My Dear Readers,
I was planning to post a piece of prose today. However I got news that my poem “Amour” (by Gabriela M.) was nominated for publication of the month at Spillwords Press. You can read the poem here.
I write to ask for your vote (if you enjoyed the poem). There are other nominated poems so you can check them out too.
You do not need a Spillwords account to vote (although opening one is easy). You can vote with your Facebook or your Twitter account.
Thank you for your help.
You can vote here
Have a fabulous day!
on the barren shore
you play your mandolin
I conjugate “to leave” in the voice of trees
the air reverberates expressions of old gods
the space changes its mind
maybe it is Samos, perhaps it is just Crete
traces of death, glimpses of the future
your thoughts are cut in marble
scratches turn to yellow
delineations, conquerors of islands
the shore melts in the waters
your eyes tell prophesies
the time changes its mind
perhaps it was just Samos, maybe it was Crete
the dying mandolin, the smell of ripened olives
an unmade wooden bed
the names of I, You
from the series “Mediterranean Love”
read more poems from this series:
amor, amore, mon amour – mediterranean
bullfighter (matador de toros)
forgotten in the Port of Naples
image: leoks; Shutterstock; [link]
My Dear Readers,
“Shadows,” a guest post by a very young and talented writer David Wesley Woolverton. David is an aspiring author who has just completed his graduate studies in creative writing at the University of South Alabama. His interests include trains, books, and daydreaming.
“Sometimes Nesrin just looked at her own shadow...” please continue reading here.
lurking at the margins of your love
does not expand and does not shrink
the lake reflects the light of a dead star
a seagull heaves upward
an aching call
the cosmic Adam does not care
that I was set on his left side
image: Eisfrei: Shutterstock; [link]
My pain has no center and no limits.
gestures of disoriented lovers
vermeil of the candelabra in the sky
somebody gathers petals in a Spanish bowl
inaudible, your feelings skirmish
to escape your soul
a streetlamp dressed in purple looks at you
I lost the earrings that you gave me in the spring
a samovar exhales aroma of black tea
behold the time of you and me
debauchery in summer
Galleria dell’Accademia, Florence, July 28
“Clara, he needs a haircut.”
Miguel rolls his eyes.
“For crying out loud, he is a statue.”
“So? I wonder where the closest barbershop is.”
“Miguel, are you crazy?”
“Yep. Crazy in love with you.”
Excerpt from the manuscript “Glass Lovers”
image: Marc Little, Shutterstock; [link]
My Spillwords Author of the Month interview. Thank you to everyone who voted for me.
You can read it here.
image: Maksim Kaborda; Shutterstock; [link]
travelers in colored carts
head to roads of no return
a fortune teller speaks of love
milk and honey wait for me
the lilac is in bloom
the hands of the rose garden wave to me
i turn the key of the blue room…
Since my mother left this world, I’ve carried her picture in my purse every day. During the Easter Mass her picture felt out of my purse. When I picked it up I noticed, for the first time, the inscription on the back:
a tear on the tomb of a dream
Mama was only 18 years old when this picture was taken.
I follow you onto old streets
hermetic sealers, principles of dark
alchemy, the name of you and me
windows of the courtesans from Syracuse
on which some neophytes waste their time
a boat which never leaves the shore
my body, syllogism of lust
fertility of the flatlands
disoriented rivers confluent on maps
the seventh circle turns into the eighth
people like money, they don’t like art
the wisdom of old sages hidden in plain sight
I wasn’t Beatrice
I should have been
forgive me father, for I’ve sinned
inside the gnostic bridal chamber
I fell in love with him
image: PinkCat; Sutterstock; [link]