Sunday, May 1, 2016




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 has never been mild.
This wind has never been a child.

Poem by Marieta Maglas


His single-mindedness has been gone.
Became contradictory.
Relinquished to fight with
his chimera.

Now, he denudes, takes off his self.
His lulls have to give shape
to his own abyss, as well as to open
the portal of enlightenment he does
not have without
identifying the image of his emptiness.
All his convictions are to be cut off.
Nor he is not inaudible while having to summarize
his own epic - a life being
not even wrong,
nor any sigh can be heard.

She is like no one else.

In the casino, the piano swallows all the heavy notes
instead of him, while
dropping them one by one into an
imperceptible mouth
until the culmination.

A quarter is lost.
She is forgotten.
She is no more
his mirror.
Her age is wrapped in wistfulness.

His robotic carrion needs
life for raising the balance of his money-
nickel rocking rocks to change the destinies.

He has never hoped to be a better one,
but he forced himself to become a true story
of life.
The entire life,
he has been a poetic dreamer
locked inside his oppressive subconscious.

He has never stopped questioning himself
about the world around him
while he was afraid to live.
Ceaselessly he has balanced his beliefs as he would
like to bend some sounds
for no more sadness about the true stories of life.

Now, she is no more his tomorrow,
albeit he is still in love with her
while trying to be
a compassionate one.

Poem by Marieta Maglas

Thoughts of Unknowing Ness (Complex Poetic Form)

Thoughts of unknowingness and you dance me
until I become the only movement...This tango undresses
my feelings, and I am stripped of all bad thought
to be enlightened. I am a Cartesian clear and distinct object
on this pyramidal peak of the mountain, where
the echoes trail off almost forever over the horizon.
Let's sing, either with power, or with angels, or with freedom,
naught else nor no more songs, but a swing song,

a prothalamium, which

expresses nothing less than the clarity of our true feelings
and nothing more than the rightness of our straight angles of view.

There is the fullness of our love, where
God is knowable, whether willful or involuntary.

We can neither see still,
solace still one another
in our sufferings,
unless we are smoothly stuck in His
unending love cycle. There is, in fact,
a cognitive itch
and a divination using the human form
while being alive,
when life is not alive in its own sense
except for the eternity.

We can be good people
through this consciousness of ours,
which is relentless and reflexive,
especially when it becomes an object to itself.

I am not myself,
I am only this reaction of mine
in front of others
like a doppelgänger in the mirror.
The more I feel the time passing
the more I understand the eternity.
Yet turn, turn to live each second of no return.

There is no yellow horse in our dreams,
neither is this golden ripe wheat field
our land of freedom.
The sun shines still for every still green sunflower
Following it from east to west each day.

I 'm spellbound by
the swinging sonorous cadence
of the birds chirping on the pyramids
and on the peaks of the mountains.

Poem by Marieta Maglas


Searching for their love ideal
To plant there a dawn so real,
God gave them hope to go ahead
And palm flowers for their dream bed.

In their naked room without windows,
Not touched by the innuendos,
Music was their way to be wed
And palm flowers had their dream bed,

The cradle of their nascent thought
Could cut their main Gordian knot-
Baptism of freedom in the head.
Then, palm flowers had their dream bed.

Searching for their love ideal
And palm flowers for their dream bed.


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