Who Will Take The Song And Lead It Home

[in memory of my grandfather, Milton B. Young]

who will take the song

and lead it home

like a lost child

on paths overgrown too long

to trace

or will this music fade

with no one left

who remembers

we were sitting on

a summer's curb

and the ice cream truck

went the other way

the balloon man went

north as many poets have explained before me:

the snow cones

melted after a death

in the family the storybooks

in the attic were

no longer stored

who will take the child

and lead her home

like a lost song

past a screen door slammed

past fireflies scattered

in the dark:

holding hands as we cross

a street far wider than

before

we were orphans

on the curb of the universe

incapable of choosing

left or right

hoping to be found by nightfall

by angels or by someone else

hearing the dogs bark into their

bluest twilight

the children at ghostly games;

sensing the chicken pie for

dinner, the frosted cakes

the important birthdays

and the pink-bowed presents;

the Easter eggs forgotten in the grass

where dew fell last

waiting, again-

just to be called inside

mary angela douglas 24 february 2009

I Went Back To Find The Golden

I went back to find the golden

age, finding it among

the things you left behind:

your old papers, sausage,

bread and cheese.

the artifacts that fell into

your hands

as if in a fairytale:

a bird on a crystal twig, pink

and blue towers,

a sobbing princess, elaborate

valentines.

a signet ring with no inscription,

strawberries and cream, a

propensity for suddenly appearing,

a beautiful acuity.

silver and gold

I found, rubies

strewn everywhere, a rose-red

flamingo,

slightly out of place-

an iridescence like

snow remembered.

old shoes in the corner

with hidden properties,

Van Gogh's orchards, Cezanne's

reticence, "a cloud

shaped like a piano"*, Chekov's

last spoken word-

the colors of hydrangea,

Dvorak in a newer world,

my soul

mary angela douglas 8 february 2009

*a line from Chekov's Seagull

It is Night In The Emerald City

it is night in the Emerald City

I don't know why I am writing you

this letter

the green stars sparkle up ahead

but is this cause for celebration?

there are multitudes onstage

but no one in the audience

and we were standing

so magically by

in April's dappled shade:

waiting for the cue to go on.

yet birds still trill

and in the stillness

golden poems are launched.

who will christen them,

will you?

at night in the Emerald City

it's so hard to sleep:

they are codifying everything.

I'm burning down the corner

of another unknown page:

here's fuel for a winter's instant!

last evening from my window

I heard the starry sonnets muted

and

bright visions so indicted

that I wept tears of emerald.

I don't know when they'll

banish this

it could be soon

but I'll love still

from universal distances

in God's own grace and conversation-

we're not locked inside this maze.

I'm certain you'll remember

performances are overbooked

at night in the Emerald City

you have to call ahead

all iridescence is forbidden

I can't weep tears of emerald

I just watch the stars,

not the regime

down to the last bright ember--

mary angela douglas 7 february 2009/rev. 11 february 2010