Lonely Saturdays #poem #prosepoem #poetry

The ankle of an iceberg cries. Its tears fell on my body.
They crust on my skin like cold wax on a rack of votive candles.
Seconds hurt like lonely Saturdays.
I lie in bed.
Roses scent the air.
My dreams burn. Ashes of our nights of love cover the sun.
My eyes dilate under the gravity of time.
I taste figs and wild forest.
The room moves on another longitude.
Is it morning?
Is it Saturday?
Where are you?

related: Sunday on another latitude

@short-prose-fiction (Gabriela M)

image: bruniewska; Shutterstock; [link]

Thank you! I was voted Author of the Year (2020) at Spillwords Press #award

My Dear Readers,

I was voted author of the Year at Spillwords Press NYC (2020). I am deeply grateful to those of you who voted for me.

Thank you to you, and to the incredible team who runs Spillwords Press.

I am deeply humbled and honored by this recognition. However, I’ve never written for the purpose of receiving an award. I’ve always written to touch others’ souls. If this award will allow me to reach more people, I will certainly consider it a win. I was not taught to think “I.” I was taught the think “we.”

Without my students I am not a professor, and without my readers I am not an author. This award belongs to you as much as it belongs to me, and to those you have supported me in my journey in life until this point.

Yours,

Gabriela

Check winners by category here.

@short-prose-fiction(Gabriela M)

Passion #poem #poetry

I seek you
like roots seek water
the thirst which blasts within the rhythms of castanets
in Andalusia of the flamenco dancers dressed in red
I see you
the face of the lost stranger
dissimulating grief in autumn shadows
killed by the aurora borealis in the southern hemisphere
I feel you
dreams of wild young tigers
ravaging the flesh of prey with their teeth
in the Sahara of my burning suns the fate plays games
……..

fragment from the poem “Passion”; from the upcoming book Passion: Love Poems and Other Writings
@short-prose-fiction (Gabriela M)

image:  agsandrew; Shutterstock; [link]

The Angel of God #poem #prose poem #short prose #flash fiction

He comes back only when the Angel of God makes blue and yellow rings fall asleep on my fingers.
One night he swore his oaths upon our unmade bed and the river Styx.
His guitar swore its oaths upon a red rose.
This is not the time of year when his tears – chariots of fire – fall from the sky.
Neither that day of spring when I lie in bed covered by wedding veils.
Those are the only times when his soul plays guitar behind the Japanese screen in my bedroom.
You couldn’t hear him playing in the library.
So, what did you really hear?
Do you believe that his ghost hides inside his portrait hanging on the wall?
Oh, no! This is not a Harry Potter fantasy. His soul is not inside any portrait.
Now, I think it’s time for you to leave.
Why? Are you asking me why?
You saw the inscription below his portrait: granted just a quote he loved.

There are only three things to be done with a woman. You can love her, suffer for her, or turn her into literature.

Here’s your answer. You can’t do any of those things. So, you better leave.
No, his soul wasn’t here tonight.
Tonight, it is I who speaks, not him.

@short-prose-fiction (Gabriela M) 

image: Anna Ismagilova; Shutterstock; [link]
quote attribution: Lawrence Durrell, Justine