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)
 

my poem “Initiation” up to Vita Brevis Poetry Magazine #poem #published

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
or
on Vita Brevis Press here.

@short-prose-fiction (Gabriela M.)

image: Everett – Art; Shutterstock; [link]

 

Andalusian Resurrection #poem #poetry

 

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

@short-prose-fiction (Gabriela M.)

image: Fernando Cortes; Shutterstock; [link]

 

The Blue City #poem #prose poem #poetry #short prose

An hour fell into the sea.

The waves spaced seconds. The seconds shifted the ceiling of time.  They ate from the meandering road of Cyprus trees which used to end on the steps of a small cafe called La Catedral.

We walked.

Yet we couldn’t find the cafe anymore. Perhaps the building – with its aromas of paella mixta and fruity red wine – trapped itself inside the crocheted web of yesterday’s sunset.

The moon hummed “Let’s fall in love in Spain…”

You said “Forever.”

I said “No, Conquistador. I will die on the streets of Morocco’s Blue City on the other side of the Mediterranean.”

Your green eyes sunk into a dense silence.

The moon stopped humming.

Your kiss came out of the sea.

It was blue.

@short-prose-fiction (Gabriela M.) 

image:  Ruslan Kalnitsky; Shutterstock; [link]

 

Art #short prose #prose poem

He hunted for reasons upon which he could build his resolutions.

He hunted in the wrong place for art is not the space of reason, nor is a ratio of whole numbers.

Art is the space in which the profane lays so close to the divine that one would rather find room to breathe through the eye of a needle than to separate the two.

And so is love.

@short-prose-fiction(Gabriela M)

image:  Hare Krishna; Shutterstock; [link]

 

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]