There is nobility in giving: the kind of nobility that those who rule the world in bullet points will never know.
Thank you to my blogger friend, Brad Osborne, for the joy he brought in my life yesterday. Brad wrote a poem about how much I inspire him. I am humbled by his words and I will never forget his noble gesture.
Please visit Brad’s site at commonsensiblyspeaking
Brad’s poem for me is called “You take me there.”
Here is the first stanza:
How is it that with simple phrase
You ply the paths inside my mind
Transported back to younger days
My life, somehow, put on rewind
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?
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)
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
the biblical sense of to know
born in a summer that never existed
nailed to the cross of your poems
I’m losing my mind inside the blue night
I reach you in dreams you do not understand
It hurts when I’m there
It hurts when I’m not
I ask for the help gravediggers can grant
I wrote I love you on a note that I locked
It wasn’t a snake, it was an iguana
the night the tango nuevo played its guitar
on fifteen decades you counted your prayers
my fingers were naked
my fingers were gloved
deification of the virgin nymph within my palms the flesh of violet sunsets flips like fish on land my eyes, inheritors of light singular sinkholes punctuating a low sky your love…
continue reading with WP here
on Vita Brevis Press here.
Vita Brevis just published Pain & Renewal: A Poetry Anthology. I have two poems included: The Dark Flag of Pain and Autumn Healing.
“Pain & Renewal features a collection of incredible voices — from Pulitzer and Pushcart prize winners to brand new poets, it’s filled with moving poetry about the highs and lows of the human experience.”
with this ring I promise you I will erase the shadows of the slave trade locked in the heat of samba in the nights of carnival coins put on the eyes of dead at funerals -forgotten tickets of the unforgotten..
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 oils flame in my hair a Moorish verse falls from a wall covering my cries
Andalusia I kneel among your cacti fed by salt your wounded lashes resurrected him for yet another night