismagilova/Shutterstock

Fires of the Mind (revised) #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.

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.



don’t wait for me #poetry (revised)


don’t wait for me

please find another lover

i’m riding camels with the Bedouins

watching the golden sunset coiling in the desert

i’ll enter Alexandria by morning

the day Mark Anthony committed suicide


don’t wait for me

go find another lover

i’m in the Île de la Cité on Friday the thirteenth

the Friday which forever will be feared

the smell of burning flesh is choking me

the Knights Templar are shedding tears


don’t look for me

until I’m writing you again

past sunsets murmur in gray fumes

and in the night before His resurrection

like Mary Magdalene

i’m looking for a tomb



passions #poetry


i seek you

like roots seek water

the thirst which blasts into the rhythms of castanets

in Andalusia of the flamenco dancers dressed in red

i see you

the face of the lost stranger

dissimulating grief in autumn shadows

killed by the aurora borealis in the southern hemisphere

i feel you

dreams of wild young tigers

ravaging the flesh of prey with their teeth

in the Sahara of my burning suns the fate plays games

i chase you

blue hands of nightly ghosts insinuate onto my skin

i’m dragging you into the lands of spells which crawl

passions strike till all is left from us

are ashes in a bowl





Scents of flowers and of salt (Poetry and music collab) — Despite my deepest thoughts


My Dear Readers,

Poetry and music: a collaboration with my dear friend Ankit Thapa.

Title: “scents of flowers and of salt

Music, production, arrangements: Ankit Thapa

Lyrics and recitation: me (short-prose-fiction)


I would be truly grateful to you if you take 2 minutes to listen to our work.

Very few of you know that I am not a native speaker of the English language. I ask for

your understanding.

Thank you!



pain is dripping from guitars

into sunsets with no end

pigeons guide ships lost at sea

tears drop from plumy skies…

love is blowing in the wind

scents of flowers and of salt



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


imagine: NeagoneFo/Shutterstock


Very happy and excited to present you guys my/our first collab of its kind. Working on this project with Short prose-fiction was such a great experience. I hope you’ll enjoy our combined efforts. Music, production and arrangement – Ankit Lyrics and recitation – Short prose-fiction Lyrics Pain is dripping from guitars into sunsets with no end […]

via Scents of flowers and of salt (Poetry and music collab) — Despite my deepest thoughts

find me #poetry


find me

inside the majesty of time

among the gestures of demoted lovers

winds are pushing boats to shore

letters written now by others…

into the lacy folds which your hands touch

kisses fall on golden strips

the sensuality of swans which float on lakes

yours lips playing from old scripts


find me

inside the hearts of sailors who will not return

among the brides left lonely at the altars

Mount Everest is gathering its clouds

twilights sink into red moons

choirs sing on lively tunes


find me

in the letters of your name

scents of tangerines perfume my hair

my body speaks of silk and cries

for centuries have passed

since I have seen

your darling eyes




imagine: nodff/Shutterstock

in the between of yesterday and of tomorrow #poetry


on my skin

the saps of lonely moons are flowing

your kisses turn and toss into the wind

my silky dress is ruffled on the bed

my stockings sigh in your wild dreams


the lovers of Verona are a myth

a flower fantasizes in my hair

in green the trees design the sky

and lassitude is hanging on the leaves


in the between

of yesterday and of tomorrow

the tempo of your kisses slows

in red your blood colors my veins

somewhere under this world of ours

we’ve learned the secret trapped

in earthen grains



imagine: nodff/Shutterstock 

forever green #poetry


i hide kisses in my hair

gather touches in my heart

oceans linger on my body

mirrors drift into my dreams

in the night of eucalyptus

autumns in cold violet preen


i arch my body in your arms

my fingers brake sonatas’ spleen

in the anarchy of flesh

your eyes spark

forever green



imagine: PinkCat/Shutterstock

The Chronicle of a Disaster Foretold #Excerpt from the manuscript Glass Lovers


“Stop it, Angelo, stop it! What did you want me to do?

Wrap myself in the in French flag and sing La Marseillaise?

Write a book called “The Chronicle of a Disaster Foretold” and let the entire world know that Jacques was going to fall in love with me?

I am telling you that no matter what things would have happened the way they happened!”

I was enraged: my lips cracked, my body tensed, my dress pinching my skin like I was attacked by an army of red ants.


Miguel entered the room.

For a moment his green eyes reflected incredulity. He looked at Angelo, eyebrows raised, his left index finger pointing toward me.

“Why is Clara standing on the middle of the table?”

Ah, Miguel and that dreamy quality of his voice always bringing back our non-ending nights of love.

Angelo tried to put a rebel lock of his black curly hair back in his ponytail.

I did not move. Miguel did not take his eyes from him.

I do not know how much time we stood like this.

