Invisible Movement — The Wonderful and Wacky World of One Single Mom

Were I to sit roadside
hands held out
sign asking for alms
would you see me?
Were I to stand at the bus stop
teeth chattering
sodden by rain
needing a fix
would you really see me?
Were I to sit next to you
meeting upon meeting
late night after late night
pressed into duty
pressed against the desk
would you ever see me again?
I am but one of the invisible
fallen amongst the cracks
head down
eye frown
look not upon the great
who can do no wrong
who can rape
who can plunder
who can murder without fear
alas
the day will come…..
judge not lest you be judge
bastardization for bastards
cower
betray
fall…..
pain reaped for pain
desolation for desolation
rejection
anguish
fear
all yours times tenfold.

©March 13/20
Picture via Pinterest

VIa:Invisible Movement — The Wonderful and Wacky World of One Single Mom

Good one. I relate. Personally abused when young by the egotistical alphas that are only in it for what they can take from anybody because they judge others, and think their above everybody else, instead of helping those supposedly below them who need a hand to raise them up. That’s what it raised from memory anyway…

the first I love you #love poem # poetry #micropoetry — Short Prose

the moon is pregnant with desires
talismans caress your skin
naked shoulders dream

mirrors, phantoms of your thirst
passions hidden to the eye
chains pull you to me

between lines I take you
to the land of the first I love you

@short-prose-fiction (Gabriela M)

image: Ben Roman; Shutterstock; [link]

the first I love you #love poem # poetry #micropoetry — Short Prose

the last love # love poem #poetry — Short Prose

Via short-prose-fiction

I eat macaroons in the same coffee shop
Roberto’s guitar sells cheap dreams by the sea
young girls are ready for harvest like flowers of lust
I laugh…
I scratch poetry on a glass
I say the first love is French
you ask how’s the last
it smells raspberries, vanilla, and grass
you touch my left wrist
I play a few cards
red flowers bloom on your cheeks
your teeth peel the skin of my gloves
you walk into darkness
I seal you on in wax
how’s the last love?
pray..
you shouldn’t have asked

@short-prose-fiction (Gabriela M)

I eat macaroons in the same coffee shop
Roberto’s guitar sells cheap dreams by the sea
[…]

the last love # love poem #poetry — Short Prose

My Author of the Year Interview with Spillwords Press #author — Short Prose

Via: short prose fiction

My Dear Readers,

I am humbled that I was voted Author of the Year at Spillwords Press.  Thank you to everyone who voted for me, and thank you to the wonderful team at Spillwords Press (NYC).

“…from the writings of the titans coming from the Latin American space to the writings of their counterparts coming from the Slavic space. Yes, I am an American, but I am also a child of Europe. I have been fascinated, mesmerized, frightened, brought to tears…” 

You can read my interview here: Author of the Year 2019 Interview 

Yours,
Gabriela

I’m so happy for you Gabrela! It is so great to see you get rewarded for your talent. I must say again, it’s not only about helping you, it’s more that you have helped me by your spirit attracting the best followers. You add some of the right elements into my Alchemical boiling pot. My chemistry here would not be right without “Chemical Gabriela” so thanks for all you do! Congratulations again!

short-prose-fictionwriting  
February 18, 2020 1 Minute
 […]

My Author of the Year Interview with Spillwords Press #author — Short Prose

Valencia #poem #poetry — Short Prose

a bird awakes the moon
a fish turns in my dreams
algae wrap around my wrists 
Valencia, I just saw you in his eyes
his skin is madness
made of sandalwood

the smell of autumn paves the way
loves lost on lonely cobbled streets
a shadow dances on the wall
a pen writes on a table by itself
on a deck
a sailor flips a coin
dreams,
dust of desiccated lands

impressions, fingers on the pillow
under a purple sky
dried wounds
Valencia,
this room is loneliness,
alienation,
and smells of sandalwood

@short-prose-fiction

Valencia #poem #poetry — #Short-prose […]

