My poem “the ridicule of the unknown” published by Vita Brevis.
I want you to know how much I appreciate you reading my work and inspiring me.
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
golden feathers are your waters
your lips taste wine
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My poem “triolets” published by Spillwords Press.
Please know that your support and love are the real inspiration behind my work.
“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
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
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hangs black drapes on all my windows
look, i packed some memories for her
my crocheted dress
he liked so much
the smell of jasmine from my hair
three roses and aromas of some fruit
prayers and a poem that i wrote
the red of tamarillos from the Spanish bowl
the innocence i cherished
when i was sixteen
this Sunday doesn’t stop
she wants my soul
image: EhayDy; Shutterstock; [link]
Winter night tormented by hauling winds. I lie in bed. I can hear that beautiful raspy voice of his:
“I have seen so much in my life: indescribable humiliations, deep scars on burned faces, dreams crushed like broken glass on empty floors.
We desperately want to love, to possess each other, caught in a perpetual rush to justify our existence.
Yet there is no love that can fully satisfy us. The passions of the flesh get exhausted in bed. What is left is exhausted by our imagination.
Physical love does not bind forever. Soul bonds do.”
Memories of a silky African violet nightgown modeling my body.
Ah, where are you? Where are you now?
excerpt from the manuscript “Glass Lovers”
image: Anna Ismagilova; Shutterstock, [link]
winds play on my sheer dress
rhythms of the sirtakis dance
petals of white roses float over the bluest sea
lassitude spreads rosy fever
among the sailors on the ships
inside the blue tavern
in the port
we eat keftedes
and drink coffee boiled into a copper briki
feathers of white drapes cover my body
a yellow melon bursts in seven pieces
oh, its sweet pudicity
its enigmatic jealousy!
your hungry hands encircled on my hips
the bluish purple of an hyacinth
whispers words of night in Greek
and by the “condo of the virgin”*
we loved each other feverishly
for an entire week
*reference to the Parthenon, temple dedicated to Athena who was a virgin goddess
image: Riekus; Shutterstock. [link]
we got married at midnight
waves washed our naked feet
your face was shaved, my hair smelled almonds
and tears covered my veiled lips
your grandmother’s cross was nesting on my breast
songs of nightingales resounded in the honeyed water
new pearls were braided on my dress
and borrowed lace adorned my hips
leaves rustled in a tree
the water turned to wine
the moon rose from the sea
like at the mystic wedding
in Cana of Galilee
“I, Miguel Julian Veracruz, take you to be my wife until the end of my life and beyond. I swear on the true cross of my ancestors who endured famine, who fought hurricanes, who sailed their ships through darkness and light into the vastness of the ocean, bible in one hand and sword in the other, to love you until the end of all worlds. My ancestors killed. May my love for you wash the blood from their hands. My ancestors burned down temples. May the fire of my love for you redeem them. May […]
Say yes, Clara, say yes, please!”
Miguel’s words cut the sky in two. The green of his eyes looked exactly like that of his Maria de Guadalupe medallion which he never took off. That beautiful silver Spanish ring, a family heirloom, worn by his mother on the fourth finger of her right hand, appeared on his palm out of nowhere.
Lightning struck the waters. A whirlpool of colors flamed the boat; the air was spinning around me like a tornado let lose over the face of the earth. My breathing stopped. I thought I was imagining everything.
Jacques asked in that deep, unmistakable voice of his.
“Where were you Clara?”
“In Miguel’s boat on the waters of the Atlantic. In the beginning it looked like an ordinary Sunday afternoon. Miguel ordered the boat out. I thought it was odd that he was not sailing it. He hired a captain whose wife cooked dinner, set the table, and brought a bunch of papers for us. I did not know what they were.”
“What did you say, Clara?”
Excerpt from the manuscript “Glass Lovers” (draft)
image: Sofi photo; Shutterstock; [link]
your secret hides inside my name
inside the splendor of the night in which you didn’t say a word
feathers of macaw birds trace music sheets
the rays of sun stretch on the pebble beach
a fragrant song delights itself on my red lips
i rest my head on your left shoulder
into the lands of spices waiting to be born
some carnal dreams howl on the corridor
i locked the door!
this morning we can die
we won’t tell a soul
and never ask for more
image: Liliya Kulianionak; Shutterstock [link]