Finally, Angelo spoke: his voice raspy like he was awakened from a dream.

“Oh, Clara? Clara is just being Clara.”


Excerpt from the manuscript Glass Lovers.



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

enemies by you



imagine:  Elijah Lovkoff/Shutterstock

hello miss (hola señorita) #poetry


travelers in colored carts

head to roads of no return

a fortune teller speaks of love

milk and honey wait for me

mama’s young

the lilac is in bloom

the hands of the rose garden

wave to me

i turn the key of the blue room


the time leaps forward

and i walk the streets of old Granada

swollen dreams of paintings and guitars

i stumble on your body’s heat

your arm rises in the air

your eyes gleam cinnamon and green

your laughter cracks the galaxies

“hola señorita

you grew up

just to meet me”

bullfighter (matador de toros) #poetry


my dress is red

your heart is pounding

the passion of all matadors de toros

is bleeding from your arms into my veins

your eyes flame every soul in Salamanca

your fight is dance

your body burns

the bull is raging

flesh is cracking

roses from my hair fall on your wounds

stars are deaf

eternity is stopping

now i scribble words in lonely Sundays

echoes of bullfights in Salamanca

in the bells’ tolling was our beginning

and in your fight was our end


first published in The Literati Mafia 


imagine: Fresnel/ Shutterstock

imagination #poetry



fecund dance

his shirt is lying on the floor

my thigh caught in the wilderness of love

his dreams rocked by the ocean’s breast


let my hands

harvest the fruits

which bloom into the estuary of his heart

let his teeth bite once again

from my fantasies tonight



fly blue kites

soak my body into vibrant notes

of juicy mangoes’ repertoires


heal the shadows from my neck

raise red poppies from the death

rain with sounds of crickets and guitars

for we are the children

of your breath.



imagine: Pang Noparrat/Shutterstock

i can’t win #poetry


i hang flowers in the trees

i grow hands to heal all wounds

at my feet the forest sings

naked love from Saturn’s rings

rains on poppies in the fields

i move forward

and i mix

boiling teas with saps of passion

i coil laurels on your body

I knit kisses on your lips


fruits are bursting into blood

winds are choked by mounds of pyre

you’re not here

i can’t win

for the rifle will still fire

The Woman Before Me #Excerpt from the manuscript Glass Lovers


“Clara, I did not tell you about the woman who Miguel loved before you.”

“Go ahead Angelo, I can’t wait to hear.”

My eyes pierced into his; in the streets an orange sunset was fighting for its life like a deer caught in the jaws of an enormous anaconda; tired bodies were floating in the middle of the fight; ships on an angry sea.

“Clara, Miguel was in love with a girl born in Buenos Aires. Her name was Helen.

Can you imagine that? Buenos Aires!

The city of Rosas, red ribbons hanging on military uniforms, people screaming death to utilitarianism on every street corner, telluric pampas striving to conquer the city, biting from it…

Ah, I can’t remember the name of the building from which Perón used to speak every year!”

I looked at him in disbelief.

“Angelo, what does Helen have to do with all this? Everything happened long time ago.”

“Oh, but she had a lot to do with…”


The sunset lost the battle; the night was breathing satisfied; stretches of a full anaconda digesting its prey.

“Clara, you are not listening anymore!”

“No, I’m not. And if Miguel is not here in five minutes I’ll start singing Don’t cry for me Argentina and strangle you in the middle of the street, Angelo!”

“Ah, you wouldn’t do this, Clara!”

“No? Watch me!”


I shivered.

There was no Helen.

Miguel never was in a relationship with a woman named Helen.

What was Angelo trying to tell me?

And where was Miguel?



hunter #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 body

i’m pregnant with desires

the Mount of Olives cries

my hands are fighting lions

the mystery of me

is bursting into fires

Love Call #morning fantasy


I awake under the cap of a mushroom.

Its spores surround me like stalactites hanging from the ceiling of a cave.

Rubbing his forewings, a cricket chirps.

Is that you calling for me?

I know it’s you. You must be hiding in the grass!

Come out!

Every evening I’ll bathe your body in milk and honey.

Every morning I’ll dress you in a cloak woven from mulberry silk. I’ll grow wings around your ankles, so you can fly above the Himalayas.

Late night I’ll rub ginger oil onto your skin; every stalactite will fall in love with you.

At midnight when the Siamese purrs on my left thigh, I’ll dip my fingers into rose oil and mend your wounds.

We’ll kiss in the fragrance of leaves, roots, and ripened berries.

Why aren’t you answering?

Where are you hiding?

Come out!



imagine: bruniewska/Shutterstock

Lonely Sundays #midnight fantasy


Tears from the ankle of an iceberg fell on my body.

They crust on my skin like cold wax on a rack of votive candles.