Valencia #poem #poetry — Short Prose

timeless love — A Writer’s Soul

TIMELESS LOVE

I love hearing your voice,
Little snippets you place when you think no one is listening,
It’s mesmerizing.
Caught in your tenor,
The octaves captivate me,
Love me with your best versions,
And let me learn form your worst,
Because there can’t be anything wrong with learning to make something perfect,
Is that how you view us?
Perfect…it’s so hard for me to see you the way you see me,
I’ve been burned, jaded and scorned,
And I know you have too,
But when you found me,
Your scars stitched themselves together and began to heal,
Your smile got wider and the cloud over your heart turned white and light,
And I hope you know you changed me,
My hearts wall dropped to let you climb over,
And my body didn’t shake when you gripped too tightly,
Our kisses changed our lives,
And I love you, and the way you love me,
So please still be patient with me.
I’m healing
The way you are,
But you seem to have closed your wounds faster than I,
Our love will be timeless I know,
But it’s okay to take our time getting there.

A good one from writerssoulblogA Writer’s Soul
[…]

timeless love — A Writer’s Soul

🖤

The virtuous wolf — lonerloaner

`

The virtuous wolf


Where is my prose snarled a hungry witch,
of crimson cheek and skin of lavender,
ego unfulfilled and hips that bare,
oblivious to the lurking scavenger.

The remnants of rib and soil,
pheromone for severed souls,
a waft, a zephyr, myrtle and sage,
and lustful pangs that she can’t control.

With whisk and ease came the wolf,
hearing her plea for excavation,
with a lifetime of ravage and hurt did he answer,
aloof with misery and devastation.

We perform best where our habits  reconcile,
where we return to our defaults,
I ravage because I’ve been ravaged.
I do to others what’s been done to me,
it’s how I love, how I hate.

I eat away until I reach the pit,
by then, I’ve become my prey,
or they’ve become me.
It’s hard to tell the difference.

This attachment is beyond the pull of gravity,
this attraction more like blissful insanity.

A man  waltzing with prose between his teeth,
ever an incisor for a willing player,
blood covered hands, nails and underneath,
content only as a soul slayer.

This grief, this wail, this mourning and shrill,
this distance and indifference, and reality pill,
this noise, and orchestra, and blunt tip quill,
this rapture, sin and Frankenstein will.

It’s grotesque and tender and poetry at once,
a culmination, an opus and the crescendo waiting for a home,
a bare skin canvas waiting for the cut,
in the end a wandering sail boat,
taken by winds, a storm and white wash foam.

And there resides that scavenging wolf,
torn between hunger and the thrill,
ever the demons, a wrestle till death,
hell with every pant, a battle of will.

This carnality for the pulse,
the race for fulfilment and satisfaction,
the lure of the woman, the dance with the devil,
the lustful glance of distraction.

-Wesam El dahabi

✔👍

There is no prison worse than the one of being trapped to base desires.The wolf is the carnal ego leading us down the path of destruction.-Wesam El dahabi[…]

The virtuous wolf — lonerloaner

Love in Venice #short prose #flashfiction — Short Prose

“Would you like to remain in Venice forever?”

I bite my lips.

“Oh, no, but I would love to live here for an entire winter.”

“And what would you do?”

“Every night I will walk in Piazza San Marco, at that moment when the silence becomes so permeable that my steps can be heard from the moon. In the heated, mysterious, thrilling nights of the carnival I will change mask after mask, dress after dress, smile after smile, pain after pain, lover after lover. Every morning I will mix essences of perfumes, seeking for the very one that can revive the mystique of my body, intoxicate my soul, empower my mind. Every twilight I will dive in the coolness of the Adriatic Sea; my body shivering, my soul revived; my memory of him forever gone. In the night I will go to consult astrologer after astrologer in the less known quarters of the city.”

I stop.

The sound of a church bell tears apart the moist air.

He looks at me: blue eyes, dark hair; powerful voice.

“Tonight there is party at the Doge’s Palace. Would you like to come with me?”

“I am not going to parties anymore.”

“Why not?”

“I died long time ago, by mistake. Now I am just a Venetian mask.”

For a moment he looks flabbergasted.
….

excerpt from the manuscript Glass Lovers 
@short-prose-fiction (Gabriela M)

image: Mohammadreza Zeidabadi; Shutterstock; [link]

Another beautiful poem from Short Prose.

Love in Venice #short prose #flash fiction — Short Prose