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.

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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.

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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.

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And then there was me: Clara. Who was I? We have time for that later.

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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.

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Excerpt from the manuscript Glass Lovers

 

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
lipstick
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

 

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
carelessly
and summer will become better,
hot
with raspberry taste
and salt

maybe she’ll look at me
the color of her eyes
enigmatic….”

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

collaboration with short-prose-fiction https://shortprose.blog/

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

 

 

 

 

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.

Polaris.

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.

Crux.

 

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:

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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.

*

Moonlight

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?

@short-prose-fiction