Seconds hurt like lonely Sundays.

I lie in bed.

A canopy of wild roses scents the air.

My dreams burn like your body used to burn in our nights of love.

I feel you.

The pupils of my eyes dilate under the gravity of time.

Mercury and Venus turn the wheels of love.

Crusts of wax melt on the silky sheets.

Your kisses bloom violet waterlilies on my skin.

I taste figs and wild forest.

The wing of an egret covers us.

The room moves on another parallel.

Is it morning?

Is it Sunday?

Where are you?



imagine: bruniewska/Shutterstock


Love in blue and black – A collab — Despite my deepest thoughts


Poetry and music: a collaboration with my dear friend Ankit 

my love,

i speak to you through centuries of pain

trees are spinning barren branches in the air

when loneliness rains on blue hills

i crush my heart

so yours can still beat


ocean waves embrace the moon’s pale chest

instead of tears

i shed naked pearls

so i can wash the effigy of your acoustic agony

and mend the painful scratches from your skin

with my imaginary fingers

in blue and black the time i bend

and no matter who i am

a human or a spirit

i swear to you

i’ll love you till the end.



Untranslated Love — Vita Brevis


My poem “Untranslated Love” published in Vita Brevis

give me the stars

that shine under the bridges

where poor children spend their nights

the blood that leaks from wounds of war

when the last piece of bread is turned in tar


give me the language of your alabaster gestures

the guilty passion of Tristan for Queen Isolde

the mystery of painted nudes on walls

the cries of nuns under an angel’s lacerated wing

your untranslated love coiled in a tarnished ring

Submitted by short-prose-fiction give me the stars that shine under the bridges where poor children spend their nights the blood that leaks from wounds of war when the last piece of bread is turned in tar give me the language of your alabaster gestures the guilty passion of Tristan for Queen Isolde the mystery […]

via Untranslated Love — Vita Brevis


the dance of Isabella #poetry


come and watch the dance of Isabella

the rhythm of castanets awakes the moon

her body tilts the oleander axis of the wind

her hips rotate into the autumn of the fires


an iguana stumbles on profuse desires

opening her eyes on Isabella’s chest

your forehead sinks into the sweat of lovers

who step onto the boats which never will return


watch how Isabella dances

wreaths of conquerors at her feet gleam

lizards from forgotten winters

tattoo her body on your skin


and in the shadows of the lips which spin

locked in the mansion by the lake

i love you more than anybody else

yet you don’t know

because for you i’m just a dream



first published in The literati mafia

i am a woman #poetry


i inhabit the dance of bears on moonless nights

the moves of acrobats in crowded circuses

the fairy-tales of your childhood

the memories of your past loves

the cavalcade of soldiers

who fight forgotten wars

i breathe the sound of flute played by the satyr Pan

the scents of lonely islands where philosophers write

the swirls of ballerinas in mid-air

the mangoes which in nights of love i bite


bathed in rose oil and coriander

lost in the anarchy of flesh

i am a woman

and for me

the nights of passion

are still fresh



imagine: artmirei/Shutterstock

the fruit of love #night fantasy


the juicy fruit of love lies open on a heavy silver tray: its pulp is orange, and its seeds are red

under the alabaster moon, like in the mist of secret sermons, your humid fingers design blue petals on my fragile body

drapes made from the feathers of forgotten purple honey-creepers sleep virginly into the breeze coming from the west

on checkered marble tiles cicadas sing the first Chopin nocturne in B minor

little fairies with big eyes dance tarantella in the air

i see into the purple of your lips the shadow of the woman you will love

don’t move

let me watch the little fairies eating from the fruit of love

when they are done we’ll run into the meadows where trees sleep, and rivers stretch like cats

there on the silky grass will bite together from the alabaster moon

and our love

into another century will bloom



imagine: Maria Okolnichnikova/Shutterstock


The Garden of My Youth #Guest Post


A beautiful poem written by one of my friends, Virginia. I hope you enjoy it!


The Garden of My Youth

by Virginia Mateias

(translated from Romanian by the author’s daughter)


With barren feet I step on withered roses.

Out of warm blood-drops,

Memories will bloom

As I walk in the long since deserted house

Straining to hear

My grandmother’s echoing chants,

My earthly father’s forgotten voice.

From specks of dust and wind

I shall reassemble my Mother`s smile,

As my eyes dance away from cracked walls

Then turn to the sky above;

To the aloof,


Nostalgic sky.

Sunset to sunrise,

I will walk the gardens

Till sleep comes for me and finds me

Hidden In a deep fissure

Near a tall window

Because, you see,

I have always needed high, large spaces.

Afterwards, my child will come

In search of me and of a smile

Embedded in bricks and mortar.

