Saturday, June 24, 2017

Not To Be Mistaken

let us write in invisible writing never to be perceived
unless by the Unseen
to blend silverly into the rains

to siphon off the sun
and to become gold there.
where else can it be said

that poets are read
except now perhaps among angels
and those no longer

citizens of earth
where it is hard to sing
out of the stream

where the mystics don't fit in
but bend the other way
in order not to be mistaken

for leaders.

mary angela dougla s24 june 2017

Tuesday, June 20, 2017

The Glorious Salvage

the letters you sent into space
disappearing without a trace or
singed by summer clouds

the right answers erased
before they are copied down
from the "this will be on


the test next Friday"
and you're in a haze
and can't find the things to say

the dress to wear
the golden pear
that makes the fairy tale puzzle complete

oh don't despair...
there is a place, replete,
replacing sour with sweet...

somewhere there is a merry go round,

carillon found after the Fairs are closed
for children indisposed
kept after school

a kind of heavenly cake walk to a
mailbox loaded by whom? who knows?

with brightly foiled on cardstock cards
all occasion caissoned,
moon silk screened


just for you on hold

at the candy striped depot
of misplaced dreams
and missing socks amid

the tick and the tock of oblivious birthdays fraught
with more and more seasons
for being glad

with pockets turned inside out

for losing the things called sad
and happy you are
on your own private star


with beaucoups of icinged
whisks and bowls to lick

and umpteen heirloom bouquets still to pick
that you are tagged
in the game of not it, it


like a queen for a day
party favored and so glad ragged
for the unimpeachable on its way


the peach starred day
full of delicious crumbs of this and that
and citron glowing and the green cherries mystifying;

the sugared pineapple

the breakfast of
hot sauced scrapple

creamery cream dappled
keep the fudgesicles flowing
the caramel apples rolling

while we're extolling
the blue birding packages piled up to the skies
wrapped up for you in the bye and bye: the

Somewhere everything sent is acknowledged
somewhere everything received is complete
somewhere the handwriting is neat

in letters that swoop like sea birds
in graceful curves on floral stationary-
with something jeweled in their beaks;

from all the shipwrecks,
the glorious salvage


mary angela douglas 20 june 2017

Sunday, June 18, 2017

What If I Slipped

what if I slipped through the net of dreams
not returning to
familiar scenes, consensus, anything

letting the golden slipknots slip
from the tower or be reeled in
with all the hours



that may have been
and the May crownings
and the flowers wreathed

for remember whens
that did not breathe
there melting like snows away

let the margins fade with the outlines
of a face not yet come into bloom
then let me sound retreat

telegram pocketed and
never read aloud
fastening fate on another cloud

afar from the pearl and the marl of it
let the moats be closed for repairs
until further notice.


let the snows fly,
unconscious of their erasures of
or what would have been, the lies


had I chosen otherwise
it's a failing blue of the
dust of lilacs


of the paling doves from their

fairy tale branches rustling
that I have Lost

to all that entrances.

be buried deep
beyond all sleep
the wounding that


would not occur then.
then return, returning, returned
the country I have heard


in deeper and deepening music
while I learned to be
coded with all you feel or


could feel let the winds
take it all then
let the only word left be away


then say it
vanishing, on the strand.

mary angela douglas 18 june 2017

Saturday, June 17, 2017

I Dreamed Of England Returned To Herself

I dreamed of England returned to herself
and the bitter knights reconciled;
Albion coming clear in the mists

and the cherry carol branching
and ah, the dream of the Rood
in jeweled bloom.

I will leap up to God my God
and see the angels rustling in the trees
where once the poet William Blake

fell to his knees and understood
that poetry is certain good
and illumination praise.

the sea of faith is verging in the dark
the poet soldiers mark their place
and turn again homeward

to the place they loved
the lanes all apple blossom filled
the lovely strand...

and all their words
are like a field

with madrigals strewn
and not cut down.
and not cut down.

and former wounds
burst into birdsong, flower
into the bridal tunes.

mary angela douglas 17 june 2017

Thursday, June 15, 2017

Cinderella Between Meals And Otherwise Engaged

her rag tag sorrows come and go
but the skies are quilted with stars and snows
so much of what she felt goes unnoticed

even in countless retellings.
those dishes won't wash themselves
she tells herself tears welling

at least before the Disney versions.
and who will hire her at the agencies
when mealtimes are few and far

between and she has nothing best
to wear and shoes that go
without repair

so she makes do
on fondue left over

from stepsister Tupperware parties
and grasps at straws
without the malteds.

strawberry can be imagined
chocolate too
what else is there to do

more dishes.
more wishes.

mary angela douglas 15 june 2017

Tuesday, June 13, 2017

In The Nutshell Of Days

in the nutshell of days
inside with the crimson
with the gold

of going away
and the miniature roses
on display

the doll like river
glittering to the seas
and all of these

and what is more
the door to door
of the candlelit stars

so self contained
we have examined
as if it were someone else's calendar

perhaps the one of saints
the elaborate hours
the fleuir de lis

and the other flowers
and are we embroidered
I would have asked you

if you had stayed
if time had not strayed
across the blizzarding prairies

not heard from after that.

now all is concealed
and when the melting comes
will I be home

I ask my soul
in the nutshell of days
in the crimson and gold

of going away...

mary angela douglas 13 june 2017


Thursday, June 08, 2017

My Small Boat Over The Sea Of Dreaming Glides

my small boat over the sea of dreaming glides
night after night and since childhood
on the tides I sense but cannot see

until I close my eyes
gone are the old lullabies
still my boat sails on

until dawn.

mary angela douglas 8 june 2017