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]

 

Destinies #short prose #flash fiction #amwriting

Our destinies caught inside the lines of my left palm.

With my right index finger, I trace those lines again and again, until I cannot breathe anymore, until my left palm bleeds.

None of us can be judged outside endless flights between continents, outside of our tears and of our love for art, outside of the slippery slope that runs from amitié amoureuse to deep impassioned love.

One day all of us will have to understand that the past should stay in the past.

That day is inscribed in my left palm together with our pain, and our tendencies toward the kind of love that transcends earthly boundaries.

Excerpt from the manuscript Glass Lovers 

@short-prose-fiction (Gabriela M)

image: agsandrew; Shutterstock; [link]

 

In the shadows of those streets #short prose #flash fiction

I lurked in the shadows of those streets the entire night: solitaries, madmen, prostitutes, somnambulists. After a while I couldn’t distinguish among them.

My steps were meaningless. My senses were tranquilized by that vision of him scribbling his last letter to me under a pale winter moon. The child was probably happy, playing at his feet. It wasn’t his child, but…

The beat of the streets became one with the unstoppable movements of his heart in my own chest. He left his love to me like some kind of inheritance.

Why retreat alone with the child on a remote island?

Afterall the city did not do more than compromise the least part of him: his ego.

Blood is dateless. The ego is not. Which part did he not understand?

 

Excerpt from the manuscript Glass Lovers

@short-prose-fiction (Gabriela M)

image:  Dmytro Vietrov; Shutterstock; [link]

 

prayers [intercessions- adorations- confession] #poem #poetry

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]

 

My poem I’ll Return published in Vita Brevis Poetry Magazine #poetry

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)

 

what I want #poem #poetry

a tipsy air plays with my dress
golden afternoons fall from my hair
fingers, pillars of the city
point toward the dangers of an angry sea

why are my ships hit by deceptive languor?
what have you done to them to fall in love with you?
I rip my pain
I threw it to the waves
I raise my head
and speak to you

what do I want?

I want to sail to the East Indies
to bathe in essences of coriander and of cinnamon
to meet the founders of the now adulterated cities
exchange my soul for silky fabrics in Jaipur

to walk in temples nested in the banyan trees
to bite the skin of passion fruits in naked nights
to tear my heart and throw it to Lord Vishnu
to soil my hands while healing beggars in the streets

oh, I know…
your love which always looks for me
a kiss forgotten in a drawer
everything one day will wash at sea
and that will be the day in which
fingers, pillars of the city
will turn your love
toward the real me

@short-prose-fiction (Gabriela M)

image:  Ivailo Nikolov; 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]