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.)

 

those roses which die in the winter #poem #poetry

those roses which die in the winter
played the piano last night
a whirlpool of notes and of poems
inscribed on a wall painted in blue
caged in your dreams I still struggle
like birds drowned in water and mud
I cover the world with my fingers
I haunt the unspoken in dark
those roses which died before blooming
this love which will end in a tomb

@short-prose-fiction (Gabriela M.)

image:  Vasyl Rohan; Shutterstock; [link]

 

My poem “the breath of love and death” voted Publication of the Month at Spillwords Press #poetry #published

My Dear Readers,

My poem “the breath of love and death” was voted Publication of the Month at Spillwords Press (November 2019).

My most sincere thanks to everyone who voted for me.

Have a fabulous week.

Gabriela

@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]

 

Will you vote for me? author of the month and publication of the month at Spillwords Press #poetry

My Dear Readers,

I was nominated author of the month at Spillwords Press. At the same time my poem “the breath of love and death” was nominated for publication of the month. If you wish you can vote for me – Gabriela M – in the link below. You do not need to have a Spillwords account to vote though it is easy to open one. You can vote with your Twitter or your FB account.

My most sincere thanks and congratulations to all nominees.

Gabriela

Vote

@short-prose-fiction

 

fires #poem #poetry

fires burn rocks in the mountains
fountains in the parks burn our hearts
I dip my hands into the seven parallels of love
I spin the planetary souls on both my arms
a bird pulls at its feathers in the mirror
the wilderness of autumn
puts on its lipstick

insanity throws stones into a garbage can
exiled from the imagination of Seville
Don Juan lures empty frames inside a bar
your heart meanders among marble stars
scents of flowers, heavy chains 
poetry burns our lips
lonely scavengers of night
you and I

draft
@short-prose-fiction (Gabriela M.)

image: Brina L. Bunt; Shutterstock; [link]