Saturday, September 23, 2017

When Poetry Becomes Propaganda

when poetry becomes propaganda
by the time that has taken root all over the world
I would have finished you would have finished

they would have finished their waxen wings
and flown into the sun
rather than to hear one more lie disguised

in your phoenix fleece and weeping

ah poetry fallen archangel, wounded bird
in the mire of gold I found you and I
cared and lifted you above

and remembered your former skies
your cathedral heights soaring into God
the one they no longer name.

am I unwise even to write this here
that I remember when you were

clear sapphire through and through
and I could see the skies
the tops of tress fomenting only green.

why have they taken your name and
rammed it into a  perverse flag and turned you into
a nagging day in and out

and beauty has fled into the wilderness without you
where there are no more flowers.

mary angela douglas 23 september 2017

A Bit Of A Recurring Nightmare

I'd like to move out of bogus land, if I could
then again, how would you know 
when you'd crossed the border?

bogus land never ends;
it's only interrupted by oceans, rivers,
baby creeks,

silent moments instead of prayer.
what would I take to be on my way from there?
a pot of jam, black bread

like in the fairy tales?
bogus land is an infinite jail.
even with salami in the lunch pail;

delectable meat loaf sandwiches...

you try to speak

but your words flare into sudden roses
and are gone, singed on the air.
you fling your words up all firework

pretty in the night skies.
but the air is damp with all the lies.
the way you see things in your mind,

it just doesn't come to light.
what went wrong I asked the ghosts
from city to city from flight to flight

and in between.
the ghosts didn't see me.
I was their ghost.

how do you like that,
I said then, scraping the butter on
the last of the toast.

who can win in bogus land.

what would it even mean
if you did?

mary angela douglas 23 september 2017

They Spoke In Waves

some learned to speak in waves
not to be detected
never to be forgotten

like the sea
like summer light and sequined
on the rivieras of dream

though in reality's subzero
they imagined palaces with
lunar balconies

what they pleased
and gestured only slightly
to the skies so that snows ceased

cruel winds as well
they spoke without speaking
as flowers may

even the dew
as leaves along the avenue
and in the square

the pure white square
as in Malevich they found a
where to stand

as in infinite light
without being rounded up for it.

mary angela douglas 23 september 2017 

Friday, September 22, 2017

La Vita Nuova

we'll see the rivers in the sky
of all that starlight going by
and flowering trees from space

when earth turns pink and green and plum
in another place as we are watching, rapt
and breathe in the solar winds and all of that

rainbowed excess

when cosmic rose, seraphic saffron light
our way into the gloaming of the day
when grief has passed

like this summer's clouds
and each cathedral child
can dream out loud

the visionary new meant from all time to be
the God of love and truth anew exalted
all heaven and earth new vaulted.

each broken heart, reprieved.

mary angela douglas 22 september 2017

Wednesday, September 20, 2017

Even If You Stare

speaking of God out loud in the pancake house
on a first name basis
and that's the truth I saw some people

shift in their booth

and look at me as though from Mars
I had descended and upended earth's last copy of
the Big Book of the Big Bang Theory.

I am so weary I said like some Poe heroine
fainting away an emblem of a mythical day
that crumbled along with the bacon

looks like I've awakened oh
I'm so sorry it troubles you

that I speak His name in gold 
and up there too
with all the stars He made.

and i love pancakes too

and I'm not from the zoo
but I'll say I love you to Him oh
any old where.

even if you stare.

mary angela douglas 20 september 2017

He Died Tonight

he died tonight
his ragtag army said
turning away from the Capital

trying to think of other things instead
he died tonight
or by late afternoon

and paid their golden tax
and we are left now to resume
life or its semblance

with the questions we would

have asked him had he lived
one minute more
walking along the shore

or murmuring among ourselves:
what sunset's here?
or is it the world's strange end

that ever he called us friends

when we went on from year to year
so blithe and astonished
by the kind of man he seemed

even more by the One he was
and what he dreamed of us, insisted
we could be...

tearswept is the time of doves
departing the arc

finding nothing left that's green
and the Flood gone over our heads
while we repeat, rehearse the dread

of the last, few days and which we

argued would shine in His kingdom most
the Father. Son or Holy Ghost
and who of us was closest.

oh God

that we were dead
and not the King
the ointment's broken now

in the myrrh scented dark
o Jesu here in my heart I finally see
we are your wandering stars

destined to be

who in your rusted armor now are
thrust into a dissolving world.

mary angela douglas 20 september 2017



The Leaves, Dreaming It

october soon, you thought;
throwing it all again
into such an acute soft focus.

and the firecracker leaves
exploding and the air
rich with the golden lost,

the rubies flung suddenly
at our feet in heaps.
who are we to be walking through

the jeweled leaves; already their
countdown has started
and watercoloured intensively

the skies direct convincingly
the azure arrows through the heart.

will they funnel up from the ground,
the leaves, imploringly, under some
tawny spell or

prayer of the pearl grey doves

as though the trees. the trees
were still with them, like a ghosting love;
how can we sail apart? they

sing, flying back to the branches
that released them.
and I could cry, as if I were

still a little girl to see them whirling,
trying to get back-
the twigs now, one by one unlit

and cannot be lit again.

is it their light is going backwards
and flickering so that you almost envision:
saints in the afternoon?

or will this be forwarded, late or soon,
to winter's as yet, unknown address where
we will be salvaged

asked the candid,
raveling, raveled the cherished
till they disappeared

into the furnace of the years.

and it's only the leaves dreaming it
in the upward gusts of wind
or we, who were stranded for so long.

or me, at the beginning again
in the roundelay of this song.

mary angela douglas 20 september 2017