Losing The Song With The High Ceiling

losing the song with the high ceiling

it seems I wept in gold

where living among the roses

turned to thorns as

swindlers drained all colors from the sky

and called it better

when bees left the honey sun,

crumbling behind them.

how could the clouds so commandeered

be born at sunset anymore

splashed to a free-born rose

tuned to a flaking ember?

no one knows where to live now.

or who could anchor the flowers,

then

that could not sing; dominions where people

stared at the mire as my quartz pockets,

rainbow-filled turn inside-out to snow

and disappear-

I'm counting the rings on the Tree of Heaven

and not expecting anyone to pity

the least of my sistine tears.

but you won't ever find me

far

from the mauve mauve music so impugned-

I'm holed up in the bailed out of sanctuaries

clutching the eiderdown dream that barely fits:

the tiniest nesting doll in God's pearl-perfect

thumb:

under the rose windows, contemplating

humming little tunes that might seep through

if I knew how.

oh sky.

from all the shadows left to you

and all your frozen chandeliers-

find the one small weeping star

homesick for Light-

and I will follow it-

mary angela douglas 30 june 2011

Monograph For Juliet in Rose

the rose-red sash at sunset

at your window

is glazing now with rain

that will not be remembered

by the leaves that rush

from summer's trees in

this bright wind

that will not be remembered by

the birds that fly

enspiralled in the clouds

that will not be remembered

by the moon

that fades so softly in and out

reweaving each pearl drop of light

into the event or its reflection-

into a long-lost caligraphy that

you can't read

into the dream that you will dream

that's not the color you'll intend

when you lean out too far

from any stage devised or

set-piece memorized

for anyone to take hold-

but, for the moment,

glad to be

by every fresh wind blown

and hearing a voice, almost your

own and longing to declaim it-

unscripted as the high rose mind of God-

until small tears begin to show

on the paper lilies held by your bent hands

you want to disappear in the sainted word

you can't pronounce you find

there's nothing you can say when

looking upwards at the stars;

you're reinserted in the slots of

the toy paper balcony next to

the cake with pink roses on it

for the cardboard matinee-

the one where the dolls just sit there-

mary angela douglas 22 june 2011

Contest Awards And Guidelines All Explained

the henchmen came for Poetry in the end

to nab it in a cherry-colored dishcloth

but Poetry was non-compliant, a capella

laughing from the silver rafters;

 Firebird-flowing into every quadrant left

by the builders, frightened from the site

by the same old bullies who

showed up yesterday

the ones to decide, from year to year, the same,

if birds may sing

the songs they would sing anyway...

on a partyless planet,
imagine that.

and here's their process and the

cutting room floor and

here's the closeup of them:

stomping to glittering mica-smithereens

behind the doors of faux deliberation:

the cherry colored mandolin-

that kept on chirping.

ah, Poetry fluffed its sparkling feathers

far above the Zdhanov reborn guidelines of the

world-wide raffles:

unmindful of the spaghetti dinners, garlic bread

butter-soaked and the Bingo callers calling everywhere

the pre-arranged numbers by the coffee can

Christmas confetti candles you always wanted to buy

for the whole Family...

oh tell me why you have it in your grasp to grasp

the poem by the throat and shake out its diamonds

and then slit its throat in copy machine 
triplicate, triplicate triplicate...

after asking God to leave the room.

"Beauty, Truth and Goodness, still" an unawarded someone

whispered from the wings unto a final radiance
 still unpublished...

ah then I am not 

that paper boat floating in a green tributary about to be

choked off and clouded over, was muttered at the afternoon mail

what does Poetry itself need

with the long-stemmed roses and the

name in lights; it's

the Phoenix-Light-Itself, so stand-alone-

no matter how many contests strangle it-

mary angela douglas 17 june 2011;11 december 2014

Touring Angels

[to my Grandmother, Lucy]

fairy tale bread was scattered the
birds did not eat;
the knights of the small hills

were locked in battle-
but here the shire's wind sighs
the songs my mother taught me through

an open screen door-
cornbread and strawberries are whipped creamed and
the diamond spindles cut, as in former days,

the naive princess-
in odd etchings,
beautiful,

as still-

whole kingdoms shine entire...
yet all my towers face the other way
on leafmeal, cooler afternoons

when a gaggle of stars

drifts by and the goose girl
(with her jewels sewn into her seams for
safekeeping)

follows after them in tears...
these are the things I tell myself
when God may be listening for

the shimmering years recounted,

in rosepetaled spelling blown
and every wish as sunbright, honeysuckle clear
as bacon and eggs at home, grape

jelly scraped on toast that
later will seem so
high meringued-miraculous indeed

or blue jay sapphire strung
from tree to tree

exquisitely hinged as a raspberry summer could be
suddenly frozen ruby solid
overnight-

oh guard with your eyes the scarlet
poinsettia on the piano from unstoried vandals-
the scarlet music

wrap it in golden foil
like a color you can use again
if you need to.

you will need to
you will need your
dream cottonwool wadded

in a silver keepsake box
in the back of the third
dresser drawer-

the crystal perfume stopper
and the opal-inlaid screen
of your best mind

on the day that touring angels
just drop by
unscrolling the fairy tale screed

you can't ignore.
oh step from the doorstep looking back
at what you cannot find

anymore-

you who knew daily how the best
of stories must begin,
will know it then,

forever

mary angela douglas 17 june 2011;rev. 20 june 2017

Recorriendo Los Angeles

el pan de cuento de hadas se dispenso

que los aves no comen

los caballeros de las colinas pequenos

se encuentra atrepado en luchas

pero aqui canta el viento del condado-

las canciones que mi madre me ensena

a traves de una pantalla abierta-

pan de maiz y fresas

con crema batida son...y

cortan los ejes de diamente

como en dias pasados

la princesa ingenua en aguafuertes impares,

hermosa como sigue.

reinos enteros brillan...

pero todos mis torres hacen frente

a la otra manera

en las tardes mas frescas de

"leafmeal"

cuando se aleje un monton de estrellas

cerca de mi

y la dama de ganso (con sus joyas

cosido en ella para mayor seguridad)-

sigue despues de ellos, en lagrimas-

estas son las cosas que me digo a mi mismo-

cuando Dios podria estar escuchando

para los anos reluciantes relatado.

en petalos de rosa otografia saltado

y cada deseo como sol brillante,

madreselva claro

como bacon y huevos en casa-

jalea de uva raspado en pan tostado

que mas tarde le parecera tanto

de hecho milagroso como alta merengue

de verdad-

exquisitamente articulado como

un verano de frambuesa-

repentinamente congelado rubi solido

durante la noche por razon de los angeles

de invierno.

asi es.

o guarde con los ojos el Poinsetta

escarlata en el piano de los

vandoles, sin historias-

la musica escarlata

lo envuelve en papel de oro como

un color que puede utilizar de nuevo

si necesita.

se necesita.

Usted necesitara su algodon

hidofilo sueno

arrugada en una caja de recuerdos

de plata-

en el fondo del cajon tercero del aparador-

el tapon de cristal

de su perfume

y las incrustaciones opalinas

de su mente mayor-

en el dia que recorre los angeles-

acabo de entrar

desenrollados el cuento de hadas

que no puede ignorar...

o pasa Ud. de la puerta-

mirando hacia atras

a lo que usted no puede encontrar-

Ud. que siempre supiste

la mejor de las historias

como deben comenzar

ahora sabrala para siempre-

mary angela douglas 3 august 2011

( Spanish translation of original in English)