Marieta Maglas

Losing Hope

She doesn't lose her hope while

praying. 'Tis not simple at all,

especially when the bells ring

for everything that can rise

and doesn't rise, but sinks.

A scream may mean

a nightmare or a fence 

circling the holiness

when the infinite is inward.

Life is an illusion or

a mask of an ego to roll it down

into that chaos bigger than 

Mare Imbrium or Sea of Showers. 

She thinks she has enough.

 

Yet, she is thankful to God,

though her empty-eyed life looks like

a glass-blowing robot or like

an empty crystal of Murano.

Maybe she wants an ending,

not to be saved.

Maybe she needs to think

and to understand the senselessness

of her human condition.

She cannot keep up with anything new

while being blocked in between

disappearing things.

Her shadow grows inwardly,

grows into a gnawing fear,

and draws an eerie silence on the walls.

While chewing all her cubic dreams,

she is afraid either of losing herself,

either of her metamorphosis.

The return into her inner hole

is a ringed crawl, not a resignation,

and maybe a rocking laugh.

 

Above her head, a few clouds

stand on the verge of their lightning.

Maybe she needs God,

but she thinks of those questions

without answers; drowning 

her needs in drinking.

She falls into another psychedelic sleep

in which she cannot pray.

Maybe to be in the arms of Morpheus is

a haven to wake up in Heaven.

When should a word be considered lost?

 

 

Dancing Samba Touré

 

On a samba touré from the Sahara,

a new blue dance meets the heat of the sand

and impregnates souls with love.

There is no chance to see God, 

but to feel Him in a cosmic way.

The same tattooed sadness and

its subconscious asceticism are released

in the burning, hypnotic air. All

feelings can return to what they once were ~

cyclic evolution in perfectionism.

 

These free people,

who are like bluebirds of happiness,

touch a sky-dancing Takamba.

Some shadows of the day

fly in the moonlight to cool down.

Old ghosts of memory are invaded

by the ancient spirituality of

the whole world in their thinking grain~

a need to survive.

 

Aubade

 

That sonata comes from your desire to

explore the exquisite crush of 

certain musical ideas.

I am staring at ‘The Sky’, 

a masterpiece painted with

scissors by Henri Matisse, 

while I listen to you.

 

Those soaring white birds have 

the appearance of

moving hieroglyphics. 

It seems so different

this Sunday dawn in our 

ancient sunlight of concealment!

A few golden rays weave a web to create

new complex and eye-catching life spirals.

 

Dreams rising and angels falling is 

the theme of your piano piece. 

This unusual rocking time is

gradually whitening your hair. 

Two Mizutani shears

appear to have been forgotten on 

a chair similar to

those found in cut and curl shops.

Never for haircuts and curls, 

our salon is intended

to be a gathering place for 

numerous artists.

 

The house has spiral stairs 

that go down to Lonely Street.

Sundays are not consequential 

in our household,

but I think they should be since 

they serve as a reminder

to folks to spend a lot of time in prayer and

contemplation with the Lord.

 

One door, that one guarding 

your safe room,

moves, shattering the silence. 

Now and then, I hear your sonata’s notes 

vanishing in the air

like all the footsteps in our hallway.

It’s a new Sunday, 

but old tears fall from

the clouds’ eyes. 

Still, the critics don’t want to

miss hearing you perform on the piano.

A sense of dawn and 

some ancient hieroglyphs

shine in the music’s lyrics.

 

To wake up next to you makes me happy.