When Will The White Birds Rise

when will the white birds rise

from an alien music

when will the spell

burn off and their

widening cadence free

the radiance hardly missed-

the mute years ,

uncherished solace?

when will the white words rise

like snow lifted upwards

into a dome-like Heavenly requital

by winds so deeply

filled with stars?

bright as a bridal evanescence

a fragile opalescence, over-spun

suddenly to anyone appearing

through the sheer skies that have no need

no longer thrash with wings

your still-born air

everything there is to bear

already has been borne

and light is near:

let lamentation die

and swerve, swerve away

from the ancient coasts of sorrow

(and tears inlaid with tears)

when the white birds rise

mary angela douglas 28 october 2008

*refering to the Celtic myth "The Children of Lir"

Praising The Book People

["the faint whisper of a turned page"

-Ray Bradbury, Fahrenheit 451]

would you sell your heart's desire

would you chop it up for

firewood in the bitter cold

or throw it over the bridge,

sparking futile distances,

to spare yourself?

how would you choose,

sensing the end was near,

from all these things so rare:

what to pawn

what to carry on your back,

kind refugees of this beleagured Word?

there is a library of the mind

where books like jewels shine

where we could surpass

the farthest runners to the edge of Light

leaning over the rim of its deep well

whenever a second universe appears.

not to betray this universe,

to shield it from inquisitional fire

or the permafrost of

brutal disregard

we choose this role, even to be lost,

tearing out the blank pages of ourselves

inscribing them with ink that

can't be traced

in love with cherry-scaped language

we'll memorize it all

warned in dreams to depart

another way,

bartering life for art

reading reading reading to

fuse the broken continents within

beauty and truth, once again,

our touchstone

through harsh midnights of sheer

inarticulation

we stand guard

refusing to stone the messengers

sheltering angels, unaware

weaving bright meaning

into our banished souls

as on the first day

mary angela douglas 13 october 2008

Throwing My Soul From

["just because I'm losing

doesn't mean I'm lost."

-Coldplay]

throwing my soul from

this semi-burning building

forgetting the luggage of

clouds as they pass by

I won't demand anything

talking underwater to those

still on dry land,

my voice is bent like

light and there are

arrows through every heart

like Valentine's day in grade-school

the crayon clouds stay,

unable to depart, while

everyone else flows away

but I'm hanging my water-logged valentines out to dry

and making each eviction

count for something

at least, on paper

even though I know

I will land too softly for anyone to cry

without breaking apart

without feigning anything

without wounding:

the shining lawns remaining_

mary angela douglas 26 october 2008