Monday, November 29, 2021


 we who remember the suns of other planets must keep still, keep silence

now on earth where we do not live and where the company has changed hands
the company has changed hands and the star flecked armories are few
where we renew a language men have forgot as they have forgotten themselves
so we are trained in outward life to get on board, to be team players to direct our gaze
at the ever changing Brands some say we exist to accommodate
so that we must reimagine ourselves
all this is dry rot for we are caught by Christ and remember Forever
and teach our children to;
the beauty of sacrifice one life for the world's and He is ours in our fortressed lamentable and ecstatic hearts
when the gold still shines through leaden clouds accumulating above the office parks
above the ghosts of trees
Lord God. I am on my knees all the time now even when I appear to stand to breathe
only you are the green air, the flecked with diamond dust, the ever flowering wheel
and you believed in us
we will not fail
though we in exile live out our days on the so called post modern page or epoch staged
we are written into Your Music irrevocably.
mary angela douglas 30 november 2021

Friday, November 26, 2021

Toward December

they have changed all the verbs to nouns now

and jumbled up the prepositions so, that I imagine

my old English teachers coming back from the dead

and putting them all in jail forever, beyond the redemption

of rose red pencilings.

sometimes I pray for that to happen;

then I remember Jesus said , love your enemies.

it's almost Christmas now.

Imagine snow coming down

as if you never saw it before

inhale the pines and the evergreen

be new inside

and read, read old poetry

the kind that shone like gold.

before we were told that poetry had evolved

into something entirely different.

and was unfit otherwise

for social enterprise.

acmary angela douglas 26 november 2021

In The Archives, A Little Past The Stonecutter's Cottage

 in the archives a little past the stonecutter's cottage

so what if I have been prone to linger
blue fairy that I am near wishing stones
and the songs in brooks
making it all turn sapphire in the end
aren't you also sick my friend from the postmodern age
in which these things are supposed to have vanished utterly
according to the dictates of whatever agency?
come, I will heal you with a story
or dream if you will, the dream trees still
moss colored, wavering in the waters.
or a limpid face there wreathed in white violets
floating like a moon
of a time in which our adjectives were never pruned
when every word was beryllium
or moonstone, opal spilling open with all the rainbows mixed
with the milky quartz I picked up in the Arkansas woods
and then there's Italian cypresses, the Madonna in rose or
blue on view in certain museums
with the golden aureoles
and the dear snows setting in
on the pavements whose mica shone
mere summers ago with a strange beckoning
on Saturdays, when I would go there.
mary angela douglas 26 november 2021
Mary Angela Douglas

Wednesday, November 24, 2021


Our hearts are restless, till they rest in Thee

St. Augustine

sometimes the heart must find rest

from all the questions that it cannot guess

from the quest that keeps falling apart

sometimes the heart runs out of homelands

is tired of taking a stand

is a nameless guest at a nameless feast

and can eat nothing

it will starve watching only the night skies

waiting for signs

oh that it could rest from all contrariness

that it could find a home under the small ferns

where it would be always, Spring.

mary angela douglas 24 november 2021


these days it seems

the wolf fur through the sheep costume gleams

so carelessly

no effort to conceal

that he's about the evening meal

in broad daylight with a flimsy disguise

to cover up such blatant lies

so confident is he

the real sheep are that stupid.

mary angela douglas 24 november 2021

Note On The Poem: This is my one and only

 ALL PURPOSE POLITICAL POEM. It works for all parties. 

It also works for other occasions as well.

Monday, November 22, 2021


(against the dismissal of lyrical poetry as "unsustainable")
neither leaf nor bloom have they left
but only the desultory branch where no bird sings
in this, the artificial winter of poetry prolonged
where song is not, nor Spring, and the heart diminished
and exultantly.
is poetry finished laconically the magazines ask,
the small presses
pressing no vintage out
as if they cared. gone is the soul's bright task (to where?)
as faux taskmasters squeal, the hooligans:
we're in charge now.
on a dare, I send out ariadne's thread
and find instead of Chaos
the covenant rainbows of God intact
who leafs and blossoms in the craving winds
despite the shills, the indomitable shrill
Immune, and the overarching Lyric. still;
beginning and ending forever beginning again
Him will I serve
with my small bush and its sparrow madly caroling
down to the marrow I feel dismiss it how they will
the burnished tree of Poetry cannot be forced to unshine
less than it was wrought when poets caught
eternal fires in their poems and were not ashamed of it
and carried the moon like a searchlight in their eyes
who on the earth, wept for beauty openly, and undisguised
commiserating with the rains and not the academies
that man should choose to be monosyllabic again
and deaf and dumb and blind with clobbering banners upraised
with wings of lead outspread-
that this should be praised in lieu of the beautiful!
mary angela douglas 22 november 2021
Mary Angela Douglas

