Love Poem: The Vibration by Marieta Maglas, Romania

My sight chipped out the clouds
from the sky. My eyes became
so expressive for you. The clouds
were, in fact, your thoughts having
the polarity of love. This love of ours
was, in fact, a 'sweet slavery'. We
were searching for our rainbow of
dreams, we were searching for our
color of happiness. Sometimes,
I'm so tired with you, living between
the meanders of your soul. I'm
so tired that I need to cry. The
vibration of your voice becomes
a tear at dawn. Then, love seems
to explode inside of us. This
explosion is like a sunrise. I
expect The Divine to sit nicely
there, in the depth of our souls
and to flow brightly as the
water flows on mountain rocks.

©Marieta Maglas, Romania

Poem: Metamorphosis by Marieta Maglas, Romania

The idea staying on
its edge of dream
like the winter
melting on its
edge of spring,
so serendipitously
to give birth to
the reality.

©Marieta Maglas, 2012

Poem: Pygmalion and Galatea by Marieta Maglas, Romania

Your sight was poignantly penetrating

me within. Your blue eyes were even more

bittersweet in that opaque singleness, our

touch was like a sadness piano song. I did

not know when you really wanted to exist

for yourself while pretending to be existent. I

kissed you and you thought that it was only a

kiss, but I wanted to swallow your silence and

to blow into the air your defense. You were

dying inside of you. You loved me in this

secret room of ours. We could understand our

existence. That room kept us hidden from

the whole world for a second. In our

dream, we became free. We tried to free

our mind and our souls, but our dream couldn't

generate any idea. We made love for no

other reason but to love each other. I

became a milky white ivory Galatea of

yours .You made me your woman for

that sense of belonging. I needed that , I

wanted my own metamorphosis. I became

that Galatea not being able to leave the

love cell. In your absence, I became that

Galatea wallowing in hopelessness,

understanding that the sadness was the

only thing really existent inside. I became

that Galatea wanting to see again your green-blue

loving eyes. You became that Pygmalion of mine,

for without me .....you ....

© Marieta Maglas, Romania

(I got this poem re-living the greek play of sculptor Pygmalion and his life like statue Galatea on my FB timeline this morning from my poet pal and wished to share it with the world. To get more of Marieta Maglas poems click here)

Maya Angelou- Phenomenal Woman

Maya Angelou

Pretty women wonder where my secret lies.
I'm not cute or built to suit a fashion model's size
But when I start to tell them,
They think I'm telling lies.
I say,
It's in the reach of my arms
The span of my hips,
The stride of my step,
The curl of my lips.
I'm a woman
Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That's me.

I walk into a room
Just as cool as you please,
And to a man,
The fellows stand or
Fall down on their knees.
Then they swarm around me,
A hive of honey bees.
I say,
It's the fire in my eyes,
And the flash of my teeth,
The swing in my waist,
And the joy in my feet.
I'm a woman
Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That's me.

Men themselves have wondered
What they see in me.
They try so much
But they can't touch
My inner mystery.
When I try to show them
They say they still can't see.
I say,
It's in the arch of my back,
The sun of my smile,
The ride of my breasts,
The grace of my style.
I'm a woman

Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That's me.

Now you understand
Just why my head's not bowed.
I don't shout or jump about
Or have to talk real loud.
When you see me passing
It ought to make you proud.
I say,
It's in the click of my heels,
The bend of my hair,
the palm of my hand,
The need of my care,
'Cause I'm a woman
Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That's me.

All Rights Reserved to the Poet: Maya Angelou

William Wordsworth - Calm is all Nature as a Resting Wheel

Calm is all nature as a resting wheel.
The kine are couched upon the dewy grass;
The horse alone, seen dimly as I pass,
Is cropping audibly his later meal:
Dark is the ground; a slumber seems to steal
O'er vale, and mountain, and the starless sky.
Now, in this blank of things, a harmony,

Home-felt, and home-created, comes to heal

That grief for which the senses still supply
Fresh food; for only then, when memory
Is hushed, am I at rest. My Friends! restrain
Those busy cares that would allay my pain;
Oh! leave me to myself, nor let me feel
The officious touch that makes me droop again. 

All right reserved to the poet, to read more of  William Wordsworth poems follow the link; http://www.poemhunter.com/william-wordsworth/