the moon is pregnant with desires
talismans caress your skin
naked shoulders dream
mirrors, phantoms of your thirst
passions hidden to the eye
chains pull you to me
between lines I take you
to the land of the first I love you
@short-prose-fiction (Gabriela M)
image: Ben Roman; Shutterstock; [link]
I eat macaroons in the same coffee shop
Roberto’s guitar sells cheap dreams by the sea
young girls are ready for harvest like flowers of lust
I laugh…
I scratch poetry on a glass
I say the first love is French
you ask how’s the last
it smells raspberries, vanilla, and grass
you touch my left wrist
I play a few cards
red flowers bloom on your cheeks
your teeth peel the skin of my gloves
you walk into darkness
I seal you in wax
how’s the last love?
pray..
you shouldn’t have asked
@short-prose-fiction (Gabriela M)
and…
this night is jasmine and is sand
the trees are fingers with no end
the earth has eyes
the tears have thighs
you…
you are the voice of lonely heights
I am the day without sights
a leaf is falling on my hips
into the air a form of lips
and…
your touches hide in poetry
a flower faints with jealousy
your dreams taste like forbidden fruits
the sea grows almonds and grows roots
yet…
the story didn’t write its end
my eyes and yours are a blend
and…
love…
@short-prose-fiction (Gabriela M)
image: Vaclav Taus; Shutterstock; [link]
let’s take the train and go to Vienna
rent a room for a night and then waltz
in your arms the waist of the night trembles
fingertips touch a blue door which is locked
I sit barefoot on the floor
the windows’ eyelashes are yellow and drunk
your voice moves stones in a lonely graveyard
to bury the tears I cry
and lonely like children of war
we cut in two the same pain for one night
you, the kiss of the love that could be
I, the rhythm of three beats in each bar
in Prater Park they sell lollipops
years pass by in one night
I rest my head on your shoulder
and the train to Vienna has stopped
draft
@short-prose-fiction (Gabriela M)
image: KimSongsak; Shutterstock; [link]
….
ah, I forgot to tell you when I meet you in my dreams
Arabella still sells bracelets in the silver market
she asks me every time about you
I lie and promise her you’ll come next time
to buy another bracelet and some juicy limes
now in the silence of long purple nights
my silver bracelets cannot hurt you anymore
but every minute you are not with me
cuts yet another wound into my soul
fragment from the poem Fears of Death
@short-prose-fiction(Gabriela M)
image: Zolotatevs; Shutterstock; [link]
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]
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]
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)
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]