The house itself shall fall apart,

Cars will enter the rose garden,

And a new highway will be built over it;

Only then, will my family and I, utterly freed from space

Will move to the sky,

To the best place to look upon

Strange people we have never met

With detachment,


And nostalgia.


In the spring of 2000 the poet, actress, and journalist, Virginia Mateias published her first literary work: a poetry volume in Romanian entitled “Persistenta Memoriei” (The Persistence of Memory). Virginia was acknowledged by her literary critics as “an authentic and spontaneous poet.” “The Garden of My Youth,” translated in English by her daughter, is a poem from her new book “In Umbra Ingerului” (In the Shadow of the Angel). 

Virginia’s biggest passions: nature escapades, and travelling with her daughter on the footsteps of lost civilizations.

i want to die alone #poetry


i want to die alone

on a dark pebble shore

a thousand frantic seagulls

will sing my mass


(my gravediggers)

will exult

the gravity of nonexistent stars

will bury me

into the scents of salt and fruit

and when my fearless Spanish angel

takes me to the altar of the moon

i will forget the misery i’ve lived

and never be reborn



imagine:  Atelier Sommerland/Shutterstock

paradise #poetry


the southern cross shines on my chest

Moorish patterns verse on silent walls

kisses spin on opal rings

like birds into the winds

which force the sailors

to anchor their ships in unknown lands


my body twists in perfumed coriander air

the Hand of Fatima takes off my veils


i’m falling naked at your feet

your lips entangle in my bracelets

Tchaikovsky’s hitting a crescendo

i toss into the smell of apricots and spice

don’t stop

for Michelangelo has never painted

any expulsion from the paradise

geisha’s pleasures #poetry


it must be January for cherry blossoms open their wings

and melt into the pleasure quarters of your dreams

my face is painted in the purest white

carnations are my lips grown in the dark

my ornaments are birds of paradise

my body sleek

my eyes unspoken fantasies

oh, how well i know your eagerness to bite

you roar and toss on purple sheets

like tigers kept in cages for too long

don’t you know

that in the month of January

the earth cages the sun

my skin remains untouched

my joy is unconfined

and all I am is art?

i’m smiling…

what pleasures do you think that a geisha has in mind?



imagine: iordani/Shutterstock

Love in Venice #Excerpt from the manuscript Glass Lovers


“Would you like to remain in Venice forever?”

He looks at me. His eyes green, his hair dark like the depths of the tropical forest in inky nights when the moon never shows.

I bite my lip.

“Oh, no, but someday I would love to live here for an entire winter.”

“And what would you do?”

“I will walk every night in Piazza San Marco, at that very moment when the silence becomes so permeable that my steps can be heard from the moon. I will look for a new love in the heated, mysterious, thrilling nights of the carnival: changing mask after mask, dress after dress, smile after smile, pain after pain. Every morning I will mix secret essences of perfumes, seeking for the one that could revive the mystique of my body, intoxicate my soul, empower my mind. Every twilight I will dive in the coolness of the Adriatic sea; my body shivering, my soul revived. In the night I will go to consult astrologer after astrologer in the less known quarters of the city.”

I stop.

I look at him. His eyes engulfed by passion, his dark hair touched by a mellow breeze.

The sound of a church bell tears apart the moist air.

He whispers:

“Tonight there is party at the Doge’s Palace. Would you like to come with me?”

“I am not going to parties anymore.”

“Why not?”

“I died long time ago, by mistake. Now I am just a Venetian mask.”

For a moment he looks flabbergasted.

His lips try to bite into mine. In a flash, I avoid them.




purple autumn #poetry


this autumn

let’s bathe naked in the purples

of neurotic symbolistic poetry

let’s burn tree leaves

into the tongues of our passions

the cries of birds

the colors of sunsets

the spleen

lost in lonely parks in other hemispheres

let’s imitate the gestures of rejected lovers

and when the last repudiated poet feels the bliss

let’s disappear forever into the fumes of our kiss



imagine: LanaBrest/

no one’s world #poetry


i can hear the rifle firing

i’m trying not to think

i’m counting empty chairs in a small bar

the polish on my nails is red

my lipstick must be red

i don’t have a mirror

the rifle fires again

i can hear the screams of children

i can hear the screams of brides

it smells anesthetic

death sounds like newborns


bartenders polish glasses

I’m trying to remember where exactly

i belong…


in no one’s world…

lamentations tear at my soul

the hunger games are heating up

and your coffee’s getting cold.

Love #excerpt from the manuscript Glass Lovers


A sky of gray and pink tones was descending upon us. The ocean was petrified, its agitated face morphed into an immense silent mirror. A heavy silence was flowing between the high clouds and the water, meandering like a black venomous snake in a humid jungle.

Sitting on the shore, bewitched by love, none of us moved or spoke.

