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]

 

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

 

Fires of the mind #short prose #flash fiction #prose poem

First, one’s mind catered to the other.

Then they started praying upon each other’s art: one’s imagination crawling on and playing with the other’s like two lion cubs frolicking on Africa’s grasslands.

By the time physical love came into play, they were already burning like two pieces of glass in a Murano furnace.

In the end, a lonely man found a mound of shattered glass on a back alley.

It would have been much easier if they would have kept their art separate.

Yet they didn’t.

Excerpt from the manuscript Passion: Love Poems and Other Writings

@short-prose-fiction (Gabriela M)

image: Sandratsky Dmitriy; Shutterstock; [link]

 

The Blue City #poem #prose poem #poetry #short prose

An hour fell into the sea.

The waves spaced seconds. The seconds shifted the ceiling of time.  They ate from the meandering road of Cyprus trees which used to end on the steps of a small cafe called La Catedral.

We walked.

Yet we couldn’t find the cafe anymore. Perhaps the building – with its aromas of paella mixta and fruity red wine – trapped itself inside the crocheted web of yesterday’s sunset.

The moon hummed “Let’s fall in love in Spain…”

You said “Forever.”

I said “No, Conquistador. I will die on the streets of Morocco’s Blue City on the other side of the Mediterranean.”

Your green eyes sunk into a dense silence.

The moon stopped humming.

Your kiss came out of the sea.

It was blue.

@short-prose-fiction (Gabriela M.) 

image:  Ruslan Kalnitsky; Shutterstock; [link]

 

Art #short prose #prose poem

He hunted for reasons upon which he could build his resolutions.

He hunted in the wrong place for art is not the space of reason, nor is a ratio of whole numbers.

Art is the space in which the profane lays so close to the divine that one would rather find room to breathe through the eye of a needle than to separate the two.

And so is love.

@short-prose-fiction(Gabriela M)

image:  Hare Krishna; Shutterstock; [link]

 

Sunday on another latitude #poem #poetry #prose poem

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.

 

Tree of Love #prose poem #short prose #poetry

I fed my tree of love with water from my blood, dried lizards, and pieces of broken hearts.
My tree will bloom during the Banquet of the Moon.
The broken hearts? You see I had no choice.
I am the defender of love.
I do not trade in half measures.

@short-prose-fiction (Gabriela M.)

image:  Bruce Rolff; Shutterstock; [link]

 

Attention #short prose #prose poem #poetry

I resurrected him.

It was a mischievous act meant to attract the attention of mortals.

Instead I attracted some demons determined to follow me. I locked them in the sockets of time.

I feed them through cracks which propagate at the speed of light.

Bleeding rays of dark suns and dust left from what used to be your affection for me. 

Words left to dry like laundry in the wind.

Words chewing my soul like termites in wood.

My poetic rapport with myself is bad. 

My alter ego hisses like a snake at every word I write.

What’s the truth? I have no idea.

Any act meant to attract attention displaces the truth.

@short-prose-fiction

image: mehmetcan’s portfolio; Shutterstock; [link]