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 

The Snapdragons by Marieta Maglas

The sun burns the sky.The steps

crush the red of the leaves.It’s an

incomprehensible mystery in the

structure of the leaving green.The

sound drums the holy bell of light.

It’s an unbearable restlessness in

the structure of white.Red and white

snapdragons smother their preys. 

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.