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


image: 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)


image: 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


image: Bespaliy/Shutterstock 


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


image: 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


image: LanaBrest/Shutterstock


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 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


image: Kiselev Andrey Valerevici/Shutterstock