I want my body burned on pyre #poem #poetry

I want my body burned on pyre
a Viking boat will take me far on the cold sea
I want to leave my grave goods for the poor
take the pain which branded their souls
into a bursting aurora borealis fire
I want to feel the sobs of the North Pole

I want to burn inside the rhythms of the flamenco
drown in the dancers’ passion in the streets of old Córdoba
I want to entertain rich masters for a piece of bread
inside the silent cries of those who are misunderstood
I want the desperation of the dancers dressed in red

and you, the one who always claimed to know
what powers lie inside the jungle of my soul
……

fragment from the poem “I want my body burned on pyre”- draft
@short-prose-fiction (Gabriela M)

image:  DarkGeometryStudios; Shutterstock; [link]

 

Lonely Saturdays #poem #prosepoem #poetry

The ankle of an iceberg cries. Its tears fell on my body.
They crust on my skin like cold wax on a rack of votive candles.
Seconds hurt like lonely Saturdays.
I lie in bed.
Roses scent the air.
My dreams burn. Ashes of our nights of love cover the sun.
My eyes dilate under the gravity of time.
I taste figs and wild forest.
The room moves on another longitude.
Is it morning?
Is it Saturday?
Where are you?

related: Sunday on another latitude

@short-prose-fiction (Gabriela M)

image: bruniewska; Shutterstock; [link]

 

Passion #poem #poetry

I seek you
like roots seek water
the thirst which blasts within the rhythms of castanets
in Andalusia of the flamenco dancers dressed in red
I see you
the face of the lost stranger
dissimulating grief in autumn shadows
killed by the aurora borealis in the southern hemisphere
I feel you
dreams of wild young tigers
ravaging the flesh of prey with their teeth
in the Sahara of my burning suns the fate plays games
……..

fragment from the poem “Passion”; from the upcoming book Passion: Love Poems and Other Writings
@short-prose-fiction (Gabriela M)

image:  agsandrew; Shutterstock; [link]

 

The Angel of God #poem #prose poem #short prose #flash fiction

He comes back only when the Angel of God makes blue and yellow rings fall asleep on my fingers.
One night he swore his oaths upon our unmade bed and the river Styx.
His guitar swore its oaths upon a red rose.
This is not the time of year when his tears – chariots of fire – fall from the sky.
Neither that day of spring when I lie in bed covered by wedding veils.
Those are the only times when his soul plays guitar behind the Japanese screen in my bedroom.
You couldn’t hear him playing in the library.
So, what did you really hear?
Do you believe that his ghost hides inside his portrait hanging on the wall?
Oh, no! This is not a Harry Potter fantasy. His soul is not inside any portrait.
Now, I think it’s time for you to leave.
Why? Are you asking me why?
You saw the inscription below his portrait: granted just a quote he loved.

There are only three things to be done with a woman. You can love her, suffer for her, or turn her into literature.

Here’s your answer. You can’t do any of those things. So, you better leave.
No, his soul wasn’t here tonight.
Tonight, it is I who speaks, not him.

@short-prose-fiction (Gabriela M) 

image: Anna Ismagilova; Shutterstock; [link]
quote attribution: Lawrence Durrell, Justine

 

fears of death #poem #poetry

….
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]

 

the biblical sense of to know #poem #poems

the biblical sense of to know
born in a summer that never existed
nailed to the cross of your poems
I’m losing my mind inside the blue night
I reach you in dreams you do not understand
It hurts when I’m there
It hurts when I’m not
I ask for the help gravediggers can grant
I wrote I love you on a note that I locked
It wasn’t a snake, it was an iguana
the night the tango nuevo played its guitar
on fifteen decades you counted your prayers
my fingers were naked
my fingers were gloved

@short-prose-fiction (Gabriela M)

image: agsandrew; Shutterstock; [link]

 

the kiss of no return #poem #poetry

pain is dripping from guitars
into sunsets with no end
pigeons guide ships lost at sea
tears drop from plumy skies

oh, how your fingers touch the chords
how my heart swells at your sight
how your kisses burn my neck
how the mountain splits
the sky

listen,
to the night of oleanders
to the magic of the key which turns
take me to the kiss of no return
when the sky is turning blue
and we’re centuries apart
let me kneel
in front of you

@short-prose-fiction (Gabriela M)

image: nodff; Shutterstock; [link]

 

before you came (the day of the fallen saints) #poem #poetry

you do not know
how many countries I have traveled
how many marvels I have shown myself
the names of the dead I’ve resurrected
my victims’ kisses buried in a pink conch shell
inside the whispers of the messianic Nazareth
He who knew of His crucifixion
picked up my tears
broke the bread
so I could lock the memory of my first kiss
inside the rocks of the eternal Spanish Steps
and walk again through fields of roses and lavender
into gestating dreams of no constraints

yet see,
all that happened
before the day you came into my life
the day when all the fallen saints
with their fingers stretched the sky
so we could have
one single hour
just for ourselves

 

first published September 22, 2019 (text slightly modified)

@short-prose-fiction (Gabriela M.)

Vereshchagin Dmitry; Shutterstock; [link]

 

my poem “Initiation” up to Vita Brevis Poetry Magazine #poem #published

deification of the virgin nymph
within my palms
the flesh of violet sunsets flips like fish on land
my eyes, inheritors of light
singular sinkholes punctuating a low sky
your love…
continue reading with WP here
or
on Vita Brevis Press here.

@short-prose-fiction (Gabriela M.)

image: Everett – Art; Shutterstock; [link]