Cubic Words by Marieta Maglas

 

There are hues of
blue embracing those of red
to vibrate in harmony.
There is a sense
of their movement above
the limits.
There is ceaselessly
a feeling in the sense.
The feelings can be objects.
..
Conceivably, the things have
a beginning,
because we believe it,
and maybe
there is neither beginning nor end.
..
In the spring rain,
there are kissing statues.
In the lulled lodgings
emblazoned with
shadows of shabby objects
on the walls,
there are lonely people
meditating about their life.
There is a measure of vulnerability
For everything that is good
..
and for the starving birds
in searching for seeds everywhere
as for those cancerous youngsters
having unimaginable pains,
still yearning to be cured
not till experience.
In the coverings,
there are riders of the history
dressed in armor
to enter the mind’s imagination and
all that is not the mind’s imagination.
..
In the spring nights,
there is a moon becoming a curtain
for the great vaudeville
of the stars
..
formed from the other stars,
no two alike,
and being
..
like charming women
wearing masks and
wide necklines, nor
like those ballerinas
that like to costume
in lactate white to suggest
dandelions dancing
to spread their seeds.
..
In the luxury shop windows,
there are gems looking like flowers
and flowers looking like gems.
..
In the Sisyphus dimension,
there are tired eyelids in abeyance.
Nothing bends from above,
everything falls down.
..
There are emerald northern lights.
..
In a puddle of sun,
There are emerald green,
tattooed bodies
Dancing tango.
..
There are cubic dragons,
and there are things
that have been taken apart
to be put, then,
back together in a wrong order.
..
So, there is self-loathing,
and there are feelings of worthlessness
in a life spent
earning filthy lucre.
There are resentments
to destroy the lives.
There are the wrong things
that fall apart and
the wrong things that fall together
with those that are right.
There are words coming out
in a wrong comprehension
to be incorporated into bad memories.
There are wrongly imagined riders
of the history.
Uprising dove feather and prying eyes
get at the meaning of the truths
in the uprights
(there are many truths left) .
..
But there will never be
..
blue trees
and eternal corpses.

..

Bio:
Ardus Publications, Sybaritic Press, Prolific Press, and some others published the poems of Marieta in anthologies like Tanka Journal, edited by Glenn Lyvers, The Aquillrelle Wall of Poetry, edited by Yossi Faybish, A Divine Madness: An Anthology of Modern Love Poetry, edited by John Patrick Boutilier, Near Kin:A Collection of Words and Art Inspired by Octavia Estelle Butler, edited by Marie Lecrivain, Three Line Poetry #25, edited by Glenn Lyvers, ENCHANTED – Love Poems and Abstract Art, edited by Gabrielle de la Fair, and Intercontinental Anthology of Poetry on Universal Peace and Love, edited by Madan Gandhi.

The Chill of the Wind by Marieta Maglas

The soul of this wind needs
No rainbow
But only desperation for a crushing blow.
He blows and blows and blows
Over the life
Of the seeds in the fruits,
And blows again
Over the purity
Of all the creeds.
Much more, he blows
Until everything around bleeds.
..
This wild wind needs to feed
His inner fire, which is a bloody furry
For a sunless time,
And fights an uphill battle
Against any existence.
..
His chills gather speed
While coming down from the hills.
He’s wild enough
To get the naked trees riled,
..
He has been blind
But never mild.
This wind has never been a child.

