Sunday, July 23, 2017

Another Song For Walter De La Mare

imagination's clearest pane is breathed upon
fern imprinted, silver dusted from the sun
behind pale clouds of gold

a shivering breeze and
suddenly, our words are clouded over
and a presence thrums

and something like

the tinkling of small bells has come
it's in between leaf and leaf
the circumferance of the rose

half guessed at, behind
slow lidded eyes
and dreams flit in and out of

reality

haunting your disguise
and you won't hear a thing
when the evening news comes on

which doesn't mean
beyond your chintz covered
arm chair

the ghosts aren't all
still there...

mary angela douglas 24 july 2017

Angels Hid Their Faces

almost the imperiled, angels lept or would have lept
over the chasm separating them from Him
as the skies darkened, the wounds incomprehensible now

Father he cried from hour to hour
and as a later music said, the angels turned their faces
toward the face of God

away from the core of misery.
what lightning brightness, speed of sorrow sped then
in their kingdoms

but anguish has its own suns too
and deserts of remembrance.
soon not soon enough

through tribulation won
his phoenix soul arose
the Rose of the Ages

and all the stars restrung.

they cried then, the angels
and earth was green again
and young.

mary angela douglas 23 july 2017

Autograph Books

in sepia flourishes they wrote
remembrances in the antique albums
but once the pages crackled fresh

in their appointed hour

and present trees cast shadows
in the May afternoons of

their inscriptions

I will remember you
in flowers of blue

forget me nots

in old stickers with the clasped hands prayer
unspoken love

the posies rendered


and the doves brand new.

is it true they lived once
to breathe upon the page

and they were young and laughed

and dazzled by their prospects.
all of us coming after

will not understand

we tread only on their stage.
from age to age

in the same graduation whites

resplendent in the auditoriums
we take our place

until the petals fall and fade

and we are inscribed then
too.

Eternity's latest.


mary angela douglas 23 july 2017

To The Great Poets No Longer Remembered

did words flow like vapor away from us
perhaps they cried in their ghostly sleeves
winter's captives, ephemera

inscribed in dews

and then the fields cut down.
a poem is launched and then disappears
along with the sound of it, the view

into ionospheres in no one's Lost and Found
a poet is not heard from.

years. centuries go by.
epochs.
why were they here

if we have forgotten them so soon.
reinventing the wheel of words
in simple tunes just to say

it all begins with us, brand new

as though their opulence had not been.
but every wind carries you to me
oh words of elaborate grief of

jeweled jubilations strewn
there in the orchards of the Other Side
you have transcended

your demise sheer brides of language
and the secret flowers bloom.
the inner verities still true.

our half hatched jigsaw selves
murmuring murmuring

we will return to you.

mary angela douglas 23 july 2017

Saturday, July 22, 2017

Wondrous, Yet To Appear

on and on into the forevers
and the creme cloud on clouds
out topping each other

as if for sunset parfaits
fruit cocktail days

shouldn't we be inclined
to dream

even while dusting poorly
the furniture
causing the pot to boil

over and it not the magic
one in the folktale
that boils all on its own

miraculous porridge
that never runs out
or over.

step lightly through the grasses
through purple clover
the way you came once

when all flowers were wild to you

and had beautiful names
you could not tame
then clouds were syllables

floating away
escaping during the spelling bees
and the bees spelled out in gold

in the far meadows,
we love you flowers
so that you may have honey

on your toast all winter long.

and winter was longing too then
for the Christ child rimmed in white
and gold in the cathedrals with their

chimes and we strained our eyes
through the windows onto 
our backyard astronomy

to see the stained glass angels again appearing

would we have been wiser
counting with the world
to believe all that was long ago

and not oh not to feel sang
all my dears

that all that starlight was 
God's glittering giftwrap still
enveloping something wondrous

yet, to appear.

mary angela douglas 22 july 2017

The Things I Found In The Attic

the things I found in the attic:
windows looking onto rain
the come agains I did not

hear on earth
certificates of birth
for dreams made real

old orange peels, water colour sets
salt water taffy regrets
and Christmas candied.

myself

when younger, youngest
following the magi hours
and ivory towers

too myriad to name
and pristine as the day
and trunks of fairy costumes,

garnets made for Play
and the necklace of the
sun and moon shining altogether

in the same sky.

Spring weather

fine roses embroidered on the lawns
and all the once upons that ever could be
in metahistories of sighs

the shot through the heart sweet valentines
on heavy cardboard kept
old nosegays bewept

or pressed in books
the hand imprinted in plaster
and the baby lock of hair

the everywhere
we used to blow soap bubbles through
with plastic dimestore wands

mimeographed Songs

and Magic that had come unglued
what a project that would make
on some rainy day

to glue it all back together
the way it was
and the treasure spilling out the door

of all of our befores.
dressed in blue
and opalescent taffetas.

mary angela douglas 22 july 2017

Tuesday, July 18, 2017

Shine, Like Emeralds

reconfiguring the history of song:
the bluebird caught, the dimestore ribbons streamed
in attic valentines the sheen of snow

from the opalescent post card, long ago,
the dollhouse vignettes
the mignonette in the garden

recalled
the aria strung like pearls
raindrop falling one by one

unstrung into the heart
that art
and our costume diamonds

delighting at playtime us,
the rhinestone thrilled
the whippoorwills in the backyard

trilling
my Grandfather called to his hand
on a green strand

the one we knew
where the heart comes shining through
in Disneyland

in the pink and blue castle
just over the ridge
we see in stereoscope

from our back steps
where even the dusk lit midges
shine like emeralds

mary angela douglas 18 july 2017