Sunday, November 21, 2021

School Dream Well Into June

apple polishers ruled the land;

we were in an endless school

eating only mystery gruel

with homework assignments

by the square yard far so far from the golden rule

but life was still not all that cruel

if only we had known

resigned to fate and pigs in a blanket on the sectioned plate

on good days, pineapple upside down cake

and praying to God for last minute reprieves

when the bell rang in a pop quiz breeze

and freed us from the looming test

recalled us to our Sunday best.

mary angela douglas 22 november 2021

Another Variation On The Story

there should be hidden panels in the dress

with embroideries of traceries of the most cherished flowers

and when she began to dance they bloomed

with slippers to match to a music box tune

so many ways we imagined her;

with velvet panniers a skirt of tulle festooned with little stars

and in pale blue, on the landing of a stair

where even the shadows sing

and their song is of violets

even though it's blanched white winter

and the true heart mysteriously

is a missed target

at large in a doll sized snippy land.

mary angela douglas 21 november 2021

Saturday, November 20, 2021

Nor Fade From Green

I make a wish, each leaf that falls

that we'll stay golden after all

though rude winds blow the stars away

that we'll keep shining anyway

I like to think of it this way

when all the skies turn grim to grey

last harvest was the best was said

of many of the glorious dead who now live in a house of gold

who knew their strength from age to age

was only God who never aged

who saves the best of wine for last

and what are we but vintage past

no age at all for being blessed

if we but hold on to the quest

to leave such shining in our wake

and bright with music

for His sake

from first to last begin again

the measure of His heart to win

be mirrored in our span of days

nor fade from green the living page.

mary angela douglas 20 november 2021

Long Live The Emerald City I Said

long live the Emerald City I said

to no one near but God
long live the place where we were fed
bright cereals, crackling in milk.
and though this world be full of the ilk
of those who harry us dawn to dusk
that we may earn a simple crust
long live, long live the storybook friends
and the ones that shone from the movie marquees
or even from the small tvs
in our past, erstwhile living rooms
where we found respite from the dooms and glooms.
and for eternal fortitude and singing all along the way,
long live our mutual courage and the ruby shoes
the golden means to the golden end
the path we took so far from home
not knowing where we were going then
on the backs of cyclonic furies
that led us somehow back again
through many trials my friend my friend.
mary angela douglas 20 november 2021

Friday, November 19, 2021

Rhetorically Speaking Into The Vast Of Dream

(fragment from a possible song cycle on "The Twelve Dancing Princesses.")

if we brushed our hems of apricot

against the gold dust of the day

would we then sing we are beyond time now

I cannot say but I can dream

that all that glitters is not seen

or if I wished belatedly or washed my face

in a crystal stream like the princess in storybook exile

would life seem not so heavy after awhile

the clouds lift revealing the moon

and the night grow calm?

mary angela douglas 19 november 2021

Wednesday, November 17, 2021



(on Kitezh perhaps or on listening to Debussy's La Cath├ędrale
Engloutie in my Grandmother's piano studio)
and saints were bullied for loving the mirror images
though the image was the Lord God whom they could not see
directly and then not at all, and by decree
read the marquee on museum walls;
kicking eternity the new price of admission
in a blank slate dream of utter deprivation and under a stone
we could not welcome our orphanhood
frozen over. where we stood.
where were our hands.
we learned the alphabets anew under so many
alien commands
the brand new dictates
while all we previously loved at Easter
was rubbed out of the picture
or we lived blindfolded now; snow blistered.
but lake water sparkled and could not be restrained
and we remembered former things and what remained:
a faint nostalgia for the stars of Eden
while what was underwater continued to glow,
a rose fueled fire.
and the willows gleamed.
mary angela douglas 17 november 2021

Tuesday, November 16, 2021


let now no reasonable star clang out

suddenly rogue as the clouds by winter's tempests driven

let my heart be riven so may it be faithful to the end

and not dissemble in a Romantic strain

beyond the borders that song allows.

I vow to thee countries of the illimitable imagination

it's all for the trefoil of abiding love

Christ died to shine

above the world's dim equipoise refined, defined

in purity and truth there is no denying.

mary angela douglas 16 november 2021

Monday, November 15, 2021

On How A Poem Is Made

to mine the honey of words;to turn light on the spindle

the secret is to dream the light;the key

to be conscious of light at all depths

the bells wept seeking the drowned angels

farther from land now than it is possible to be and then

to gleam green on the instant and sparkle into the fade

of all things made to become the hum of bees

and the honey of the hive 

orange blossom, acacia, to sense afar

the ruby tears of Mars, tin soldier , heart of lead to

turn the key instead

in the impenetrable lock of time beyond all wars, the scars

of the eternities to mind the honey of the hive of words

as if it were the dress you wore sky blue as the summer day,

lightly, thinking little of yourself but for

the last prayer prayed, the last thing said

straying from the field

for the living and the dead.

mary angela douglas 15 november 2021