Cherry Coated Angels*

outside the schools of everywhere

I cried:

God opened the book of stars

and I looked up

he opened the book of roses

and I wept, the book of snows

and each, in turn, to me, disclosed

where quarter notes drifted at the

edge of the seas and washed away in

music I breathed in

fond colors stay

like rainbows, melting in a spinning top

on my Grandmother's carpet

just before dinner.

it's the earthenware emblems I know now

and the near-blaze still on spring-fed alphabets

greening the glade where hidden

tigers came to drink

the topaz ripples off the everyday

and my Grandfather sharpened pencils fresh

for the appled school day as if he were

carving marble

oh you who must

in every age deny

the clouded and dreaming child as one deluded

who must be changed or die

with his or her petaled forehead pressed

against cool windowpanes of frost-tinged

faery-novas or cherry coated angels-

I won't tell you why

God opened the buttercup

clavier of the sun

and let me play-

mary angela douglas 22-24 august 2010

*my image is meant to be angels wearing cherry coloured jackets, not cherry coated as in candy.  It was hard if not impossible to make this clear in English without a footnote.  I would like to find a language where it would be easy to say this, it must have other wonderful things in it, as well.

The Princess Cried Real Sequins

the princess cried real sequins

in the play:

I saw her

from a mauve-lit distance

fall away into sudden

nearness there

where the violet curtain,

tied-back, slightly

swayed

and a small hand

made of moments

cast an ivory

obliviousness, or a

spell

somewhere else

where it was snowing

and children laughed whole coins

of silver-

bent on her deliverance-

mary angela douglas 21 august 2010

Here's The Vivid Crayon Of The Sun

here's the vivid crayon of the sun

the one that's not broken

the very one you could peel

instead of oranges

if the fairytale required it-

to survive

and the gold foil

chocolate coins in

nets of confetti-stars

fall out of the cupboards

of old houses

whenever you yank the

little glass knobs too hard-

it's

just in time for supper

in your new thrift-store

dress with a second-best

stiff-starch magenta petticoat;

it's fine as Christmas wrapping,

pleated like a star

only God could summon

even as another interview falls through

or simply melts away...

there's still the lemon-waxy streetlight where

the last bus waits for you only

slightly transformed

mary angela douglas 21 august 2010

Copious Weeping

["those were pearls that were his eyes..."]

- William Shakespeare

[to Isak Dinesen-
and especially to Mrs. Alma Harris, my speech teacher...]

the rubies falling down your face

were pearls

and now

they're emeralds

past flood-stage

drowned and

drowning the

remains of the

possible

dredging up the

every color of

the rose, of tigers

flecked beyond expected

topaz seen and

unseen

I see

-oh vast encyclical-

the veritable amethyst Beyond and

the lies told about those

discredited by lies further and further into doom

the formidable arras the kingdom of weeping

the quirks of the free in tragic situations

your arresting angels waiting for the next story

mary angela douglas 21 august 2010

Lost At The Altar Of

lost at the altar of

your clouds

as in a dream

far gone I stray

above the rooftops of

late changing leaves;

it leans on the heart

with a trace of sadness

almost monumental-

but I'm at play

under the staircase

in your opal storehouse.

you're too roseate in

your dilemmas-

odd-coloured, shifting

caravan my song

I'm leaving your

violet shadows

on the sands

I'm leaving

hoping that you won't

see the

glare from my lost

mirrors scattered

everywhere

mary angela douglas 13 august 2010

A Silver Branch Is Broken From

[to the Russian Poets: past, present and future with deep hope and gratitude-and, most directly to the poets of the Silver Age]

a silver branch is broken from

a golden tree.

in the upper atmosphere

are many angels

and clouds of shimmering

radiant symbols

if it were colder it would be

snowing angels

and Christmas could come early

but you lose your way in

the fairytale forest

forgetting to be

on your guard-

plucking a rose in the

fatal hour-

turning to stone.

all blazing kingdoms

corroborate:

the same victory on the same day

and there is world-wide entertainment

and sherbert in 10,000 flavors

but the milk-white sky pours out

pitchers of sorrow

the sun on its own bakes

bitter loaves

and like children unjustly punished

we can't stop weeping for

the silver branch

cut from the golden tree-

mary angela douglas 13 june 2005/30 august 2005/copyright 2006

Painted Ephemera Of The Rose

we'll drive our cloud-sheep

forward

into mists of the rose:

the one of legend

the one you can't dismiss

out-of-hand

over a city of trees

let it rain down jewels

anyway, on my flowered hat

if the neighbors don't mind

and downtown artists

sip black coffee

and dreamy cream so

out of the long-ago

on a summer day

in Winston-Salem

a little girl

in the Library

painted a swirl of rose

like the rose itself

and was happy...

mary angela douglas 2 august 2010

[on the visuallibraries.com seminar ("Leave Your Mark") in Winston-Salem, North Carolina presented by

Dr. Marueen O'Neill and Claire Sambrook

July 2010 at the Forsyth County Central Library.]

Fra Angelico, It's The Rose And Gold

["some works are for the earth, some for heaven."

-Fra Angelico]

Fra Angelico, it's the rose and gold

I want to say

rude shadows chide me,

"don't say" - but I

find words the colors of

your angels' sleeves

and hold in my hand the

quartz of your music that won't fall apart.

I lose the way and chandelier branches

in quiet rain

mislaid in some other poem.

procure the fairytale brocades you

must have left in a Florentine summer

and never got around to using

for

my impoverished reverence

made rich again-

mary angela douglas 2 august 2010

Waving From The Dock This Time

[to Emily Dickinson]

waving from the dock this time

where no ships ever come

I fold my handkerchief into

a sudden snowflake

or a single tear mislaid-

forbidding winter's music...

sew poems like stars.

then let the darkness come.

can you hear

the ghost ships surging

in an apple wind?

I can

see clouds like lapidary ships descending

through a

fifth-floor window descant

mary angela douglas 2 august 2010