After a while, Miquel said:

“I stood up to my own God for you, Clara. When I will leave this world, I want you to know that will not kneel in front of Him to beg for forgiveness. If I have to burn in hell, so be it. Love has nothing to apologize for.”

He felt silent.

His green brilliant were eyes scrutinizing the horizon.

For some reason he looked to me like a new version of Columbus determined to reach the East Indies, and instead ending up in San Salvador. Was it better?

I turned toward him. Drops of water were trickling on his neck.

Was it raining, or was I crying?

the naked maja #poetry


i waltz into an empty ballroom

like the ghost of Maja haunting Goya’s dreams*

aquatic lusts fly in the air

(the desperation of the birds caged in your soul)

i follow their music

i choke

where are they coming from?

through the cracking floors

you blow erotic tongues of fumes

i am not desnuda anymore

around my body

yearning cobwebs bloom


*Reference to Goya’s painting La maja desnuda (The Naked Maja)

i will fight #poetry


look for me i’m in the ships that sink

into the waters of the blue Aegean Sea

i’ll be right there when grim bodies wash

at night on its etiolated shores

i’m hidden in the forests which are cut

into the dirt that’s always left behind

child brides are crying terrified

their skin is showing purple marks

a Stradivarius which was never made

plays the tunes of your own mind

the boarding passes that brought us together

are now long gone, the room was cleaned

and if you think that all i am is cloying love

i’m telling you to think again

for tomorrow I will raise my spade

and i will fight



imagine: VeronArt16/Shutterstock

fated cravings #poetry


i was born under the salty light of underwater stars

the air was filled with songs of yellow chrysanthemums

when autumn leaves were burning

the neurotic passions of forgotten lovers

three fates surrounded silently my rosewood cradle

the Spinner threaded all my life from purple silk

her fingers soft like autumnal blisses

her lips a nest of loving birds

the Allotter gave me the sensuality of painted nudes

which interrupt the sanctity of times when church bells toll

the Inevitable fated me with your aquatic soul

and since then I have been craving for your body

liked wisdom craves for ancient scrolls

midnight prayer #poetry


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.



imagine:  Irina Alexandrovna/Shutterstock

Hurricane of Love #Midnight Fantasy


The soil feels like wax.

Memories of you model the landscape.

On my left mountains of passion lost in a pale lunar light.

On my right cascades of your poetry ravishing the jeweled silence of the blue lagoons.

Caught in the middle, I start rotating like a hurricane.

My winds feast on the warmth of your body.

I dig into the dark ocean.

I gust through colonies of fish.

I thunder with desires.

My humid dreams spiral on your fingers like algae on red coral reefs.

Your past loves try to stop me. I roar like a lioness defending her cubs.  I gust through them. They run like birds at the sound of cannon.

Can you feel me now?

Answer me!



untranslated love #poetry


give me the stars

that shine under the bridges

where poor children spend their nights

the blood that leaks from wounds of war

when the last piece of bread is turned in tar


give me the language of your alabaster gestures

the guilty passion of Tristan for Queen Isolde

the mystery of painted nudes on walls

the cries of nuns under an angel’s lacerated wing

your untranslated love coiled in a tarnished ring



imagine: LanaBrest/Shutterstock

Marigolds #Morning Fantasy


I run into the garden of my dreams. The sky opens, the marigolds yawn, and then change colors.

Silence. The silence of the night when my head rested on your shoulder; the night in which the North Pole caught fire melting like a piece of butter on a heated pan.

An African violet beats her eyelashes at me. A second then she shrinks into oblivion. Her memory floats on my retina.

Spanish moss lingers on the murky waters of the Bayou.

A purple honeycreeper starts singing.

Smell of fresh cocoa penetrates my nostrils.

Old wounds crawl on my skin; columns of ants locking for honeydew on a tropical tree.

I fight back.

Your eyes turn from black to blue as they always do in the heat of passion.

Wait… I am not with you anymore. Who is with you? Sheets of time undulate; lonely drapes in the ocean’s breeze. I cannot see who is with you!

My breath accelerates.

I start running.

I hit a tree root.


Millions of colors burst into my eyes; pieces of time flow over the forest.

The sky closes. Marigolds cry.

Where are you?

i am the wounded healer #excerpt from the manuscript Glass Lovers


We were standing in the middle of the street.

The wind was blowing, cooling my skin, drying my lips, undoing my hair, unraveling my colored dress, melting away the earth tones of the afternoon air.

I looked at the buildings around us. Instantly they started deteriorating under our very eyes. They were growing older: channels entrenched into their facades, channels left by painful tears on wax faces.

Wet leaves caught in Miguel’s hair; the old laurel wreath of dead heroes.


Miguel stared at me believing that my love would save him.

I stretched my left arm and touched his cracked lips.