Fascinating Truth by Marieta Maglas

This fascinating truth comes out of
your mouth to surround
the reality like those lights that touch
the darkness in the underground – optical fiber
sensors in the smart
fields with heat, vibration,
bending or squeezing.
..
This truth is a thing I know for sure,
a thing I know I can live for.
It makes me understand
all the relationships from the inside out.
..
A new sun is in
this abusive world
situated in front of
our cave temple
to surround it
and I spend time fleshing out precisely
what “embodied” signifies.
..
Optical fibers
always pick up ground tremors.
..
Even so,
I am not the only one trying
to do something good around,
but I am growing up in a slavery
which is ruthless and
has turbulent waters.
..
The sun disappears there.
Its rays can heat the floods.
..
This truth makes us rethink
what we know about the Creation,
and what our lives mean
when we are
still alive at the edge of our thinking
between certitude and denial,
and when God is out of our vision.
..
It is about overcoming
the idea of what makes both of us be so fearful.
..
Nothing is like the way you fall asleep:
all at once while standing
as  only the sun stands
in the sky before its sunset.
..
Clean and uncluttered,
this truth belongs to a twilight time
and, sometimes, it makes you do absurd things .
We are inside this plasma,
and plasma is inside everything.
It is incandescent
in the sun and
I am curious to know if you
are able to stop orbit yourself around it
even for a second.
No, you are not able to do this,
but you are able
to stop the truths be spoken.
..
All the absurd things are cool.
Their spirits lose
their oxygen ions to generate
that matter in no pain.
The spiritual things
are in pulsing metamorphosis
to break into pieces, or
to turn back after
a long, hard, but reversing process
before becoming anachronistic.

..

Bio:
Ardus Publications, Sybaritic Press, Prolific Press, and some others published the poems of Marieta in anthologies like Tanka Journal, edited by Glenn Lyvers, The Aquillrelle Wall of Poetry, edited by Yossi Faybish, A Divine Madness: An Anthology of Modern Love Poetry, edited by John Patrick Boutilier, Near Kin:A Collection of Words and Art Inspired by Octavia Estelle Butler, edited by Marie Lecrivain, Three Line Poetry #25, edited by Glenn Lyvers, ENCHANTED – Love Poems and Abstract Art, edited by Gabrielle de la Fair, and Intercontinental Anthology of Poetry on Universal Peace and Love, edited by Madan Gandhi.

Latina Time by Marieta Maglas

This game is the way in which slaughter becomes an end in itself.
..
Acta est fabula plaudite
The play has been performed; applaud!
..
Surely, less obvious ways exist
The Darkness seeks to manipulate us into its service.
..
Actus non facit reum nisi mens sit rea.
The act is not guilty unless the mind is also guilty.
..
Once all of them have won a very special princess prize,
the game is over….
and they will never buy another one…..
..
Alis grave nil.
Nothing is heavy to those who have wings
..
And maybe we cannot understand what’s going on,
but we can understand that the players
skillfully hide behind the walls….
They think….
..
Cessante ratione legis cessat ipsa lex.
When the reason for the law ceases, the law itself ceases.
..
We seek escape from reality, we undermine our self-esteem.
Maybe we are unable to see them, but we need to talk about this.
And maybe they do not trust us when we tell them to come to us if they need
to talk….
….about those who become their victims……
..
Sed ipse Spiritus postulat pro nobis, gemitibus inenarrabilibus.
But the same Spirit intercedes incessantly for us, with inexpressible groans.

Evil Earth by Marieta Maglas

Screaming voices shatter the inner mirror of love,
Clatter to nothingness and search for freedom in space.
Their bloody songs tightly twist a blue heaven above.
In the thin, chill air, they disappear without a trace.
 
 
Over their inner whispers, the wind whips through the wounds
In the concert of the demons as a veiled disguise.
Bloody voices need to build up many stomping grounds.
The buried dangers sprout out to keep growing in size.
 
 
Their tears of the liquid souls make watery waves.
They’re beauties in the road facing with their fear of death,
Still screaming while drowning in the cold watery graves.
They tear the silence with their groan and their bleeding breath.

Her Burqa by Marieta Maglas

piercing the veil of her tears
a burqa
the secret of her smile
hidden
the yellow of the sun growing
in her eyes of night
in search of
her black sun
blindness
busted being her dream
dreaming about something busted
her soul
and her watch
for icy dreams
penetrating the eye of the mind
a talking blindness
yellowing her secret
growing
in flames
happiness
as a smiling sun
or flaming curves
gestures imitating curve words
flamboyant gestures
folks
flaming talk
piercing the veil of her tears 

