Love Battles #Glass Lovers


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

Ha! And by whom? By a Frenchman?!

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

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

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

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


Both of them reduced me to a war trophy.

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


From the manuscript Glass Lovers




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

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

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

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

Alas, I should have asked too.


Excerpt from the manuscript Glass Lovers   


for you #short prose


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

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

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

Can I still make all things possible?

The walls stay silent.




solitude #poetry


my taffeta dress falling

on the floor

staining the carpet

with the violets of beach pea.


your kisses morphing

on my neck

into the loneliness

of sand castles lost to sea.


the shining mirror now reflecting

a golden painting of a nude

Márquez is finishing in silence

his hundred years filled with solitude.


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



inheritance: don’t cast the stone


oh, don’t cast the stone

my dear reader

before you understand

what kind of love is hidden

into the ripping of the shirt

at midnight

when ancient rituals

are blessing

the meeting of the minds.


don’t cast the stone

my dear reader

until you know thyself

and step

into the wisdom of all ages

coming to know

mermaids from prophets

and courtesans from

Dante’s Beatrice.


and even then

don’t cast the stone

for you are not

without sin.


daily prompt: inheritance 


write me love letters


Write me love letters

Don Quixote is still standing in Madrid

Fighting windmills perpetually caught

In his imagination’s grid.


Like Dante using iambic pentameters

Write me the pain ripping your heart

Write me an epic like Homer

Armor my soul with magic art.


And build for me a citadel of love

Its walls the crystal of my tears

Its altar’s candles luminating

The path for lovers of all years.



Trap me! – Published in Vita Brevis


Please, trap me in the rhythms of the Flamenco

Whose sounds invade the nights of Southern Spain

To breathe the notes of the guitars which play,

And, fill the lustrous eyes with burning pain.


And trap me in the Florence of my dreams

To walk with Leonardo in its streets,

To verse in Greek, and cry with the Madonna

When the last word of Christ forever speaks.


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