who are you? #published poem #Wolff Poetry Literary Magazine

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My Dear Readers,

My poem “who are you?” published by Wolff Poetry Literary Magazine.

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…
continue reading here 

@short-prose-fiction

 

Andalusian Resurrection #poem #poetry

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In Spain, the dead are more alive than the dead of any other country in the world.
Federico García Lorca

open your veins Andalusia
let him drink from your lynx blood
inject the rhythms of the flamenco
under the coldness of his eyes
tattoo his flesh with tiles of azurite
pour the sounds of castanets
into his arms
my fingers swirl
the flesh of ripened olives
covers the old shroud
the flow of blood from the white shirt
has stopped
i hear his voice
there is one cross
and you’re my only love
my body arches
scented oils flame in my hair
a Moorish verse explodes onto a wall
his eyes are aiming
from my lips
he bites

Andalusia
i kneel among your cacti fed by salt
your wounded lashes
resurrected him
for yet
another night

@short-prose-fiction

imagine: Andi-pix; Shutterstock 

 

before you leave me #poem #poetry

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before you leave
do not forget to take with you
our rhymes of love
flip flopping fish on foyers’ marble
the velvety récamier red sofa
on which the two of us inscribed
the decadence of our southern afternoons
the crystal glasses
now obliterated by the taste of the old wine
the plumage of dipper birds
submerged under the waters by our ardent nights
the blue imprints of fingers on the walls
oh, the withered roses?
you can have them
and with them
our entire past

@short-prose-fiction

 

 

the ridicule of the unknown #poem #poetry

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your eyes, the prohibition of cold winters
my eyes, the wanderers of earth
a copper sea mimics the candor
silence flies over the same archipelago
ah, Madeira
golden feathers are your waters
your lips taste wine
your breath smells corolla of flowers
we killed into your sands
the ridicule of the unknown
and went beyond
the ecstasies pantomimed
inside of the forever known

a golden yolk suspends itself in the warm air
a key is turning in a lock
the cries of winds vibrate an air sock

@short-prose-fiction

 

My poem “Adam’s sin” published by Spillwords Press

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Dear Readers,

I am thrilled my poem “Adam’s sin” was published by Spillwords Press.
Thank you so much for your support. Good wishes and hugs to everyone.

a canary sings
nuptial interludes
your flesh pays its tribute to some other lovers
transitory birds
come and go like seasons
noisy V-shaped flocks
i sigh
then i listen to a monk who reads
from a book of psalms
rings sleep on my fingers
arabesque designs shiver on my skin
pastel sunsets….

continue reading here

 

 

@short-prose-fiction

 

Sutures #Short Prose #Flash Fiction

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“Oh, the four of you at that time!

Like the confluence of four deep, unsettled seas tied together into a magnificent enormous drape of spume; feelings suturing earth and sky like stitches suturing wounds; small fragments of fiction scribbled on paper; books of poetry resonating in the dark like cords of mandolins under the fingers of rejected lovers; fragile withered roses kept forever like relics in a church; the smell of fresh painted canvases mixed with that of salt water.

Any relation with the outside world severed.

That was the reality born out of your fantasy, Clara.”

I was in tears

“Angelo, I know of no other reality but my fantasy.”

 

Excerpt from the manuscript “Glass Lovers”
@short-prose-fiction

 

what i want #poem #poetry

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a tipsy air plays with my dress
golden afternoons fall from my hair
fingers, pillars of the city
point toward the dangers of an angry sea

why are my ships hit by deceptive languor?
what have you done to them to fall in love with you?
i rip my dress and threw it to the waves
i raise my head
and speak to you

what do i want?

i want to sail to the East Indies
to bathe in essences of coriander and of cinnamon
to meet the founders of the now adulterated cities
exchange my soul for silky fabrics in Jaipur

to walk in temples nested in the banyan trees
to bite the skin of passion fruits in naked nights
to tear my heart and throw it to Lord Vishnu
to soil my hands while healing beggars in the streets

oh, i know…
your poetry which rings for me
your feathered kisses nuzzling my neck
everything one day will wash at sea
and that will be the day in which
fingers, pillars of the city
will turn your love
toward the real me

 

draft
@short-prose-fiction

 
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Restoring Memories #Guest Post #David Wesley Woolverton

My Dear Readers,

“Restoring Memories” a guest post by a very talented writer David Wesley Woolverton. David is an aspiring author currently pursuing a master’s degree in creative writing at the University of South Alabama. His interests include trains, books, and daydreaming.

 

Nesrin and Ceylan had just joined the restoration staff of an open-air museum preserving the remains of an ancient city. They surveyed the ruins around them, finding very little left of the city; some scraps of wall, a few statues, minuscule traces of road.
Nesrin stopped to pet the nose of a stone lion, analyzing the contrast between her young-looking fingers and the years recorded by the moss and dirt on the statue. “Hard to believe this was our childhood home.” Continue reading here.

 

 

 

the cello #poem #poetry

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i play the cello in the old streets
walls open wounds inflicted long ago
imaginary lovers contort in the air
and on my bow the grief of others
settles

i swallow tears and i play
the pain of those who cannot walk the streets
immersed in ecstasy and solitude
with all my sufferings
the walls i greet
till you’ll come out
and you’ll throw
a petty dime
right at my feet

 

@short-prose-fiction

 

triolets #poem #poetry

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I wish to see you walk through the Arco de Elvira, to find out your name and shed a tear.” Federico García Lorca.

 

a violet sunset laments in the city
saps of triolets flow on my neck
ah, Granada
i stretch inside your memory
like felines on grasslands
a lily cries
my bracelets dangle
the eyes of candles flicker in your Spanish nights

fingers of lascivious desires
steal from my neck the saps of triolets
Granada
play your magical guitars
unleash the beauty hidden in your walls
the frenzy of the flesh which dies
into the ardent gestures of your dance
under La Puerta de Elvira
yesterday two lovers met
and i,
i wait in tears
for the love
which knows the mysteries of triolets

 

 

@short-prose-fiction