The Beginning #Glass Lovers (excerpts from the introduction)

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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

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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

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“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

 

flames of passion #poetry

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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.

*

do not assume anything

 

come back to me #poetry

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come back to me my prince from unknown lands

where orange suns flame tops of granite mountains

your pain will disappear into the néant

i’ll read you ancient legends on the beach

in nights when mermaids’ voices crave lost heroes

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 on my skin will glow

 

come back to savor ripened mango from my hands

when the piano plays nocturnal rhythms of love

when purple jacaranda is in bloom

and fresh hibiscuses sleep on my pillows

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

in ocean’s spumes my body will be dressed

come back to me my prince from fragrant dreamy lands.

 

Desert Love #Flash Fiction

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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.

 

bedroom tales II #poetry

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lay in the bed, my king

the night is deep

narcissi are in bloom

and aromatic wine long went to sleep

enclosed into the amphorae’s hips

cross your hands

under your head

let your liquid soul

meet mine into my estuaries’ dreams

i will make sure

the moon rises in sky

i will anoint your feet

with heavy scented hip rose oil

and like Scheherazade

i’ll spend the night

whisperings tales that have no end

now listen

my eyes are heavy

my love is in humid bloom

and far in the horizon

between the earth and sky

breathes an orange moon.

*

Narcissism is not inspirational. Narcissi are.

 
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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