Thursday, April 27, 2017

Let Us Become The Hidden Things In The Picture

let us become the hidden things in the picture
that we may find grace for the wanderer
in his day.

the storm clouds hover about him,
the small winds play
and become devastating.

let us be
angels on the underside of clouds
where the light rays pierce through

slanting to the ground like rain.
let us become balm for the
unexpected pain, relentless;

the bruised roses
emitting small perfumes.
and to the children,

the toys that give delight
in a foreign room;
the small candies they

have hidden in their shoes
on the evil day,

the pebbles white
containing the moonlight
slipping away

let us become the bright things in the picture
in the opportune moment disclosed

that they may not wander

mary angela douglas 28 april 2017

Wednesday, April 26, 2017

I Opened The Book Of Peace And The Pale Doves Flew

I opened the book of peace and the pale doves flew
a crease of snow appeared in the sky
oh all things under the earth will lie

and even the roses dewed
I sighed then my sighs flew
up to the panes of Heaven

and looked through

to where the stars in merriment
sounded like tiny bells o tiny bells
and the waters spelled at the far, far poles

under the green ice drifting
the berry strung remedies
of my lost summers.

I opened the book of peace and the pale doves flew
and everything I ever knew and worried through
and all the midnight hours that tolled

and took their toll

turned  o! at once to silver and gold.

mary angela douglas 26 april 2017


are we going backwards
something softly chimed
chiding my shadows

in late afternoon
and it's like a story book
read upside down when you were new

and all you saw was the pictures.
and you hear the bells of the ice cream trucks
but they do not turn

down your lost leafless lanes
do we sit in a chair and dream then
o what a shame

or ride the unicycle down
the exceptional memory trails
oh we are going backwards

day by day
rereading the parts that we forgot
only because 

we loved them so
and apple pie currying favor
with the snows the Christmas glints

and glimmers heaven sent
and wearing the crown invisible at will-
of the princess in her doom

consigned to keeping geese
retaining still
the cherry cobbler refinements

unbrokenly the rainbow gauze
overleaf of the seamless views receding
farther and farther nearer and nearer

oh we pray

mary angela douglas 26 april 2017

Saints Of Words Were These

[to the Immortal Poets]

they had taken up the cause of beauty
and for them God had in reserve
whole wildernesses

timed to bloom in one compacted hour
and as though we had wept flowers
those hours descended their ghosts sang

their words jeweled in a driving rain
and flame upon flame of the Word
driven inward

having no other home.
saints of words were these
last poets, lost though they seemed

their own illuminated manuscripts
torn, and destitute of little repute sometimes
in the heedless world

what is poetry they ask in the magazines
and I cannot say but how can it be
they do not know

when such as these were on the earth
and vanished slowly
giving birth

in every language possible
that beauty vanishing with them
should return

to us, the uncomprehending.

mary angela douglas 26 april 2017

Tuesday, April 25, 2017

The Elegant Doll Who Looked Like The Singer Lily Pons

[to my Grandparents with love forever...]

a doll in pink tissue in a pale blue box
is staring up at me through a birthday haze
with a porcelain face

and eyes of green
in a gown a gown with an ivory sheen
an overlay of pink rosebuds

rhinestoned leaves in relief
a doll a doll in pink tissue
has come to call

here on the dining table though I am small
I dust every Saturday with lemon pledge
obliterating all other presents heaped and opened first

and I could brust with happiness
and my gaze is a gaze that is fixed
on the doll the doll in the ivory gown

with its delicate overlay of pink velvet rosebuds
tiny embroidered rosebuds
delicate pearl drop earings

and a picture hat

and I want to be worthy
maybe even a saint
to honor the doll

the doll in pink tissue
in the pale blue box
and those who loved me

when I was in the second grade
to give me such a fairy doll, a shining one
her hair the colour of a copper sun.

mary angela douglas 25 april 2017

Monday, April 24, 2017

The Kingdom Of The Cults

they would have stolen
the mist before our eyes
if only they had...

the moon from the night
would we have been
the clear sighted children

our careful mothers prayed for

instead of what we were,
what we would become:
captive in our own native land.

the very forgers of our own chains.

on every hand said Solzhenitsyn
there is a door meant just for you
in the terrible labyrinth of a fate

you have no prior knowledge of.

you stroll out in the afternoon
not knowing you won't come back.
then it's too late: you're caught.

who can describe the lack of something

in the air when they close the gate
and you can no longer breathe
as you did in childhood.

starry eyed, you feel you're just the same.

such pirates await you child
of any Age, the same, the very same.
guard well

the candle flare of your soul
from their encroachment.
traps are set for you everywhere.

the netters of dreams.

mary angela douglas 24 april 2017

Saturday, April 22, 2017

Now We Are Crossing The Pink Part Of The Map

now we are crossing the pink part of the map
I say to my sleeping soul and next the mint green
the lilac countries

there were no wars here, no sudden shifts
in the earth but everything was 
the way you feel

when you are a little girl
and they show you the map
and you think to yourself

it's all candy coloured
a candy coloured world
and you feel glad inside

so here in your dream
it has become the same time of day
and you are on the train

traversing the candy tinted countryside
and your mother is there
your Grandparents

a hamper with very good sandwiches in it
the little toffees we loved
a whole thermos of coffee

with the most perfect cream
I want to stay in this dream
your soul murmurs I want to stay

but you may not stay a guardian angel smiles
wavering in the light of day
that streams through the white curtains

mary angela douglas 22 april 2017