Tuesday, October 25, 2016

The Beautiful World Has Gone We Never Said

the beautiful world has gone we never said to ourselves
except when we were alone
and the clouds of cold came out

of our mouths instead of the words
lined in gold
at the school bus stops

and in our pale galoshes
pearl dimmed coats.
and dimming are the rooms we knew

and the violets strewn

the remnants of our flower chains
and classroom disdain
grows stronger.

how will we white with frost
begin to count the cost
who have barely begun

counting at all.
we are small in our cherry velvet
said the young queen

half in and half out of the fairy wood
I will, I will be good.

mary angela douglas 25 october 2016

Monday, October 24, 2016

The Book Of What Is Left

the book of what is left
you've only just started
please feel new

let snows descend on you
refreshing, peppermint esconced
and looking glass polished

apple bright
may you delight
as if delight were

your first word
in the New Year
and you are turning

the leaves of the book
of what is left
and the wind rustles the

pages suddenly tinged in green
and what is left=
is Everything!

mary angela douglas 24 october 2016

Theories Of Time In The Ice Cream Shoppe

[to the twenty seven flavors I passed by and
to my Grandfather, Milton B. Young]

I wanted to think through my theories of time
in the ice cream shoppes (you know,
and research there)

was it lemon stick in the Howard

Johnson's lodge, or black cherry vanilla
vanilla and were the skies deep turquoise
and the trees rimmed with pumpkin orange

as in a picture postcard where it all matches?
everyone has family vacations
says the world and the kids at school  but I don't listen

I'm in my own time loop festively
with my Grandfather when he
asks so benignly and I'm sure

nowhere else to anyone else ever
in any other universe;
are you sure you want lemon stick again?

mary angela douglas 24 october 2016

Where Things Turn To Gold Of Their Own Accord

I dreamed of forgotten books and cried
that I could not carry them they slipped through
and none to help

and I awoke looking to see
some evidence of a way to find them awake
alas, there was none

but me to know how tangibly they shone
how near at hand in my dream land
breaking apart so naturally

like clouds on an overcast day,
or my sister's arpeggios in the long ago.
all this was where? I hear sad scoffers say

and I reply if I may

where things turn to gold of their own accord
and not, this striving after, this continual competition
for the cracker jack prize

it just occurs without your thinking, you know,
like light on the waves, or on september days
the lemoning of leaves

and there you are.
the books were shining too.
the ones I couldn't rescue

the ones you never knew.

mary angela douglas 24 october 2016

Friday, October 21, 2016

Our Grandmother Says "Paprika" To Us At The Kitchen Table

the way she pronounced paprika
we imagined it a red flower,
colored very red by bearing down

hard on the crayon, a liptstick colour!
or a paper lantern at a party
or to be put in a jewelry case

with pink pearls in the topmost section
strangely gleaming.
paprika from foreign ports

part jewel, a hybrid star
punched out of a cardboard puzzle
to find out where you are

in a dizzy universe
can you guess? or is it
a beautiful dress put by

for a princess in disguise
all shimmer and net, we won't forget
paprika paprika paprika we

sang in our room outloud

dismissed from the kitchen table supper
forever forever we vowed to be "now on"
twirling and twirling like the jewel box

we knew that we were 
because of paprika, suddenly,

uttered like a magic word.

mary angela douglas 21 october 2016

A Ghost Story For Mr. Barrie

[to J.M. Barrie, author of Peter Pan, Mary Rose...]

the filagree of Time dismantled
and the mists and not, the action rising,
the character of

mist, the voice in mist,all flower=in=a=mist
the chime-and then, gone,

disappearing then, chiming
Somewhere Else someone else
declaring undying

love but the gold of syllables flake off
into...the memory of doves
of the perhaps snows and the rooms snowing

singeing the silvers of words
of the possible impossibles
and what if it dissolves at night? 

the window is open and the

night air, the night air
the curtains billowing
but whose are they,

the children, when you turn your back
close your eyes or open them again,
then dreaming is everywhere,

nowhere on the tracks as expected
there we were
with our best handkerchiefs waving goodbye

consorting with ghost ships, walking the planks

with the painted moons in our eyes or

in between,entr'act, la sylphide through the trees
never nearer,almost, clearer,
looking back on the ballets

o! and all the orchid ways
at the islands slipping from the maps
all schoolroom wrapped

whenever you take up the book
and read the page
you thought you had

finished, look

it is never finished
we are never finished

mary angela douglas 21 october 2016

Thursday, October 20, 2016

The Dream Of The Novel: An Introduction

the dream of the novel was to 
have resembled lilac:
fragrant, at the open page

as loved by the children as Springtime.
the dream of the novel
was to have snowed all day on the boulevards

along the shaded ways
making it doubly cold or
to fountain to fountain 

words toward the skies
and then, to cascade downwards-
to be filled with a birthday surprise

or two, an april melange of colours,

intimations so the readers
huddled in the kitchens,
at the failing stoves

would not consider it firewood,
would keep the heart aglow
through the earth's long Winter

of forgetfulness
of the literary climes,
of the inward blossoming of cherry

or of lime...

so it dreamed.
and so it was.

mary angela douglas 20 october 2016