write me love letters

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Write me love letters

Don Quixote is still standing in Madrid

Fighting windmills perpetually caught

In his imagination’s grid.

 

Like Dante using iambic pentameters

Write me the pain ripping your heart

Write me an epic like Homer

Armor my soul with magic art.

 

And build for me a citadel of love

Its walls the crystal of my tears

Its altar’s candles luminating

The path for lovers of all years.

 

Trap me! – Published in Vita Brevis

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Please, trap me in the rhythms of the Flamenco

Whose sounds invade the nights of Southern Spain

To breathe the notes of the guitars which play,

And, fill the lustrous eyes with burning pain.

 

And trap me in the Florence of my dreams

To walk with Leonardo in its streets,

To verse in Greek, and cry with the Madonna

When the last word of Christ forever speaks.

 

Continue reading here

 

Into the winter of your soul

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No murmurs of the mandolins tonight

Sensual caresses caught in tears

Snow flowing under lonely sheets

Heavy steps of musketeers.

 

The age of fable is now past

Dice shivering in Eros’ palms

Into the winter of your soul

A double of Dumas is reading

From a lonely book of psalms.

 

for the daily prompt: age

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

our love reflection in the glass

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Erotic butterflies

Punctuating your imagination

Half-moons deep hidden

In your metaphors

Roses dressed in carnal visions

Winter winds designing ores.

 

Amalgamations of semantics

Zephyr is blowing from the west

Cascades of pain are falling from the ceiling

White plants encroaching on my breasts

Love whispers on my lips are reeling.

 

Archaic veils are undulating

Within the sparkling times that passed

The hands of clocks are moving backwards

Remain

And let’s enthrall the mappemonde

With our love reflection in the glass.

 

daily prompt sparkle

Bedroom Tales – Published in Vita Brevis

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

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

Read the entire poem here

Venetian Kiss

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

Full moons are bathing Venice into gold

The door of the Basilica was opened

The tale of the Byzantine’s refinement told.

 

Let’s kiss into the sound of Adriatic waters

And ride Venetian horses built in stone

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

Erasing Death in Venice with our kiss’ cyclone.

 

Let our kisses be transformed in sparkling chandeliers

Made of Murano glass suspended on the ceilings

Of all the souls who cried in Venice

Unknown, rejected, wounded in their feelings.

*

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

tropical love

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The tropic dangling its shiny earnings

During its febrile summer nights

You opening the windows of the bedroom

Inviting in its luscious thighs.

 

Trade winds are playing the piano

Hibiscuses are rushing in the bed

Your hands are looking for my body

Clad in the moons’ prodigious red.

 

The mattress under us grows fragranced roots

Vivid hibiscuses entangle in my hair

Green ocean waters rushing from above

Caught in tropic’s thunderstorm of love.

 

betray me

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Betray me the night Delilah

Cut in silence Samson’s hair

So I will understand that venom

Can dress itself into seraphic veils.

 

Betray me the day that Brutus

Betrayed Caesar by the door

So I will understand that darkness

Mostly walks on marble floors.

 

Betray me on Mount of Olives

The horrid night when Judas betrayed him

So I can bloom into the Sunday morning

Witnessing a beatific era now aborning.

 

Then let me bathe into the new apotheotic world

And understand the pain of those misunderstood

My hands forever diamonding your painful souls

With faithful kisses carved from scented wood.

 

Versing Together

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Remain,

And verse for me tonight

The mystery of the Kabbalah

The long forgotten gnostic knowledge

Sung in the evening by cicala.

 

Remain,

I’ll verse for you tonight

On Mozart’s splendid magic flute

The scents of violets in the dusk

And the encoded mystic fruit.

 

Remain,

Let’s verse together in aromas

Of candles craving to ascend

Ulysses’ s allegorical return

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

 

Astral Mandolins

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Play in your room the mandolin tonight

Painting the air with aurora borealis’ verses

When arabesque designs awake my soul

The shining sound the time reverses.

 

Play in the streets your mandolin tonight

Into the touching of the cords your love for me

The beatings of my heart will choreograph the scenes

Making the aurora australis never flee.

 

When you are done, come to my room

We can unmake the bed, and lie in silence still

Immersed into the sounds of astral mandolins

Watching hermetic lovers dancing the quadrille.

 

Midnight Prayer

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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.

 

mardi matin (tuesday morning)

 
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 en 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.»
**********
“If things were always what they seemed, how impoverished would be the imagination of man!” Lawrence Durrell, Balthazar.   

Aléxandros ho Mégas (Alexander the Great)

 

My body roped

In chains of memory

My soul all clad

In gray resounding pain

I feel like Aléxandros ho Mégas

Before he died at thirty-three

Regretting that he created

His own astounding legacy.

 

Grayish phantoms of past lovers

Lost centuries ago in heavy battles

Are whispering the same unnecessary story.

Oh, how I need my long forgotten sonneteer

To tell me how not to succumb

To the old pain of earthly glory.

*

Photo Credit: google.com, image labeled for reuse