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



imagine: 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)


imagine: 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



imagine: Bespaliy/Shutterstock 


silhouetted #poem #poetry


i had to go through your soul

so i can get to mine

once in mine

i wish

i would have stayed in yours

silky sheets blushed the entire night

at dawn no space

between our souls

you laugh

i cry

a black lace glove, and a red rose

silhouetted against the floor.



imagine: Nodff/Shutterstock


who are you? #poem #poetry



who are you?

which gale winds have blown you here?

which fallen saint showed you the way?

besieged by you, old loves abandoned in dark cemeteries

lament like choirs in my Hellenistic Greece

virgin thighs ferment inside your blood

scared azaleas tremble on my pillows

step in my room

and know no fear

unravel poems from your battered heart

scent the roses with my fantasies’ Levant

weave lies into the brocade of my sofas

make those satyrs with horse ears to shut up


let’s dwell in silence for a minute…

then tell me how you landed here

and who are you

my darling sonneteer?





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



imagine: 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



imagine: LanaBrest/Shutterstock



My Dear Readers, 
I am delighted to let you know that my unbelievably talented friend Ankit Thapa and I just finished our second online collaboration: poetry and music (vblog)  
lyrics and recitation: short-prose-fiction (me)
music, production, and arrangements:  Ankit Thapa 
“moons illuminate your skin…”