Friday, January 20, 2017

The Saints Cry Out From The Kingdom Of Lies

we who are held captive in this
the Kingdom of Lies
require your help

oh God

out of the mire of stars
have we been made

and unmade still

your own and forfeit to
the Kingdom of Lies

in every game of chance

we undertake
for your sweet sake

arise again arise arise

over the Kingdom of Lies
and make us ladders

out of your starry light

and free us here
from everlasting night

look down on this our plight

while we are plighted yours
and grant us sight

for the long road beckoning

the pure.

mary angela douglas 20 january 2017

Thursday, January 19, 2017

The Circus And The Golden Door

they made words do tricks and jump through hoops
as though they were wild animals
words served the circuses of those

who knew how to trap them
but I find
more and more distance from these.

and in a dream I saw a golden door
and the door was open and then not.
and dark angels barred the way

spears shooting from their eyes
at anyone who tried
to pass that way

so that no man dared look on them.
and I saw the golden door

that it was weeping as Before
so that it dissolved
and we passed through

my words and I
my cherry bright words
that longed to sing

we passed through
and were free.

mary angela douglas 18 january 2017

Wednesday, January 18, 2017

Slogans

sometimes I feel we are only speaking in slogans
and then I see the different coloured slogans
speaking to each other across the fences of the world


disarranging the lilacs and
looking a little folkloric, at least at the beginning
then leaving us out of the conversation entirely.

and the slogans have grown legs and arms and heads and hands

and are walking among us crisp in their new suits,
their dotted swiss dresses they are waving us on

while we start feeling slippery, losing our labels

so that our mothers don't recognize us
a dish of jello here, a pot of watery jam

a shadow, a creek bed dried

and the slogans have taken over, side by side and
linking arms

they are running everything

the slogans run the bank
the shoe store

the bar and grill

the gas station
the monoply board

the seventh ward

the silo and the grain
and there are slogans now for rain

for windy weather for the trains when they come on time

for snowfall and the picturesque antics of the children, codified
and they are always on tv! See.
and oh God I am tired of slogans.

I am so tired of slogans.

mary angela douglas 18 january 2017

Tuesday, January 17, 2017

I Saw The Light Of Far Off Things Glimmering

I saw the light of far off things glimmering
and the wave rose up to meet us
before we had touched down

and this was not drowning.
this was breathing
in another way

our words unformed in the hard frost
almost visible.

that you could not say
where you had been then
when you returned

doesn't mean you were nowhere.
we threaded the needle in tears at our plight
and sought to embroider with words

all that we heard that night
though we were deemed inarticulate.
having seen the angels over the glazed fields

we could not speak into Love
what we felt there.

mary angela douglas 17 january 2017

Dolldom

she shall wear her chinaberry silk
we thought, by moonlight;
thinking all things through

as far as it was possible then.
the lilac fan that came with her
on your last birthday

but maybe not, the shoes.
let her wear shoes of gold
that we may tell her golden stories

or that she may go there
while we are at school,
to fantastic dolldom

the place of mystic tales
of inestimable tea sets
where all things are to scale.

mary angela dougas 17 january 2017

Credo

leaving our homes of light
we wove from the darkness, stars,
a thimble sized moon,

oblivious waters
and afternoons of the steel grey skies
melting to pearl

until the angel came to us and said
her Christmas trumpet flaring
learn  to build the world anew

from few colours
from the trace of what you remember
and kindle from the days

that passed away
an indestructible song.

an indestructibe song.

mary angela douglas 17 january 2017

Saturday, January 14, 2017

Good Thinking

the bride doll with her doll pearls glowed
in the nightlight with unearthly sheen,
the folds of her netted silk dress gleamed.

we confessed to each other in a pale whispering,
she looks Spooky
our eyes pooled widely, our mouths a thin seam

too scared to call Grandmother on the scene
of a new distress thought out:
if she throws her bouquet

of tiny paper flowers
whatever you do,
don't catch it.

mary angela douglas 14 january 2017