I whispered:

“I am the wounded healer who does not heal anymore.  I cannot save you. Go away, go to the end of this world, and wait for me there. Between two lives, between two centuries, between two sufferings, I’ll look for you. I’ll find you, and then I’ll heal you. Now, I am just the wounded healer who does not heal anymore. He who touches me dies.”

Tears were falling from his eyes.

Around us mounds of ocre humid sand.

No buildings were left.


I will wait for you #poetry


i will wait for you inside the garden of my dreams

knitting scented flowers in the loops of time

rivers of sweet memories will flow

onto the grass which grows on our past

every morning the fresh song of nightingales

will braid white roses in my silky hair

brought by the winds of the Levant

delicious smell of mint and honey on my skin

as years pass my suitors will leave

in precious vases i will soak

the words that you and I have shared

my fragile hands will build a bed for us

mixing aromas of sunsets and grains

and when in the arms of other women, you will be

a tear i will shed and then i’ll wait…

it rained sweet raspberries last night

and in the island of Barthelemy

somebody said my name’s Penelope



imagine: Timur Kulgarin/Shutterstock

i want my body burned #poetry


i want my body burned on pyre

a Viking boat will take me far on the cold sea

i want to leave my grave goods for the poor

and take the pain which branded their souls

into a bursting aurora borealis fire

i want to feel the sobs of the North Pole.


i want to burn inside the rhythms of the flamenco

flame in the dancers’ passion in the streets of old Córdoba

i want to entertain rich masters for a piece of bread

drowned in the silent cries of those who are misunderstood

i want the desperation of the dancers dressed in red.


and you, the one who always claimed to know

what powers lie inside the jungle of my soul

you’ll fade into your own acoustic lamentations

the fated day when i, the queen of sufferers, proclaim

that in the sanctity of the mandala

i want to disappear without a name.



imagine: Timur Kulgarin/Shutterstock

conquerors #poetry


the boat is shaking, and the wind is coiling

far is Phoenicia and its glassware

aromas of old cedar trees and wine,

silk, pomegranates, and dyes

the salt encrusted on your naked body

it hurts my lips

my nostrils flare

stop touching me!

into the dimmest light

my eyes can see the land that we will conquer

let’s anchor our boat

unload the cargo

and then let’s rest under the starry sky


tomorrow morning

rip the Tyrian purple from by body

make love to me like you have never done before

forget the hunger for the shores now left behind

we’ll build a home

we’ll mix the copper with the linen yarn,

with melons, and with apricots

we’ll sink into the fantasies

of all the conquerors who came before

we’ll light in silky skies the brightest sun

we’ll never die

for our children will be here

when others just like us

will come

and call this land

Costa del Sol.

she is just eyes #collaborative poetry


“she is just eyes,” a poem in collaboration with bogpan. You can find more of his wonderful poetry on his blog.

she is just eyes

the moon rests on her neck

i write with a black feather her words
fragile lines on my palms

a sibyl prophesizes

a buzzing bee

reaches out like a cat

above the hills of Florence
like Galileo Galilei I exclaim
“And yet it moves”

the bee lands on her shoulder
my eyes are burning blue


imagine: Timur Kulgarin/Shutterstock

marry me #poetry


when clocks announce mid-night

and lovers fall into a mystic scented sleep

run with me and let’s get married

in the blue forest of my dreams

let’s walk barefoot in the middle of the glen

look, frantic butterflies entangle in my hair

whispering fresh daisies drape my body

green leaves dress quietly your naked shoulders

the moon sets our altar among trees

crickets sing the symphony of love

like church choirs in the dusk

steel a star and set it on my finger

on the cobweb of yellowish moon rays

tree sap seals our union forever

your soul starts flowing into mine

let’s not move until the morning

when we will witness our bodies

merging into a fascinating cosmic tree

marry me!



imagine: Irina Alexandrovna/Shutterstock

i am the one #poetry


i am the voice of your past loves

resounding in your wildest fantasies

dressed in roses at the altar of your dreams

i am the one you’ve never had

my soul flows from the tears of the Nile

from the hands of children who still beg

through ruins, darkness, and deep pain

through wars which they will never understand

i am the last who will be saved

for i have sinned under the shadow of your cross

when Spanish fountains cry in the sunset

i am the Desdemona who you’ve never met

today Granada’s just the place

in which Garcia Lorca once was killed

i am the feather of a gold macaw bird

and in the city where bells toll

i am the one whose cries you’ve never heard.

