MARIETA MAGLAS

MARIETA MAGLAS

AUTUMN'S GRACE

The autumn's dream may keep its dying grace

With flecks of bleeding leaves, all dressed in yellow.

The cold wind's scorch may wither the green space,

When the sweet fruits a bit more need to mellow.

When autumn's tear on every leaf perceives

The cold wind, which scorches the green so cruelly

Till the shade of the bleeding yellow leaves

The whole, wet world to meet its ground so coolly.

The autumn's red may silence the bird's voice,

When the shivers of the tree the rain embrace.

Nature hides while having no other choice,

When the winter slowly comes to show her face.

The rainbow appears as a belt of weaves,

The rest of life begins to flow in the light.

The wind dances on the shivering leaves.

The lake's reflection steals the sun's delight.

Copyright © Marieta Maglas. All rights reserved.

THE FLAMENCO DANCE

(COMPLEX POETIC FORM)

In a juerga, there's nothing around

But voices, flamenco guitars,

Dancing bodies in moonlight,

Vibrant gypsy dresses,

Passion, obsessions,

Bullfighter's blades,

Silk shawls,

Dancers,

Capes.

Old men have faces scorched and cracked,

Flamenco women to attract-

Barks of olive trees in the night.

Shirts dazzle white in the moonlight.

Girls have boot heels and the roses,

Men clench their teeth, step opposes,

Hands clap and shout in a dance fight,

Shirts dazzle white in the moonlight.

Guitars are beaten at high speeds,

Castanets scratch the music's seeds,

Rhythmic fingers snap air to bite,

Shirts dazzle white in the moonlight.

Old men have faces scorched and cracked,

Shirts dazzle white in the moonlight.

Hands becoming wings

In their shadows on the wall,

Red becoming black and

Black becoming white,

Motion vibrating the guitar's string,

Cubic movements of colors,

In their dance,

Shadowy wings becoming scarfs,

Flamenco woman arching her body,

Showing her passion…

From the soul to dissolve

The dancing sounds detach

From the soul to dissolve

When the movement they catch,

They may change all around,

The dancing sounds detach.

Drums and tambourines' sound,

Exotic wrists and swirls,

They may change all around.

The weightless grace makes girls

Steal treasures from the air,

Exotic wrists and swirls.

With beautiful black hair,

Rise like birds; fall like leaves.

Steal treasures from the air,

Having tricked up their sleeves,

From the soul to dissolve,

Rise like birds; fall like leaves

From the soul to dissolve.

Spicy slippery steps

Waiting for a clue,

Picking up portions of pink

Of hyper-femininity,

Overflowing screwy sounds

In heavy red chromesthesia,

Morphing themselves into glamorous,

Red feminine movements,

Men looking like marble statues being alive,

Seemingly cracking.

Slowly diminishing their dancing rhythm,

Steps cutting sweet sounds

To hear the horn of some lost happiness.

Copyright © Marieta Maglas

THE LAST CICADA

The sadness scattered

over the walls resonating

with what was

in the heart

of the mountain.

No sound could be heard.

A myriad of eyes belonging to cicadas

were shrouded in mist.

A somewhat long-winded

like a speech

surrounded the sky.

Maybe it was an echo,

a sesquipedalian one.

It wasn't breathless at all.

Nothing could have saved

nature around.

Neither of the forests,

neither of the birds,

and neither of the bears

could survive.....

Nothing more

could have been done.

All the moving peaks became

small stones, as solitary

as the moon,

at the fugitive horizon.

The last cicada

disappeared.

Everything became motionless.

There were only the shadows

of the trees

to follow the sunbeams.

The nature game

turned detrimentally

into a disaster.

In an illuminated city,

the last man bought

a lovely bouquet of red roses

wanting to bestow

what it is considered to be

a symbol of romance.

This man needed

to express his love

and to let his woman know

how he feels about her.

This man disappeared.

Nothing could have saved him.

Nothing more

could have been done.

Copyright © Marieta Maglas

SCREAMING MANNEQUINS

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,

one 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.

Copyright ©

 MARIETA MAGLAS