Screaming Mannequins by Marieta Maglas

Eyes huddled in fear,
that paralyzing fear in front of
the bullets mercilessly sprayed,  
deeply sprayed by some cruelty, 
 which is fed up
 with a lot of victims, 
 those defenseless victims of hate, 
 a dreadful hate, 
 which is fed up with a little love 
 as well as 
 a little pleasure can be fed up with a lot of pain, 
 that extreme pain, 
 which embellishes the madness, 
 that round and seemingly nonexistent madness being like 
 a strange cold having 
 many moisturized rosy-red,  
 rosy-red ring-shaped patches 
 associated with a giant Quincke swelling
 and with a boisterous cooling noisy breath, 
 that snorting breath like a groaning song, 
 a love song for a dance of death, 
 that painful death for all the hot puppets, 
 beautiful puppets becoming cold wax mannequins, 
 those mannequins screaming in their red rain
 of feelings, 
 ..
those red feelings coloring a few sad moments, 
cool moments of many winter fires 
those burning fires in the lost caves of shadows. 

Screaming Mannequins by Marieta Maglas

Eyes huddled in fear,
that paralyzing fear in front of
the bullets mercilessly sprayed,
deeply sprayed by some cruelty,
which is fed up
with a lot of victims,
those defenseless victims of hate,
a dreadful hate,
which is fed up with a little love
as well as
a little pleasure can be fed up with a lot of suffering,
that extreme suffering,
which embellishes the madness,
that round and seemingly nonexistent madness being like
a strange cold having
many moisturized rosy-red,
rosy-red ring-shaped patches
associated with a giant Quincke swelling
and with a boisterous cooling noisy breath,
that snorting breath like a groaning song,
a love song for a dance of death,
that painful death for all the hot puppets,
beautiful puppets becoming cold wax mannequins,
those mannequins screaming in their red rain
of feelings,

those red feelings coloring a few sad moments,
cool moments of many winter fires
those burning fires in the lost caves of shadows.

Eschatological Regression by Marieta Maglas

Right on the trellis of the house
made of reeds, she hears
the steps of the time. The woman feels the seeds
of a new grievance growing
in the immortality
of her soul that has many bleeding wounds. She kneels
in the booming green
like a screaming child. The sun looks
so wild in that phenomenal
realm. Like floods of faith
are a few clouds that breeze to catch

their unique angel’s wings. The man thinks he is

a believer of the rise. He ingests the existence
of God as he ingests His words, nor does he feel
their Holy sweetness. The woman

is dress’d in that honest submissiveness
ripp’d
by the freedom of her wills. A lot of

colored bumble bees touch
the sunflowers’ lips. A pulsing core
has the full bloom of the sun to
spread the seeds. Drops of a new divine
love are falling down

over all the magnanimous souls. In the eye
of the man, there is nothing inherently wrong with
her maternal nudity. She dances this love,
while trying not to break
any inner thing. Their thoughts are
like the quartz crystals inside

a cosmic orgonite pyramid to awaken them. The naked hands

of their destiny start to build a boat. The man
paddles in the sea of life
beyond the bounds of the human sense, while

forcing him to see

the fundamental distinction
between an excessive sensibility
and an opening to divine understanding. The sky is

much more like a convex mirror than like a concave lens to
diverge the light. The yellow

of the sun does not heat
the screaming and the growing green. There is
a human reification needing
an eschatological regression.

Poem for a Victim Woman by Marieta Maglas

Your life with him was a real horrendous
prolongation of a sad wishful thinking
waiting to spew out his whole stupendous
spiral of love, and much more, waiting

to carve his icy bloody memory on some
wave-washed wet shores of your mind. All
had transpired as a sad part of this numb
reality has truly died. That invisible wall

between you both had been merely built on
hip-thrusts, until finally, you awoke alone
as after a horrid dream instead of love.
With a bloodshot eye and a fatigued bone,

you understood your anxieties and confusions.
The wind of change waved down your moldy
dreams. You lost your hope, being under delusions,
even you could survive as well as a golden oldie.

You’ve been told that nothing good may happen
after a crude awakening in your deep life abyss.
His sense of life meant only power and rapine,
and reality still contorts and deforms your bliss.

”What could have been” remains a never ending
effort to be yourself again. You still hope to survive
within your lackluster woman structure, pretending
that your unique dream of pure love is still alive.