Friday, April 20, 2018

I Win Nothing (Final Version)

I win nothing
and yet the stars are my personal ceiling
and my feelings very often

gleam, a sudden garden
even after all these years,
I win nothing,

am not notable, subject to sticks and stones
yet I hear notes all the time inwardly
so liquid, falling as

into an endless profusion; this is no illusion.
the small hills dotted with childlike flowers,
the crayon lawns

I could wander on
for hours as no one's pawn;
I win nothing.

I have no power but God's
as He grants it, drop by luscious drop
and shift the kaleidoscope imperceptibly

in my room, each afternoon,
but just enough so that the facets of
rose and olive appear to me and the emerald,

the azure too, as if to compose, innumerably
the beauty of the world, the undiscovered zones,
just out of view

I quietly acede.to being, becoming nothing,
no volunteer in the world's jangling, never satisfied sphere
compiling year to year innumerable badges.

I watch the beadwork of the rain on simple windows flame
more Sistine, rose windowed than can be believed
though others scoff or leave me off the train unknowingly,

as it pulls out, unknown not even accounted for,
falling off the edge of the ship's manifests.
slipping seamlessly

how can I care about this, though plain vanilla
I exist
they think,why should I resist, defend and over explain

when I am out of the wilderness
and into the milk and honied lanes
so easily, how can I complain off camera,

where I maintain and laugh
that I win nothing.have no name,
virtually

nor wings, nor knowledge how to fly
straight into, leaving the door ajar,
the world's blind radar

where the successful are,

mary angela douglas 20 april 2018

Thursday, April 19, 2018

I Win Nothing

I win nothing
and yet the stars are my personal ceiling
and my feelings very often

gleam, a sudden garden.
even after many years
I win nothing,

am not notable, subject to sticks and stones
yet I hear notes all the time inwardly
so liquid, falling as

into an endless profusion; this is no illusion.
the small hills dotted with childlike flowers,
the crayon lawns

I could wander on
for hours as no one's pawn;
I win nothing.

I have no power but God's
as He grants it, drop by luscious drop
and shift the kaleidoscope imperceptibly

in my room, each afternoon,
but just enough so that the facets of
rose and olive appear to me and the emerald,

the azure too, as if to compose
the beauty of the world, the undiscovered zones,
just out of view

I quietly acede.to being, becoming nothing,
no volunteer in the world's fretful sphere
compiling year to year innumerable badges.

I watch the beadwork of the rain on simple windows seem
more Sistine, rose windowed than can be believed
though others scoff or leave me off the train unknowingly, unknown

falling off the edge of the ship's manifests.
what can I care for this, though plain vanilla
they think me why should I resist

when I am out of the wilderness
and into the milk and honied lanes
so easily, how can I complain

while I maintain and laugh
that I win nothing.have no name,
virtually

nor wings to fly straight into
the world's blind radar
where the successful are,

mary angela douglas 20 april 2018

Wednesday, April 18, 2018

Into A Fine Brocade

for Martin Burke

who can gather pure thought into a fine brocade
that will not fall apart
nor fade

may be commanded in the fairy tale
to stitch the roses back
after the hurricanes.

such a person, could they even exist
I thought to myself
when the winds at my wrist

became the corsage of small carnations
thus, I am in league with Lorca
and his green winds

and cannot stand the business of the world
that tramples on.
dead are the roses of the bygone age

the way that people felt then
in the old novels.
it couldn't have all been

mere pretense.
the princess in tulle
lingering near the clear fountains.

oh weave it back
I said to the weavers

like a friend said once
and then did.
so that the lights in the castle

will flare up again
and we will reinvent
the non bureaucratic scenes

and watch wide mystery
cut a swathe through the stars
as happened in the once upons

when we were all young
in Eden.
not knowing the word for tears.

in the fragrant years,
before the Fall.

mary angela douglas 18 april 2018

There Must Have Been A Reason

there must have been a reason 
the ancient artisans lived alone
carving the jade breeze

becoming the flute the breath of God
passed through
the melancholic wind chime

there the leaves turned lightly in the wind.
the thought of missing friends
and dragonflies were

violet, flitting through long afternoons
and dream poured into the wider tributaries
one lifeime wasn't enough

only to see the snowdrops flourishing
silver among
the pink hills..

mary angela douglas 18 april 2018

Bluegrass Colours Then The Storm Is Past

a disquieting blue when the winds come through
I could see by the white frame house
in the trees that were formerly green

is it the dusk and yet it seemed not to be
that paints them that way
then we look at our hands

becoming blue when they were rose
a few hours ago
somewhere a storm is funneling

and it is blue, clear through
a bluegrass blue
we knew, we knew

and we can hear it come far away
as though we were fairies
in the summer grass

who understand everything
but never said a word
since none believed in us

even if they heard
or paid attention to us

feeling new worlds have come to pass
far away, in the night skies. close at hand
in the new sprinkler grass

listen, listen for the blue.

mary angela douglas 18 april 2018

If We Didn't Have To Go Back

if we didn't have to go back
(to school, to work, to...)
we would stay at home all day

and eat the locally famous peaches
study ballet and audition for
the 12 princesses or more

dancing their shoes to tatters
well, what else matters
perhaps peach cobbler

all things formerly out of reach
we'd teach ourselves, wear
cherry velvet in the evenings

and play board games
and wave our wands
of mystical mysticness

over the winter grass, the plains
where cattle low nervously feeding
before the great snows

descend
descend with the princesses once again
this time in cream, and carrying little bunches

of late violets or

binding ourselves to handpainted Kites
the ones our Grandfather made out of
plain brown wrapping paper

eating life savers in every candy shade
and being the Easter parade.aloft
next door to the stars

with time to savour.

mary angela douglas 18 april 2018

How Not To Live Like The White Rabbit

how not to live like the White Rabbit
with ruby eyes scrutinizing the
most minute of pocket watches

and in a peach waistcoat you'd never guess
from what you learned in school.
so you dreamed otherwise

but never learned
to speak only when spoken to.
is this a curse a voice

offstage intones
you know, like the fairytale curse
oh no. I'm besties with the lillac fairy

who turns up at the christenings at
the very last salvaging instant
and suddenly you look outside the dream door

and the floods recede.
they recede and you go back to your beadwork
amethyst and pearl

forgetting the outside worlds
and their fine dining.
and that they are repining.

mary angela douglas 18 april 2018