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.

Beware!
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


Let Us Consider The History Of The Rails

the history of railways
leading back to what?
to vanished platforms

designs in the mist
stairways into the clouds
vintage trunks bound

and delivered and lined
with green satin
the odd book of Latin

the Family Shakespeare
tears embedded in old garnets
and the heirlooms unwrapped

at the wrong destinations
let us study the timetables in the cold
where the fog is rising the sighs of the departing

the forlornest heart
times times Time the scars incurred

considering what went before
the illusory journeys back
the unexpected journey home

from vanished wars
into the infinitudes.

mary angela douglas 22 april 2017

Wednesday, April 19, 2017

Poverty Is A Wound That Cannot Heal

sudden poverty is a wound that cannot heal
like a star that drops from heaven
and becomes a stone

like a scar on what was known or
unknown, weighed equally
you want to shake it off

like a dog shakes off the rain
but you are always on that train
when people around you sniff

the absence of gold 
and turn away
thinking thank God it isn't me today

maybe tomorrow
but they just want away from the sight of you now
as though you were a prison, plague

somehow
in mirrors you don't look the same
but God stands out in the rain with you

you who are afflicted
not afflicting
anyone

they think he's a hobo too
the King of everyone!
so the two of you laugh

and that brings out the sun.

mary angela douglas 20 april 2017

Tuesday, April 18, 2017

God Is Not An Idea

God is not an idea,
a thesis
a theorem

needing to be proven.
having been already demonstrated:
QED and etc.

by whom?
for what purpose?

can you prove air.
water
light

God is not a blackboard equation
a summation of human thought
on the subject thus far

subject to a vote.
beyond the realm of
all that it is possible to consider

in this world
He lives
life itself.

and measureless.

mary angela douglas 18 april 2017

To The Agencies Whatever They Are Now

I'm not this person
who waits to be told
by your Recording Angels

you're too old to believe that you are young
and that the hills beyond
are still filled with gold.

I'm not this person
at eternal beck and call
amenable to the Wall

between 
the sour and the sweets

constructed to please.
bearing the brand
of the ranch that bled me

no. No counterfeit soul is mine.
drift clouds across the American prairies
pour winds and waters 

into the gulf streams.

there is a God in American Heaven
and He means everything to me.

mary angela douglas 18 april 2017