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 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]
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
We congratulate Gabriela M @shortprose1 as her poem ‘The Breath of Love and Death’ was voted as November’s Publication of The Month!
Read via: https://t.co/ZfgslrzkiJ#SpillWords #PublicationOfTheMonth pic.twitter.com/qQQ8ILsDaL
— Spillwords.com (@spillwords) December 1, 2019
@short-prose-fiction (Gabriela M.)
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
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]
you love me
like dolphins love to swim in warm and shallow waters
luscious humid silhouettes of the aquatic world
your fingers touch my skin
like priests in darkness the new testament
solemnly touch
you love me
says the royal palm tree in the garden
which every morning waves to me
I lost my golden earrings and I found them
among the crushed carnations spread on our bed
the night in which Mendoza wine fermented our destinies
into its scent
you know
I’ve never understood why you love me
the Howard Miller mahogany grandfather’s clock has stopped
somewhere it’s winter on the mappemonde
lost paradises hide in silver bracelets
why did you come?
and if you came
why did you leave?
@short-prose-fiction
my eyes are water wells
mirroring your body
into a time which shrinks
my lips shine on stained glass
windows to the sea
a virgin violin
faints into your lap
sick with jealousy
the summer hangs in trees
seduction
fantasy
@short-prose-fiction
image: PinkCat/Shutterstock
summer
winds play on my sheer dress
rhythms of the sirtakis dance
petals of white roses float over the bluest sea
lassitude spreads rosy fever
among the sailors on the ships
inside the blue tavern
in the port
we eat keftedes
and drink coffee boiled into a copper briki
feathers of white drapes cover my body
a yellow melon bursts in seven pieces
oh, its sweet pudicity
its enigmatic jealousy!
your hungry hands encircled on my hips
the bluish purple of an hyacinth
whispers words of night in Greek
and by the “condo of the virgin”*
we loved each other feverishly
for an entire week
*reference to the Parthenon, temple dedicated to Athena who was a virgin goddess
@short-prose-fiction
image: Riekus; Shutterstock. [link]
amour
your secret hides inside my name
inside the splendor of the night in which you didn’t say a word
feathers of macaw birds trace music sheets
the rays of sun stretch on the pebble beach
a fragrant song delights itself on my red lips
i rest my head on your left shoulder
into the lands of spices waiting to be born
we fall
some carnal dreams howl on the corridor
who cares?
i locked the door!
this morning we can die
we won’t tell a soul
and never ask for more
amour
@short-prose-fiction
image: Liliya Kulianionak; Shutterstock [link]
before you leave
do not forget to take with you
our rhymes of love
flip flopping fish on foyers’ marble
the velvety récamier red sofa
on which the two of us inscribed
the decadence of our southern afternoons
the crystal glasses
now obliterated by the taste of the old wine
the plumage of dipper birds
submerged under the waters by our ardent nights
the blue imprints of fingers on the walls
oh, the withered roses?
you can have them
and with them
our entire past
@short-prose-fiction
