Tuesday, April 26, 2011


Golden Summer Day by Floriana Barbu

This is vulnerability…
the heart, pierced
by every appearance of beauty.

Beauty in woman.
Beauty in man.
Beauty in child.

Beauty in flower.
Beauty in tree.
Beauty in sky.

We consent
to ache,
forever, if we must.

We consent
to ache,
with integrated soul.

We descend
with open,
willing gait

To an underworld
of light
and voice.

And here is passion—
and here is indifference—

We do not close our eyes
in a rapture
of submission.

The more we look,
the more we see,
the more we realize.

What fullness,
to meet the other’s gaze
with eyes
captured by fire!

What oneness,
to say…
It is your radiance
that kindles me, love!

Friday, April 15, 2011

"Strings" is Published!

The instant before realization happens is the most uncertain of moments. Thus begins my short story, “Strings,” published in the Spring 2011 edition of Rose and Thorn Journal. Oh, joy!

“Strings” was a labor of love in more ways than I can begin to name. I opened up my imagination and allowed it to fly free. And for a few weeks, I was on a wicked, wild, and heady ride. And I immersed myself in it… literally. And I loved it… completely.

Please read and let me know what you think. Just click here and you’ll be taken there.

I hope you enjoy!

Monday, April 4, 2011


Photograph by Jared May

One day…
when he no longer recognizes
her seemingly unassuming flesh,
he will remember
its rawness, abundant, pungent,
filled with provocation.

Traces of its ghost…
will lick on his lips
and lashes, surrounding him,
separating her from his life
yet making her its focus.

In another time…
he will dream her sleeping
beside a luminous sky,
her marvelously ripe body
contending with delicate skin.

He will remember…
her rising slowly, deliberately
dancing in flames of light,
her body not burning but flickering,
her long legs bare
beneath a short summer dress,
her absent-minded feet inspecting
the cool and clumpy sand,
the eyes—hers yet not hers—
penetrating the stillness of day.

She will be…
alone with eggshell sands
and cerulean sky at a shore
polluted by summer’s lazy debris,
returning to his heart
and departing from it.

He will be…
alone with delusion,
vulnerable to pretense,
seeing her spirit flounce
like a hex and cling
to every atom of his ailing bones.

He will write the story,
then tumble inside its eyes.

How shimmering love is!
How radiant its lies!