Sunday on another latitude #poem #poetry #prose poem

The smell of orange trees blooms in my hair.
Days of magic: a lily and a rose.
A purple sky bites from the imperishable yellow coiled around your finger.
Dark injured blood taints the possibility of the sunset.
The exertion of a prayer.
The reflection of our faces in a desiccated well.
Sunday on another latitude.

@short-prose-fiction (Gabriela M.)
My blog ranks 20th in “Top 100 Poetry Blogs & Websites to Follow” according to Feedspot.

 

I open my veins #poem #poetry

I open my veins in warm waters
each time when you like what I write
the sound of the sands in the darkness
the eyes of the desert are dried
the midnight windows are opened
I jump like a lynx from a cage
dressed in cold winds and in black
barefoot
I land on the yolk of young times

I paid all the bills do not worry
I buried my bracelets by the green wall
white shirts are lined in the closet
this sand tastes like canvas and paint
I sharpen my eyes
my fingers are stretched
from the cosmic tomorrow
I enter tonight

I’ll return do not worry
disheveled, loves cry between us
remember the words of Persian Sibyl
who sold you my soul for three coins?
the time is fluid like rivers
waterlilies can bloom in the sand

@short-prose-fiction (Gabriela M.)

image:  Anna Ismagilova; Shutterstock; [link]

 

Identity #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 (Gabriela M.)

 

Tree of Love #prose poem #short prose #poetry

I fed my tree of love with water from my blood, dried lizards, and pieces of broken hearts.
My tree will bloom during the Banquet of the Moon.
The broken hearts? You see I had no choice.
I am the defender of love.
I do not trade in half measures.

@short-prose-fiction (Gabriela M.)

image:  Bruce Rolff; Shutterstock; [link]

 

initiation #poem #poetry

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, eternal summer with no births or deaths
initiation
doors lock by themselves
into the secrets of that which will be
the danger of me
deeper than the darkest sea

@short-prose-fiction (Gabriela M)

 

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

image: Nelson garrido Silva/Shutterstock

 

Valencia #poem #poetry

a bird awakes the moon
a fish turns in my dreams
algae wrap around my wrists 
Valencia, I just saw you in his eyes
his skin is madness
made of sandalwood

the smell of autumn paves the way
loves lost on lonely cobbled streets
a shadow dances on the wall
a pen writes on a table by itself
on a deck
a sailor flips a coin
dreams,
dust of desiccated lands

impressions, fingers on the pillow
under a purple sky
dried wounds
Valencia,
this room is loneliness,
alienation,
and smells of sandalwood

@short-prose-fiction

image:  Tithi Luadthong; Shutterstock; [link]

 

my poem “the breath of love and death” selected as a featured piece at Spillwords Press (NYC) #poetry

“Dear Gabriela,
We have selected your poetry to be a featured piece on Spillwords once again!”

I am honored and deeply grateful to the Spillwords team for featuring my piece “the breath of love and death.”

emotions leave the wombs of souls 
inebriation
nakedness of pearls… 
continue reading here.

*

My first featured piece was “atrocities.” You can read it here.
Thank you.
G.

@short-prose-fiction

image: VladislavNice; Shutterstock; [link]