atrocities #poem #poetry

it rains atrocities on fields of love
predatory nights, barbed wire walls,
the silence of asphyxiated birds
funerals of human parts
the geopolitics of pain engulfs the maps
revulsion,
eyes intoxicate the shadows in your chambers of delight
I change the course
I walk on heated rocks
hurt, the sound of waves invades my mind
I sail my boat into the hearts of those who are misunderstood
pain, the first dimension, runs at the speed of light
space, the nothingness between your soul and mine,
mistress of the purple,
jacaranda hides its kisses inside the metaphor of us
a lily cries
I feed a child
with grains that grow within my palms
it rains the echoes of tomorrow
asphyxiated birds
barbed wire walls

@Gabriela Marie Milton

image: Anna Ismagilova; Shutterstock; [link]

Among our loves there are some that are not ours.

Excerpt from the manuscript Glass Lovers
@Gabriela Marie Milton

image: Dmytro Vietro; Shutterstock; [link]

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!

Gabriela

My pain has no center and no limits.

@Gabriela Marie Milton

Galleria dell’Accademia, Florence, July 28

“Clara, he needs a haircut.”
“Who?”
Miguel rolls his eyes.
“David.”
“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”

@short-prose-fiction

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
mama’s young
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
Stella
August 15

Mama was only 18 years old when this picture was taken.

caressed together by the waters of Corinth
inside the darkest forests chasing statuary nymphs
the decadence of Hellenistic love
blissfully raining laughter from above

“the condo of the virgin” sitting empty
the goddess long dissolved into the néant
you softly reading Hebrew texts in Greek
the painful comedy of life on sale this week

@short-prose-fiction
first published in Vita Brevis Poetry Magazine; November 25, 2017