The fabulous art of Francisco Bravo Cabrera #drawings #guest post

My Dear Readers,

It is my pleasure to introduce you to the fabulous art of Francisco Bravo Cabrera.
[site]

Francisco Bravo Cabrera’s  drawings are done with different kinds of pencils and China ink on paper. On occasion Francisco creates a jazz band and gives his drawings a name.  His drawings are approximately 24×30 cm in size.  Francisco feels that in order to be true to his commitment which he calls “Jazz Art” he must follow the rules that the great Jazz masters of New Orleans came up with at the beginning of the XIXth Century.  Those rules are: you have to use improvisation; you have to let the performer be the creator; and finally the work (song) must swing, in other words, there must be rhythm. For Francisco to draw and to be faithful to this definition, he must be able to improvise most of the composition, which usually begins from a thick/thin black line that guides, the line turns into aspects of the composition and then the composition creates itself and to make it swing, he has to provide the rhythm.  Francisco thinks rhythm can be gained by what the composition represents, the dynamics between the parts of the composition and their perspectives.  It helps him if he makes them play jazz and dance.

I trust you will enjoy Francisco’s drawings: Cuban Son, Iberian Confusion, and Orujo con Ainhoa

 

 

@short-prose-fiction (Gabriela M)
 

There is nobility in giving. Thank you to Brad Osborne

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

Please read Brad’s entire poem and post here 

Thank you all.
Yours,
Gabriela

@short-prose-fiction (Gabriela M)

 

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]

 

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

 

fears of death #poem #poetry

….
ah, I forgot to tell you when I meet you in my dreams
Arabella still sells bracelets in the silver market
she asks me every time about you
I lie and promise her you’ll come next time
to buy another bracelet and some juicy limes

now in the silence of long purple nights
my silver bracelets cannot hurt you anymore 
but every minute you are not with me
cuts yet another wound into my soul

fragment from the poem Fears of Death

@short-prose-fiction(Gabriela M)

image: Zolotatevs; Shutterstock; [link]

 

the biblical sense of to know #poem #poems

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

@short-prose-fiction (Gabriela M)

image: agsandrew; Shutterstock; [link]

 

the kiss of no return #poem #poetry

pain is dripping from guitars
into sunsets with no end
pigeons guide ships lost at sea
tears drop from plumy skies

oh, how your fingers touch the chords
how my heart swells at your sight
how your kisses burn my neck
how the mountain splits
the sky

listen,
to the night of oleanders
to the magic of the key which turns
take me to the kiss of no return
when the sky is turning blue
and we’re centuries apart
let me kneel
in front of you

@short-prose-fiction (Gabriela M)

image: nodff; Shutterstock; [link]

 

Destinies #short prose #flash fiction #amwriting

Our destinies caught inside the lines of my left palm.

With my right index finger, I trace those lines again and again, until I cannot breathe anymore, until my left palm bleeds.

None of us can be judged outside endless flights between continents, outside of our tears and of our love for art, outside of the slippery slope that runs from amitié amoureuse to deep impassioned love.

One day all of us will have to understand that the past should stay in the past.

That day is inscribed in my left palm together with our pain, and our tendencies toward the kind of love that transcends earthly boundaries.

Excerpt from the manuscript Glass Lovers 

@short-prose-fiction (Gabriela M)

image: agsandrew; Shutterstock; [link]