the memory of you #poetry

the memory of you awakes the moon

seahorses gallop in the ocean

algae wrap around my body

the Mount of Olives weeps

and moves

the room is quiet like a tomb


the smell of jacarandas looks for you

among the pages of an ancient book

the night is spinning its black fume

a shadow dances

on the wall

the room is quiet like a tomb


marry me #poetry


when clocks announce mid-night

and lovers fall into a mystic scented sleep

run with me and let’s get married

in the blue forest of my dreams

let’s walk barefoot in the middle of the glen

look, frantic butterflies entangle in my hair

whispering fresh daisies drape my body

green leaves dress quietly your naked shoulders

the moon sets our altar among trees

crickets sing the symphony of love

like church choirs in the dusk

steel a star and set it on my finger

on the cobweb of yellowish moon rays

tree sap seals our union forever

your soul starts flowing into mine

let’s not move until the morning

when we will witness our bodies

merging into a fascinating cosmic tree

marry me!


inefficiency does not inspire me. 


mystic wedding #poetry

we were getting married at midnight

waves were washing our naked feet

your face was shaved, my hair smelled almonds

you cried

and tears covered my veiled lips


your old grandmother’s cross was nesting on my breast

songs of nightingales resounded in the honeyed water

new pearls were braided on my dress

kisses flowed

and borrowed lace adorned my hips


your hands looked for my garter…


i woke up…

we were just the poor strangers

who got married and then drank

the scented wine

at the mystic wedding

in the eternal Cana Galilee*


the moon rose from the sea…


*Cana of Galilee


i am the one #poetry


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

and in the city where bells toll

i am the one whose cries you’ve never heard.


Shadow Boxing #Glass Lovers


Glass of tequila in his hand, white shirt half open on his chest, raillery in his powerful voice, Jacques’ eyes pierced into Miquel’s:

‘Salud Conquistador!’

Miguel laughed, handsome as sin, wind in his inky hair, flames in his green eyes, hands caressing my hips.

‘A votre santé, mon Maréchal de France!’ 

His laughter resonated in the depths of the night. A shrill echo came back through the cool air.


Jacques’ blue eyes fixed into mine. My eyes flickered into his. He spoke:

“Sin takes place in the mind not in the flesh.”

Shock. Jacques was forcing me to fight my own shadows. My hands pressed on Miguel’s; my body tensed. Miguel’s lips shivered.

Knifes were out. All bets were off.  One of us was going to break.


Excerpt from the manuscript Glass Lovers

Photo credit: Pixabay


The Purple Lotus #morning fantasy


I open my eyes.


Over the night an enormous spider transformed the canopy of the bed into a cobweb made from white diamond dust.

I can see you through it.

You are by the lake.

My royal purple lotus floats silently on the surface of the water.

Morning dew adorns the grass.

In the music room the piano starts playing.

A bunny jumps on my bed. Is that one of your tricks?

Indelible memories of a night in which your hands touched my body come alive.

Silk embraced by skin.

You dive and swim toward the purple lotus.

One of your fingers touches its petals.

My pupils dilate.


I didn’t tell you. There is a love curse. He who touches the lotus…

I can’t hear my voice anymore.

The music hits a crescendo.

The lake freezes.

It’s over.

Through sheets of ice Merlin, the Wizard, smiles.


sail me in your boat #poetry


i smell salt and mangoes

algae float on lips

humid sunset juices

linger on my body

sheets are soft like grass

in the breeding season

of passions made of glass


sail me in your boat

neurotic waves

washing on my breasts

when fires burn old altars

verse for me a moon

to wear it on my finger

breathe with me the waters

where love forever lingers.


death in june #poetry


it’s june

and cherries ripen

under the burning moon

erotic pollen settles on the books

young girls are tossing in their sleep


and in the kingdom by the sea

there is no sign of Annabel*

the symbolism of the great poet dead

the verse a sensually braided thread


the grass is shedding tears

on my naked body

loneliness is weeping

at your feet

and in the kingdom by the sea

i’m slowly dying

longing for your kiss.


Reference to “Annabel Lee,” by Edgar Allen Poe


Aromas of Love #night fantasy #Ragtag Daily Prompt


A full moon weeps cold fragrant oil on my face.  I shiver.

The cicadas’ song penetrates the ethereal membranes of the space.

On one of my thighs a purple mark sighs and then falls asleep.

Looking for prey a snake’s tongue splits the time in two. I feel the bite.


The gallop of your horse on one side of the time.

Echoes of febrile nights of love invade my body.

I can smell roses.

I can hear the song:

Ay, ay, ay, ay
Ay, ay mi amor
Ay mi morena de mi corazón


On the other side of time a church bell tolls.

Silence and sanctity carved in wood.


Lingering in my nostrils fragrances of white ginger flowers overpower the scent of the roses.

Humid fingers caress my lips.

Ay, ay, ay, ay
Ay, ay mi amor…

Hidden in oils aromas the end waits to be written.




The Beginning #Glass Lovers (excerpts from the introduction)


Our story began in France. From there it took us to the United States, to Mexico, to Canada, and back to France. On the shadows of Sacré-Cœur, our laughter gone, our wills broken, our souls scarred, longing for what once was us. Our future, heavy darkness starring back at us from a white abstract past:  like Malevich’s famous Black Square hanging on an indifferent wall.


Who was to blame for all that happened? As the story progresses I invite you, my dear readers to be the judges and the jurors. We could not judge ourselves anymore. We did that too many times. We got nowhere.


There were four of us:

Miguel, my mirific Conquistador: Moorish passions bursting from his Mediterranean skin, gleaming green eyes only half open in our nights filled with lust. His eyes look almost white in the dark. Oh, those nights when after making love he used to hold me in his arms against the window of our condo watching the lights of the city reflecting into the sky. He used to murmur rhythms of Mariachi songs while kissing my neck. Miguel, and his love for me. Miguel, my mundo nuevo.


Jacques, a Norman knight at heart: blue eyes cold like ice, expensive, impeccable shirts.  Jacques, in love with the complicities of the smiles that one only finds in the streets of Paris. Jacques and those cuff-links of his made from gold, and encrusted with roses.  Oh, how I remember Jacques’ laughter! It sounded like the reverberations of an iceberg falling into the sea.  Jacques, who used to say: “The beauty of this city creates us, for we cannot create beauty anymore.” Was he right?


Miriam and that seraphic face of hers, her short black dresses scented with jasmine, her love for Jacques whispering like shadows on the roofs of Paris during purple dawns.  Miriam and her paintings violating the silence of her studio from which one could see Notre-Dame. Miriam watching silently Rodin’s Gates of Hell. I always wondered what she thought about it.


And then there was me: Clara. Who was I? We have time for that later.


How could four people who tried so much not to hurt others, end up hurting each other so deeply? How could we let all that happen to us?

According to our dear friend Angelo, a Greek born in America, it was my fault. I was the one who mistook reality for my imagination. I was supposed to know better.

Oh, no, Angelo, no! It was not like that! It was more like the Billy Goat curse. We were not destined to win until the curse was broken.


Excerpt from the manuscript Glass Lovers