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

The Purple Lotus #Morning Fantasy


I open my eyes.
Over the night an enormous spider transformed the canopy of the bed into a cobweb made from white diamond dust.
I can see you through it.
You are by the lake.
My royal purple lotus floats silently on the surface of the water.
Morning dew adorns the grass.
In the music room the piano starts playing.
A bunny jumps on my bed. Is that one of your tricks?
Indelible memories of a night in which your hands touched my body come alive.
Silk embraced by skin.
You dive and swim toward the purple lotus.
One of your fingers touches its petals.
My pupils dilate.
I didn’t tell you. There is a love curse. He who touches the lotus…
I can’t hear my voice anymore.
The music hits a crescendo.
The lake freezes.
It’s over.
Through sheets of ice Merlin, the Wizard, smiles.


sail me in your boat #poetry


i smell salt and mangoes

algae float on lips

humid sunset juices

linger on my body

sheets are soft like grass

in the breeding season

of passions made of glass


sail me in your boat

neurotic waves

washing on my breasts

when fires burn old altars

verse for me a moon

to wear it on my finger

breathe with me the waters

where love forever lingers.

death in june #poetry


it’s june

and cherries ripen

under the burning moon

erotic pollen settles on the books

young girls are tossing in their sleep


and in the kingdom by the sea

there is no sign of Annabel*

the symbolism of the great poet dead

the verse a sensually braided thread


the grass is shedding tears

on my naked body

loneliness is weeping

at your feet

and in the kingdom by the sea

i’m slowly dying

longing for your kiss.


Reference to “Annabel Lee,” by Edgar Allen Poe

Aromas of Love #night fantasy #Ragtag Daily Prompt


A full moon weeps cold fragrant oil on my face.  I shiver.

The cicadas’ song penetrates the ethereal membranes of the space.

On one of my thighs a purple mark sighs and then falls asleep.

Looking for prey a snake’s tongue splits the time in two. I feel the bite.


The gallop of your horse on one side of the time.

Echoes of febrile nights of love invade my body.

I can smell roses.

I can hear the song:

Ay, ay, ay, ay
Ay, ay mi amor
Ay mi morena de mi corazón


On the other side of time a church bell tolls.

Silence and sanctity carved in wood.


Lingering in my nostrils fragrances of white ginger flowers overpower the scent of the roses.

Humid fingers caress my lips.

Ay, ay, ay, ay
Ay, ay mi amor…

Hidden in oils aromas the end waits to be written.



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 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

destiny #poetry


your poems tattoo

new destiny lines in my palms

i bleed scented roses

colored in Pompeian red

my hair entangles in hibiscuses

stolen from the tropic of cancer

the bed grows thick aerial roots

the wind plays an archaic song

i toss and turn in silky sheets

it smells pines and dark ocean

your heavy kisses fall on my palms

my destiny lines lead to your soul

i wake up

where are you?

a lonely verse sleeps on my pillow

a rose sighs

bleeding love

romance of the rose #collaborative poetry


“romance of the rose,”a poem in collaboration with bogpan. You can find more of his wonderful poetry on his blog.

the river runs and
washes the shadows from under your eyes
it turns you
into the goddess of roses
now you do not need makeup
not even a mask

without them you are magical

i just have to touch you
with the flames of my heart

soft fingers
of the forgotten winds of Levant
will bury us
in magic and roses
the milky color of your skin
our lips in the wind

fragrances of love
bloom in the river

flames of passion #poetry


flames of passion engulf my body

i walk barefoot in the corridor

Spanish tiles melt under my feet

i dive into the salty ocean

its white spumes catch fire

seagulls cry

palm trees bend

clouds writhe

where are you?

ice my heart

snow my skin

you laugh

your teeth bite my left wrist

your kisses water my neck

spring flowers grow on my skin

my hands explore your face

you rock me in your arms

from a faraway taverna a song spirals around our bodies

we’re both of us beneath our love, we’re both of us above

my fingers touch your lips

I catch fire.



imagine:  Inara Prusakova/Shutterstock

Desert Love #Flash Fiction


He once said: “A city becomes a world when one loves one of its inhabitants.”

Well, I would like to know what makes a desert a world.

Once one steps in a desert one understands that the only love that can make the desert a world is the love for the desert itself.


It’s cold. It rains dry frozen stars.

There is no world without you.

The camel looks at me awkwardly.


Lawrence Durrell, Justine: “A city becomes a world when one loves one of its inhabitants.


There are no complications in the color of the summer — bogpan – блог за авторска поезия


I was delighted to work with bogpan, a fabulous poet, on this piece. The credit goes mostly to him.

“she will pass by me
and summer will become better,
with raspberry taste
and salt

maybe she’ll look at me
the color of her eyes

To read the entire poem, as well as more of his own poetry, please click on the link below.

collaboration with short-prose-fiction

via here are no complications in the color of the summer — bogpan – блог за авторска поезия




sacred love #poetry


among the mystic folds of the ancient night

a sacred empire of love waits for us

you kneel:

“your crown, my queen”

i kneel:

“your spade, my king”

white drapes float in the wind

the eyelashes of a red evening close upon the heated desert

scents of sandalwood linger on my forehead

i grow upon your body

like flowering Spanish moss

upon a tree

under the naked stars

your skin taste myrrh

wild roses crawl on my left arm

a silver cross sleeps on your chest

i touch it with my lips

the ring on your finger tattoos my thighs

sacred love.




