The significance of that which is locked in tombs: bones, skin, my father’s wedding band, jewelries, artifacts.
One hundred years from now – desecrating tombs – thieves will thrive on each piece of glitter they can find.
Yet the sole significance of a tomb is the love we bury inside it.
A tomb is a depository of physical treasures only for the blind.
Papá, I will always love you.
@short-prose-fiction. all rights reserved.
image: Yan luca; Shutterstock; [link]
An exceptional poem written by my fabulous friend Rachel. She blogs at [in mind and out]
My most sincere thanks to her for accepting to be my guest.
This afternoon wears my sadness
in her palest eyes of Sunday blues
she said she’s not a languid Friday,
with arms stretched out in forever
she is the …
Continue reading here.
I hope you do not expect me to greet you.
I do not greet takers and parasites. The sins of takers – who laugh in the faces of those who give – cannot be expiated.
Oh, you pray God! To whose God do you pray?
Who’s the God of an empty box?
Your actions are similar to those of others. Perhaps too similar.
Don’t confuse your emptiness with the majesty of death.
This August is too hot.
@short-prose-fiction. all rights reserved.
image: CARACOLLA; Shutterstock; [link]
The scales of the clouds gave me their blessings. Therefore, with my bare hands, I built my ship and I launched it into the sky.
Engine pumped by my blood. Sail hoisted by my soul. Deep inside the breath of the first ancestral night my eyes, hour glasses, measuring 30 seconds at the time.
The sky vanished. The axis mundi tilted.
I braved the galactic winds solely to find that thought of yours: your first thought when you set eyes upon me.
Lulled by the sighs of a suicidal piano, the time disappeared in another dimension.
The meaning of all things, never to be found only in one thing, spoke your thought:
“I want that woman to love me.”
Like a somnambule, inverted upon herself, or perhaps like a soldier who forgot the purpose of her battle, I turned my ship around, and I navigated toward you.
The second ancestral night.
@short-prose-fiction. All rights reserved.
image: Bruce Rolff; Shutterstock; [link]
Dear Readers,
My poem “feel me my love” will be published by Z Publishing House into their 2019 upcoming anthology.
Most editors and publishers contact me via this blog. My most sincere thanks to them and to you for your likes, comments, and views.
Here is a snippet from my poem:
between your spade
and the incandescence of the hurt bull
the blood and sweat of a forgotten afternoon
Hugs to everyone
Gabriela
@short-prose-fiction
who are you? which gale winds have blown you here? which fallen saint showed you the way? besieged by you, old loves abandoned in dark cemeteries lament like choirs in my Hellenistic Greece virgin thighs ferment inside your blood scared azaleas tremble on my pillows step in my room and know no fear unravel poems from your battered heart scent the roses with my fantasies’ Levant weave lies into the brocade of my sofas make those satyrs with horse ears to shut up * let’s dwell in silence for a minute... then tell me how you landed here and who are you my darling soneteer?
First published in Wolff Poetry Literary Magazine
@short-prose-fiction
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
the tropic breathes mangoes and strawberries
white linen heated bodies covers
symphonies are lusting for their lovers
and,
when you will reach the point of the confession
stop whispering
kneel in front of 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
draft
@short-prose-fiction
image: Elena Ray/Shutterstock
I patch your wounds
you kiss my hands
I scream
you laugh
the Spinner threads our life
the Archer shoots the moon
sanctified
our house grows in trees
your hands and mine
founders of love
a church bell tolls
I steer the boat
you raise the sail
serenities of underwater stars
another brick
another tear
another year
@short-prose-fiction
image: ArtEver; Shutterstock, [link]
