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]

prayers [intercessions- adorations- confession] #poem #poetry

 

whisper,
you who know to whisper
intercessions
(prayers on behalf of others)
songs of love and songs of sorrow
for the sailors from the depths of the tomorrow
sleepy bibles rub their eyes
in the Basilica of San Nicola

whisper,
you who know to whisper
adorations
(homages to blooming flowers)
on Sunday afternoon the air is moist
dressed in irises and sandalwood
the tropic breathes mangoes and strawberries
symphonies crave passions made of sand
on columns signs of the old lovers

and,
when you reach the point of the confession
stop whispering
and look at me
I am your love
your sin, and your redemption
I don’t know past
I don’t know future
I am the last verse of an unknown psalm
and the forever ardor
captured in between your palms

@short-prose-fiction (Gabriela M)

image: Hare Krishna; Shutterstock; [link]

My poem I’ll Return published in Vita Brevis Poetry Magazine #poetry

 

Thank you to Brian Geiger, the editor of Vita Brevis Poetry Magazine, for publishing my piece “I’ll Return.”
(this poem was initially posted on this blog under another name)

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…

continue reading with WP here
or
on Vita Brevis Press here 

@short-prose-fiction (Gabriela M)

what I want #poem #poetry

 

a tipsy air plays with my dress
golden afternoons fall from my hair
fingers, pillars of the city
point toward the dangers of an angry sea

why are my ships hit by deceptive languor?
what have you done to them to fall in love with you?
I rip my pain
I threw it to the waves
I raise my head
and speak to you

what do I want?

I want to sail to the East Indies
to bathe in essences of coriander and of cinnamon
to meet the founders of the now adulterated cities
exchange my soul for silky fabrics in Jaipur

to walk in temples nested in the banyan trees
to bite the skin of passion fruits in naked nights
to tear my heart and throw it to Lord Vishnu
to soil my hands while healing beggars in the streets

oh, I know…
your love which always looks for me
a kiss forgotten in a drawer
everything one day will wash at sea
and that will be the day in which
fingers, pillars of the city
will turn your love
toward the real me

@short-prose-fiction (Gabriela M)

image:  Ivailo Nikolov; Shutterstock; [link]

The Secret of a Hand Fan #poem #prose poem #poetry

 

I am here.
I am in the breeze that dries the evening’s sweat from your chest.
I pray covered by petals of fresh roses.
I can smell you: scents of burning suns, oranges, and battered seas.
Hallucinations of an acoustic guitar. Its body shape melts under your fingers like candy on the tongue of a little girl.
You and me running barefoot on cobblestone streets.
The rim of my red dress torn.
Against cracked walls the same night plays with our dreams over and over again like children play with colored kites.
You didn’t think I would come back.
Well, I did.
The secret of a blue hand fan slides on my rosy cheek.
The moon undresses the wings of an angel.
I smile.

@short-prose-fiction(Gabriela M)

image: algus; 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.)
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