Crux #Flash Fiction as Poetry


Whirling winds threw the North Star into a bed of roses.

You took it and hung it on my hair.


Guided by the poetry of its thin sacred light your ship navigated into my soul.

My body trapped you into the ethereal crystals of the Nordic sky.

When I woke up the Southern Cross was shedding tears on your pillow.

She was looking for you.

I hung her on my chest, so she could hear the beatings of your heart.

Roses bloomed on my skin.


gardens of love #evening fantasy


The night was black.

The moon was white.

Between the night and the moon, the prismatic membranes of my soul played the cords of a lyre.

Diaphanous tones kissed the air.

The moonlight passed through my soul.

I heard the aromatic pulse of the earth.

I lay on the ground.

Rays of colors played on my shimmering body.

Red, orange, yellow, green, blue, violet:


my rebellious red blood – contaminated with verses – ran from my heart to yours;

the smell of orange trees bloomed in my hair like in those forgotten Sunday afternoons in which we used to make love;

i saw the eternal pregnant egg yolk – heavy as the promise of a tropical passion night- the imperishable yellow from around your finger

a green iguana blinked and opened its “third eye” inscribing on my thighs the fairy-tales of the women you loved.

a bird gave me the evil eye: children’s fingers colored in blue hung on the Hand of Fatima trying to protect me;

it smelled violets; caressed by languorous leaves i fell in the autumn kiss in which we first met.



I turned around.

My naked body touched yours.

Between your skin and mine the sensuality of colors grew aromatic gardens

Gardens of love.

Fathoms of Kisses #Evening Fantasy #Short Prose


Last night it rained ruby wine on the white roses in my garden

In the dim moonlight a small orange bird told me I cut myself

I looked at my thighs

Translucent chantilly lace silently hugging my skin: slight marks left by your teeth

I looked at my palms

Fathoms of your kisses floating on my fingers: violet water lilies sleeping on hidden emerald lakes

The night was ripped by the gallop of an Arabian horse: the painful beatings of your heart calling for me.

I ran toward you: thorns scratched my skin, dry branches blocked my way

I felt pain

I kept running from one century to another

Smell of scented candles flickered on the heavy silver of the icons

I trapped you in my humid dream like a naked pearl trapped by a shell

We made love in silky sheets of poetry

I could hear the purr of pharaoh’s cat…

What century was that?

Picasso’s Rose #poetry


you meet me in your dreams

i feed you bread

your lips taste sweet grains

my lips taste ambrosia

around our bodies

silky white sheets

your palms touch roses

my palms touch snow

a door gets slammed

the room is dark

the music stops

the forest cries

you wake up

from inside a frame

i look at you

all silent and all rose


Pablo Picasso

with love enclosed.

anchor me #poetry


i am a ship lost on the Danube’s blue waters

i navigate your love

dark waves get jealous

laughingly they hit me

i keep moving

ancient myths float above the water

they entangle me

i hurt

my left arm bleeds

save me

your touches drip sweetness from the Milky Way

i hit a rock

your violet passions blow waves

they lift me up

your fingers spread rose oil on my skin

you waltz me on blue waters

the night is young

the spumes are white

the stars are far

another hundred yards

till my body reaches the harbor of your heart

pearls sigh

pull me

anchor me

love me!



imagine: venusvi/Shutterstock

on my fragile skin #poetry


the bed grows fragrant roots

the night flavors mango juices

candles flicker on yearning bodies of fated lovers

centuries pass


riverbeds of dry wrinkles


no one writes to the colonel

in a corner

from a cacti’s areola a flower grows

the night whispers rapid drops of rain

“i don’t have a throne, my queen

or somebody that understands me” *

over and over

your voice plays

on my fragile skin


“no tengo trono ni reina

ni nadie que me comprenda

Luis Miguel Gallego Basteri, “El Rey

night-time ecstasy #flash fiction


The lake was hidden in the middle of a secret cherry grove.

For thousand years its face silent; its beauty unknown; its deep desires unspoken.

One night a magic breeze blew above its waters.

The lake and the breeze fell in love.


Waves and tongues of air caressed each other

Flames of passion lit a violet sky

Whispers of occult desires made the cherries blush

Bubbles floated in the air

Murmurs of love filled the universe


The ecstasy from the beginning of the world


In the morning the breeze died. The magic lake shed dark tears.  Inside its heart the breeze’s memory gave birth to spellbinding aquatic flowers.