Tuesday, February 24, 2009

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

Sunday, February 08, 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

Saturday, February 07, 2009

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