Tuesday, August 23, 2016

The Faille Snows

the faille snows veil the ballets
she rehearses in her sleep,
adorn the keepers of the

frostbitten flame, the arctic names;
the white pears in crystal gleams
from the canvas and from the stage

they vanish into pearl
from the wars into intaglio
cutting the performance


mary angela douglas 23 august 2016

Questionaire Concerning The White Horses

to the ones on white horses who lost their way
we will not blame you that this our minstrelsy
seems dead and that the nightingales

refuse to sing because you are not here.
and in the mists,rising we rise too,
in fleeting years,

in coded songs remembering
you used to think of us perhaps
in your dense forests,

now and again.
o why pretend?
the sallow children sang;

no reign is certain,
no matter how tightly they hold the reins.
and the white horses, were they only

what we dreamed?
or are we vanishing, too?

mary angela douglas 23 august 2016

Monday, August 22, 2016

Lunch Money

what if you found the reference books of kings
on sale perhaps at the thrift store near
the old magazines, a rubied coronet

or the faded floral dresses, garish scarves
and carried them away, having spent your lunch money;
feeling yourself changed somehow

as if a golden aureole surrounds your head.
and wondering, would anyone note the difference
when you slipped back into work

the things to file having grown for you meanwhile
in the inbox piled seven stories to the moon,
several times over.

but you will think in another language
in the office gloom as you resume captivity;
or part of one, at least;

or the one that you make up in your sleep,
dripping with fantastic colours
like the Northern Lights on display

dripping down the candle of the day.
the afternoon ticks by
and then the trains;

your dubious dinner made
but just before,
you plan the next week's splurge:

maybe the Crown Jewels cast aside
in a dusty showcase of old things
for new brides;

think of it! for only 75 cents...

you will envision bookshops in the rain
you're sloshing through
that have rarely been on earth:

the ones piled high with the charact'ry
Keats too richly conceived,
with little known fairy tales

in quaint spellings, that bear retellings;
etchings, done in moonlight.
and on a proverbial whim,

you'll spend the last of the gold for them
forgoing that new dress, figured, on fuschia.
and go to live in the hold

of the ship with the cold, cold
apples of silver
from an intricate lullaby;

or pluck for Hans Andersen
one january rose; one fugitive sky;
sent to guard the children

and to shield them from the snows.

mary angela douglas 22, 23 august 2016

Saturday, August 20, 2016

The Kingdom Of Maraschinos

o do you remember
the kingdom of maraschinos
and you in red velveteen

practicing for the recitals
the waltzes from the south?
and the roses outside

seemed complicit
and music lit from within
like opals, measure to measure.

I remember this,
I think to myself on the bus,
the houses with a thousand windows

flashing by,
bequeathed with too many wreaths.
and it is Christmastime

and I remember
the kingdom of maraschinos;
the light in the skies

above our childhoods, cherry-wise.

mary angela douglas 20 august 2016

A Final Thing To You Will Be Said

a final thing to you will be said
but then you won't be here
so you may as well imagine it,

spell it out in code to the birds
who will fly away with it
back to their fairy tale lands,

to their nests twined silver and gold,
the occasional turquoise.
something sparkles in a beak

and it's too late to take it back
and it goes free, without permission
into the clouds.

so it could be for you or me
the last day on earth;
when we escape the denoument

they had planned
with God, sweet God,
commanding otherwise...

mary angela douglas 20 august 2016


your mind with its stained glass
its reverent fissures, cul de sacs
its lime green neighborhoods

peridot coloured moons
they want to exume, examine
and ask you: please say back to me

a few minutes later the words:
penny, apple, table
and of course you do

you will
but the drill keeps on going
they'll ask you to count backwards

to subtract the current atmosphere

from the one in which you were free.
oh it's all for your own good
they say benevolently perhaps.

how could it be
when I hear the jeweled bells ring out
from the distances in peril.

mary angela douglas 20 august 2016

Unknown Hearts

when God traced in green the outline of His trees
in the First Spring of the worlds
did the birds sing ghostly,

knowing they were next?
and the angels cried:
there will be birdsong,

flight! and unborn children
in a sequined light
stirred in their coming dreams

where the silver birds flew
and song spilled over from the trees
cascading like the rains

and rainbows are near,

near to us whispered the freshly
configured stars
and unknown hearts

will love us, looking up
the moons all aureoled.

mary angela douglas 20 august 2016