I am thrilled that my two poems Prayerand A Night of Marble and of Gingerbread were included in Issue I of Free Verse Revolution: Hebe (the fountain of youth)
Prayer by Gabriela Marie Milton
you, fountain of youth, forgive me I am the one made from mud and from the skin of Attica’s flutes at night, my existence feels like an impertinence or perhaps like an interlinear a language half-imagined half adulterated by the bloom of the olive trees under the sticky wing of an angel I was born in the swamps where the tombs of the prophets sunk I am blood and bones when I smell the sea and the meat from the grill church bell toll and speak of death, and of the mystique of oblique winds you, goddess of youth, source of life from where four rivers flow your child-like body stands some days on the top of the mountains and others on the top of the fountains your skin is dewed and flowered with love my skin haunts the night of the deserts your destiny is that of the innocents mine is that of the sinners forgive me, you, Hebe that I do not ask for the gift of youth give it to the children give it to the sick and throw what is left into the sea the fish will be happy
A Night of Marble and of Gingerbread by Gabriela Marie Milton
on the top of the mountain the pines silhouette against the whisper of the rocks the night is cut from marble, and from gingerbread the wind stops on a branch touched by a naked star I take the measure of that which forever youth gives red poppies that never wither seeds that never impregnate the ground a love that still plays with toys, and lights candles in a Christmas tree in the middle of summer the moon is mortal and concerned with trivial matters and so am I Hebe, how many know that you are the bud of incest and patricide? how many know your child’s eyes witnessed so many crimes? filled with pain, you stop growing up, isn’t it so? oh, don’t cry here is my impermanent heart wear it for one day in the morning you will see the old oak dying in the rain at noon butterflies will sit on your hair in the night a Lethean forgetfulness will lecture on the beauty of transitory love kisses will feel like honey on the tongue the breath of love will rest on your skin you will grow up what? you do not want your forever youth back? dream it’s spring
My book – Passions: Love Poems and Other Writings – was published.
Thank you to all my followers who’ve supported me. I wish I could make the sky rain blessings on all of you. I wish I could heal all wounds with my words. I wish I could send you a rose hidden in whispers of love every day.
I will try. I will never give up. You’ve showed me love. I’ll return your love. Every day I’ll try to give you more than I take. That’s my promise to you.
Shiver (a poem from my book)
A full moon weeps cold fragrant oil on my face.
The cicadas’ song penetrates the membranes of the space.
On one of my arms a purple mark sighs and then falls asleep.
Looking for prey a snake’s tongue splits the time in two.
I feel the bite.
Passions: Love Poems and Other Writings contains new poems, poems published in various venues, and a few excerpts from my manuscript “Glass Lovers.”
My poem “It’s March” published by Kashmir Newspaper.
In this difficult time may God and the beauty of poetry protect us all.
it’s March and in the flower garden the time breaks into gigantic fire balls
moths rotate around the golden light like mustard seeds in the cool air
my hair grows long until it touches our naked ankles
I set the food on our wooden table
inside your eyes the spring sets scents of narcissuses and daisies
the valley blooms mauve tulips, eclipses of the heart,
by our mountain which is taller than the sky
love moves between your chest and mine
you kiss my cheeks
my hands tousle your hair
a smile from our non-existing past gazes at us
it smells naan and aromatic lamb
my dress is white, your shirt is dark,
I build from flowers our past until I cannot find its end
barefoot I stumble on old tears
are these the tears that you’ve cried?
an evil eye gets tangled in my hair
I hardly breathe
the evil eye now cuts my hair
in your arms,
you carry me on terraces made from your wildest fantasies
my dress is red, what happened to my dress?
your lips taste like mulberries,
mulberries from a tree which grew from the same root as my childhood
there is pain somewhere between the two of us
is this what we call our past?
it’s March and in the flower garden the time breaks into gigantic fire balls moths rotate around the golden light like mustard seeds in the cool air you say I love you my dress is white your kiss is forged in fire and black passion
it’s March the March of our future and that of our past
i can’t see you the spring’s floral certitude showers petals in my eyes lingers on veils forgotten at the altars dreams interpret the language of cicadas somebody plays the violin in the green room like a flamenco dancer in Seville i toss and turn inside my soul your breath scatters on my neck i stretch my arms to harvest poems tongues of fire from your eyes linger on my silky dress i fall rose thorns bite my thighs it smells earth and grass from an old spring i turn the page i close my eyes and i can see you