children of the first Amen [autumn] #poem #poetry

we were young when our autumn
came to burn leaves in the park
drunk with iambic pentameters
you called me Beatrice by the old fountain
we floated high in the veined sky
in the clouds we lit a candle
with threads of love we sewed our lips
children of the first Amen
we did not see the rain was coming
like heavy fruits forgotten by a harvester on trees
we fell on the same bench right by the fountain
the autumn burned us
and gale winds
blew our ashes to nowhere

@short-prose-fiction

image:  Aleshyn_Andrei; Shutterstock; [link]

 

the day in which the sun dies #short prose #flash fiction #poetry prose

I lost my name. Yet what sense is it in looking for it? You knew I would do it. You knew I would come back to you: my feet burned, my eyes full of sand, my heart crushed like an empty can of coke, my hands voided like those of King Lear.

It was as easy as you said. One day the celebration of the tree of light would be over, and nobody would dress in black at funerals.

This is that day.

The day in which the sun – eyes bloodshot, rays pale like distant memories – dies in the rose and violet of the sea.

@short-prose-fiction

image: nodff; Shutterstock; [link]

 

the breath of love and death #poem #poetry

emotions leave the wombs of souls 
inebriation
nakedness of pearls forgotten on the shore
inside the warmth of the unknown
the mystery of you is locked
somebody’s wearing yellow, sign of death
doors close
the ocean’s mortuary room
your hands stretch all the waves toward the North
my ankles stuck in sand

hibiscuses bloom in the bed
delusion 
a cat is running outdoors
over the world
the breath of love and death
a verse from you
and then
Pompeian red  

@short-prose-fiction

image: nodff; 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
his eyes are aiming
cries
the desperation
of the dancers dressed in red

Andalusia
I kneel among your cacti fed by salt
your wounded lashes
resurrected him
for yet
another night

@short-prose-fiction

image: Fernando Cortes; Shutterstock; [link]