The shore is distant, a timeless home;
beyond the coastline,
a retreat to the origin, of frothy foam.
Like a lonely wanderer, I meander
floundering, wasted, adrift,
on the ocean of consciousness
in the void of eternity.
Out of Synch
Should I be doing something important?
why can’t I remember what it is?
was I supposed to be somewhere
for an appointment?
I’ve no idea who with;
Clocks stare at me
with empty faces,
refusing to give me a cue
they’re not pointing at anything
and I really don’t know
what to do.
Listening to faltering surreal broadcasts
serenading another Summer equinox,
the composition’s title eludes him,
Miles;haunting contemplative succinct
flags down thoughts mimicking melancholy,
Gil Goggins’ circumspect piano
embedded in the spent day’s residue
receding like the listener’s reverie
broken by random sniper-shots of glass,
endemic tension flowing,
burst-veined onto midnight alleys
of this midnight City,
frantic frazzled red ‘n’ blue
taking some more cold meat
away to the coroner’s slab,
away from midnight streets
haunted by ” Yesterdays”,
that title hunted down and
captured by a desire to
have words for that spell
cast on a night long ago
in a faraway City where
heard the night
with its surreal,faltering..
Chiara, Arturo’s wife, approached them together with
Lucca and Francesca, the other Italian pair
Saying, ”Is Quare’s invention real? I think it is a myth.”
” His barometer measures the pressure of the air.”
Chiara wore a red big gown, with lace trimming the low,
A green velvet mantel, which was lined with some ermine,
Square neckline and sleeves, which were gathered at the elbow.
She spoke well Italian, Spanish, and German.
Italians wanted to disembark at Syracuse.
Bella and Miguel traveled to Barcelona home.
To find a new home, Naimah and his son had an excuse.
Out of their Turkey’s limit, through the storms, they would roam.
Tia, Athan, Megan, and Karsten would disembark
At Selanik, an Ottoman province, where Ahmed
The Third was reigning while his war was a fire in the dark.
They were Greeks being born during the reign of Mehmed.
Marco and Rosa, Cruz and Pedra, Pedro and Carla
Were Portuguese pairs coming home from America.
They had bought from the Pueblo Indians some ollas.
They gave one to the Russian pair, Ivan and Erica.
Ivan said, ”Tell me something about these Indians.”
Carla said, ”Their belief means dualism; they eat corn.
Some of them became Catholic due to the Spanish civilians.
They think they emerged from the underwater space to be born.”
Carla wore a black cap, having a veil, and a green gown
Patterned with acorns and flowers, and her sleeves were caught
With jeweled clasps on the lace at the elbow; her eyes were brown.
”The water is fresh in the ollas; I like their color a lot.”
She asked Ivan’’ Now, where do you go? ’’ ‘’We left the war.’’
”Ahmed and Peter the First! ” replied Cruz, ” tell me something,
How could you reach Constantinople after coming from a far ”
Zone? ””I do trade with them, but this war destroyed everything.”
”Did you lose everything you had? ” Marco asked Ivan.
”To make business in Turkey, I sold all my Russian goods.”
Erica tried this conversation to enliven,
”In Portugal, we’ll search for a job in cities and hoods.”
Marco wore a banyan with a patterned lining; his cuffs
Were embroidered in gold; his justacorps and stockings
Over his breeches were red like Rosa’s shoes and muffs.
All of them wore periwigs and talked a lot while walking.
(to be continued)
Poem by Marieta Maglas
Where does time go
when time passes ?
where do tomorrows come from ?
futures remind us of those days
we clung onto fleetingly ,
till they too were replaced
by an ever repetitive Present ;
we knew that it too wouldn’t last ,
for time passes only for time to come again ;
leaving us stranded on the axis of meaning ,
whirring silently in space
like a circle in a spiral ,
our own future far behind us
and our own past to look forward to ,
as time passes.
While the bud butterflies melt their wings
Within the light red poppy chain,
The pink-gray clouded, sad sunset rings.
In this lost sky, the sun’s light vein
Is almost thrown in a bloody rain.
The leaving sun abandons the sky
For the moon, and in the cricket crawl
The leaves of the oaks whisper ‘good bye’,
While the coming night has a dark shawl.
She looks at the stars with a black eye.
The sun and the stars find synergy,
In the regolith on the moon,
But with helium fusing energy,
This moon looks like a big balloon,
Or like a fragile, silky cocoon.
And like those thoughts enveloped in words,
Or like angels carrying their pure love,
Are the Feathers of the Holy Birds
In that rain dropping the divine globes
On the strong souls needing love rewards.
Any epistemological sphere
Is pouring up to the Holy Book,
Or is falling down to disappear.
The reverse arch gets a killer look.
Tries to provide fragrance of fear.
The fluid, wicked waves draining in sight
On Earth to meet at infinity
Are like the dark rays in the pure light.
Light rays are arches of Trinity,
While dressed in wind seems to be the night.
Stars are candles and night lights them all,
The colors withdraw in the last light.
In the black darkness, they look so small.
The dream seeds germinate for a fight,
Becoming real while breaking their wall.
© copyright Marieta Maglas
In the night
in the stillness of the long forever
of long long ago ,
the now that we have lost forever
the now that that was then long ago :
The here where we no longer stand
the there and then that was taken away ,
leaving us standing
stood waiting forever for time to return ,
to the forever here forever now
retrieving those days lost from long ago ;
the there ,the then
the was ,the when
in the night
and the stillness thereof.
Even devils act mild
Before a child
Something terribly wrong with man
Who has no inhibitions
In turning wild with a child
Uncles, fathers and grandfathers
Teachers and neighbours
All have turned slaughterers
Offering sacrifices of pious childhood
To procure blessings
For their ill desires
And the after-whispers
Pouring poison into little ears
What they talking about
How ironical is this
Poor victim has no idea
Of the harm inflicted
A life burnt
In the fire of burning desires
A budding life revealed to
Devilish aspects of growth
Words and blows
It all shows
As they grow
And the snow
Of innocence melts
A wound on skin
Time can heal
What happens to
The wounds within
Life is not just
Violence is infectious
Why infect your child
With the disease
Ruining his childhood
Infecting his adulthood
With violence and indecency
God knows when we stop
Turning brilliance into violence
rare rain droplets,
wet autumn leaves,
on every floor,
from both sides,
all awakening my
Within this body
lies an essence
an essence of new born
in the spring, ever scenting pleasant,
through an infant’s eyes,
in the chill wind,
like an untied kite.
I resonate with this essence,
when being alone,
weighing like a first raindrop,
until autumn loneliness
and winter mist
shape the memories of
deep inside into
But I never stop to
weave my verses
my inner voice.
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