Wednesday, July 26, 2017

Then

the way you thought of things when you were young
with the alphabet blocks at hand rimmed in
rainbow bands the flutaphone whimsy on the bus

or afterwards, unloading at the gates
the sunken ship feeling of homeroom
the locker combination forgotten

the sudden tests in the afternoon
all the paper dreads[

stolen lunch moneyed cacophony
of the cafeterias
and the way the pineapple upside down

cake stuck in your throat.
how glad you were
when the bus turned home

and toward the Christmas side of the year
when there was such a rich respite
that alone could have signalled HOLIDAY

in glisteningsemaphores
at the end of the line

let alone the birth
of the neglected Saviour
who watched over you then.

mary angela douglas 26 july 2017

The Silence Of The Larks

[for Carolyn Hooper an extraordinary person and
unheralded actress]

dreaming is reading the last stars on the lawn
the dews ensconced and the day lilies folded away
with other things

you won't need since that day
the one in blank colours you could draw from memory
and let the roses recede.

the seed pearls go to seed
yet the mysteries remain
unweeded with the weeds

and though no waves sped

your dreamed boat onward
still is the water lapping in the bay
and you'll fall asleep that way

washed over with indigo
collecting small pink shells in your hand
it's what I understand you'll slightly shrug

the sparkle of your earring catching the glint of stars
while you refrain from explaining
the little I know is

dreaming is reading the 

fireflies going out
the pale green pincushion
of an april heart

foisted on the world
with its tiny swords

and the violets that never lingered
the persimmon dark coming down
like the curtain on the stage

the silence of the larks

the one and only cue where they close the play
the one where you read
your best part

everyone said so,
afterwards.

mary angela douglas 26 july 2017

Tuesday, July 25, 2017

Meditation On The Children Of Lir

their sunset transformations back
from men to birds
long have I pondered

when the dusk surrounds
us here
and the wind whirls up

in peculiar vortexes
sparkling.
and then, the toiling of wings
and not the tolling of bells
the breaking of the spell but
the updraft carries them

and flung out over seas
the bright wings beat relentlessly
without release from pain.

so has the soul its exigencies
its duress though it's unseen
and not at all clear to our friends that we

transform and transform again
while speaking of nothing
in the afternoons and

caught in the world of men
ah, birdlike I would be, I would have been
floating as clouds and mirrored in the

seas which to me
from this vantage point on the ground
quite often has seemed to be

the indisputable emblem of
untrammeled freedom,
and not captivity.

mary angela douglas 25 july 2017

Monday, July 24, 2017

In The Wood At The End Of The World

a cardinal red is sequined shining into
what was not known at the time
you're in the entry way

and these branches are your sky
your roof from the glaring sun.
when winter comes

what will you do
when there's no warmth left
and all blossoms flee on the winds

comprising hurricanes of the Pastel

returning as snowy ghosts of themselves.
here you will know
and not be known

becoming one by angels shod
and candlelit, all glorious within
praying then-

dear God
do not blow this candle out yet

mary angela douglas 24 july 2017

And That's Rosied Too

the dance you dreamed you were dancing
in carport pirouettes
like the flowers blew away

the sugar plum escapades
close your eyes
and you're on a stage

replete with fairy lights
spotlights of alternating amethyst
bubble gum pink and

silvery silvery
to match the diamond music.
her crown has sparkles in it

breathed my sister
on the Christmas window panes
oh aren't we still the same

what is time anyway
a few pirouettes
a yearning for tulle

and the waltz length days
it falls away in a haze
and that's rosied too.

mary angela douglas 24 july 2017

Second To The Last Poem For Mr. Barrie

being always young he was always losing his shadow
stuffing it into an old jacket until later
he got on

before and after Wendy came along.
though only her stitches were neat enough
perfect as a poem in moonlight

cast in mystery
and tenderly.
you don't see embroidery like that

nowadays I'm tempted to say.
there I said it.
lending credence to the story.

Mr. Barrie, looking down in Glory
where there are no shadows now
we hope you are young there too

you and Mr. Pan.
in your Neverlands.

mary angela douglas 24 july 2017

The Marmalade Measures Of The Sun

the marmalade measures of the sun
the coloured chalkboard summer sums
we thought were ours till kingdom come

the metronome's gaze

upon the musical page, gum starred
and this is Where You Are, on planet earth
the piano lid open to the neighborhood

small scars kissed new

and much imagined from the few notes graced,
the blosoming of the keys
when scales were young

the Dreamery of our
Grandmother's Liebestraum
I have kept in my box of charms

where the ballerina twirls
in her pink bit of tulle
and can't take arms

because of the Golden Rule

against the vanishing or iris skies
and all the shreds of hows and whys
we knew back then

the doll patch silk
the chocolate milk

when every wind through the screen door
chimed
and anything reminds me now

that was where
I lived somehow
the only place I ever would

though Time itself
has long since raced me 
to the end of the block

mary angela douglas 24 july 2017