Saturday, April 1, 2017




She descended from the picture
to sit down on her
empty chair.
Her geographic tongue
kept silence.
She was in the middle
of nowhere. Her
cubic dreams
dissolved in the reality of her
fashionable loneliness - a mask.

In the still air,
a bird like a huge cross
made of icy love brought

She took her personal diary
and started to jot down
phrases about
a life in pieces. Some old words
that have been
deposited there
looked like those dried leaves
of any herbarium.
Her diary was not green at all
while keeping safe
her unique love, longing for a little life -
two elementary cells
subsiding into a
biochemical contemplation,
seeds growing
in the humungous womb
of the earth
to become
future flowers.

On the retina of her eyes,
lost worlds
were still existent,
still green.

She looked into the mirror
to see the unseen.
She understood her death.

She would leave that space to go
somewhere where
she could hope against hope
to find a little happiness.
She would go, but
she did not.
She disappeared
into the picture.


I am in the shadow of that reality
that will become existent.

I feel the solar spring
when the glaciers
continue to melt at the poles.
The words are alive;
they don't burn yet,
but still, I prefigure their blistering heat.
I do know that God is watching over us.
He is watching over everything
and over the disoriented people
needing to find some love around
when their hearts are
empty or emptied.

Meanwhile, the sun orbits
its own hot star;
this rotation is egg-shaped;
makes new spirals
to blow the best out of it.

Meanwhile, the earth speeds through its
northern summer quarter
of its revolution.

In the summer of life,
the liturgical Sundays
become concave
to bulge the thoughts outwardly.

'Tis green outside when the wind
becomes a force to
whip everything around.
I hear the crunching gravel sounding
around that Church of St. Peter
where the people don't enter
to laugh, but to listen to The Lord
while the priest tries
to catch up with
old words that have been ignored
so many centuries.

These parishioners
have always dreamed
of hiking up a spiritual mountain
to purify the true inner self.
They gain a sense of each individuality,
which is always unique.

From time to time, this earth is
in the shadow of the sun-
'Tis not about that darkness
belonging to those trees
reflecting the mood of their forest.
There, the mushroom grows up
from a seed of self.
Ban Chao Gang Moo unveils their secret.
Ban Chao Gang Moo is not a forest.

People still try to mess with
the powerful devil
in the coming Apocalypse.
This Apocalypse is hot, but not green.
It is solar summer, not winter.

In winter, the glaciation comes.
'Tis about that glaciation
freezing everything,
especially those waves
''of the sea driven with the wind and tossed''-
freezing, not igniting
the shadow of the life.


Love is not
what we are calling an object.
Yet, it is still an object.
It has functions & variables.
It is so fundamental
in the sense
of thinking
and builds peace.

Missing love is a suffering lion -
extended vowels
in the absence of The Lord.

Love needs shapes
to express itself -
wide, heavy words.
Sometimes, it continues
beyond the limits
in searching for happiness.
Maybe happiness is
a Bentham's principle,
but not an extended illusion
in a dream-
pleasures, pains, sexuality, morality.

It is hedonistic when it doesn't let us
realize what we ought to do
in order to be
what we need to be.

Love is an object
needing a language
to scream for freedom,
that kind of freedom giving
It is so ontic in the hands
of God
and makes us be children again-
His children.


Ardus Publications, Sybaritic Press, Prolific Press, Silver Birch Press, HerEthics Books, and some others published the poems of MARIETA MAGLAS in anthologies like Tanka Journal , Three Line Poetry #25, Three Line Poetry #39 edited by Glenn Lyvers, The Aquillrelle Wall of Poetry edited by Yossi Faybish, A Divine Madness edited by John Patrick Boutilier, Near Kin edited by Marie Lecrivain, ENCHANTED - Love Poems and Abstract Art edited by Gabrielle de la Fair, Intercontinental Anthology edited by Madan Gandhi, and Nancy Drew Anthology edited by Melanie Villines. Her poems have been also published in journals like Poeticdiversity, I Am not a Silent Poet, Our Poetry Corner, and Antarctica Journal.

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