who are you? #poem #poetry

 

who are you?

which gale winds have blown you here?

which fallen saint showed you the way?

besieged by you, old loves abandoned in dark cemeteries

lament like choirs in my Hellenistic Greece

virgin thighs ferment inside your blood

scared azaleas tremble on my pillows

step in my room

and know no fear

unravel poems from your battered heart

scent the roses with my fantasies’ Levant

weave lies into the brocade of my sofas

make those satyrs with horse ears to shut up

*

let’s dwell in silence for a minute…

then tell me how you landed here

and who are you

my darling sonneteer?

 

draft

@short-prose-fiction 

 

at the edge of winter #poem #poetry

at the edge of winter

bridal chambers cry

roasted chestnuts crack

in the frigid streets

days inside my soul

come and go like ships

broken hearts lament

right at my front door

did i leave you there?

see,

i can’t remember

what i’ve done with you

at the edge of winter

a tree is sick with flu

 

@short-prose-fiction

 

landscape #short prose #flash fiction

“We are the children of our landscape; it dictates behaviour and even thought in the measure to which we are responsive to it. I can think of no better identification.”

Lawrence Durrell,  Justine

*

Anything can be said about that city, but one can never say that it does not have a distinct identity.

During the humid autumn evenings the city looks like a wounded being, nursing her own lacerations. On the sidewalks the smell of dust overpowers the stench of cigarettes, and alcohol coming from her tiny, obscure pubs.

Clandestine risings to power, luxury cars zipping by, casinos filled with shady characters, rats zig-zagging in the basements of old buildings. Plenty of frustrations running through the city’s blood like thousands of white blood cells through the veins of an infected patient.

A sea of beggars at every street corner: amputated hands, deep lesions, winkled faces painted in the colors of dirt. Pain exposed in plain view, like art objects in museums: the only difference being that pain is free; the entry in most museums is not.

*

In that city our story began: a story in which we created and destroyed loves, trusted and betrayed friendships, invented beauty only to eradicate it at the first sign of dawn. We tried to satisfy our egos.  We ended up satisfying the city’s need to devour us.

*

Excerpt from the manuscript “Glass Lovers” (draft)

@short-prose-fiction

 

i miss you #poem #poetry

i miss you

like a little poor child

misses his home destroyed by war

like giant wounded albatrosses

miss their flights above blue oceans

like thirsty Bedouins miss water

like ancient swords miss their masters

like in the days before the resurrection

his followers missed Him

i miss your eyes

i’ve never seen

 

@short-prose-fiction

 

FIND ME! #POETRY #MUSIC #VBLOG

FIND ME! POETRY AND MUSIC 
*
My Dear Readers, 
*
I am delighted to let you know that my unbelievably talented friend Ankit Thapa and I just finished our second online collaboration: poetry and music (vblog)  
lyrics and recitation: short-prose-fiction (me)
music, production, and arrangements:  Ankit Thapa 
*
“moons illuminate your skin…” 
@short-prose-fiction
 

rapturous love #flash fiction #short prose

He looked for life in the long, ecstatic nights of our love.

I thought he did not understand that the frenzy of flesh always ends in death; that my body stood between him and heaven.

On the other hand, he argued that my body was his gate to heaven, his branch to eternity.

Ironically, it was the juxtaposing of our thoughts that made love so intense, so rapturous that we could not distinguish anymore between reality and fantasy.

 

Excerpt from the manuscript “Glass Lovers” 

@short-prose-fiction 

 

Día de los Muertos (the Day of the Dead) #poem #poetry

sugar skulls sigh at my feet

lonely candles shed wax tears

Aztec winds cry on my body

swollen lips hide in the shadows

covered by the smell of pines

he was here

and you know it

yet

your body craves my touches

your love branches over me

gold marigolds are turning red

pianos scream notes of desires

wait!

till priests will say the mass

and Día de los Muertos will pass

 

@short-prose-fiction

 

i am the one #poem #STRAW zine #featured

My Dear Readers,

I am delighted that my poem  “i am the one” was featured in the STRAW zine, a London based magazine, which launched its website today.

Thank you for the love and support you’ve shown me since I began blogging!

*

i am the voice of your past loves

resounding in your wildest fantasies

dressed in roses at the altar of your dreams

i am the one you’ve never had

my soul flows from the tears of the Nile

from the hands of children who still beg

through ruins, darkness, and deep pain

through wars which they will never understand

i am the last who will be saved

for i have sinned under the shadow of your cross

when Spanish fountains cry in the sunset

i am the Desdemona who you’ve never met

today Granada’s just the place

in which Garcia Lorca once was killed

i am the feather of a gold macaw bird…

continue reading here 

 

@short-prose-fiction

 

love letters #poem

i am looking over your love letters

my hands are shaking

winds are trying

to take them away from me

bury them

into the depths of the roiling ocean

 

i am fighting the winds

i am back with you in that place

palm trees born from violet skies

white drapes covering adrenalized lovers

i am laughing

follies of love

your teeth leave painful marks

on my shoulder

 

winds funneled through my heart

push me into the ocean

salty waters corrode my nostrils

stingrays puncture my arteries

a church bell tolls

your letters

where are they?

 

@short-prose-fiction