Cracking The Mold They Made For You

[for Judy Garland]

cracking the mold they made for you

and the little box of stars-

a voice made of everything living

spends all its diamonds

in one song

and still has more:

carved from a nightingale quarry-

outdistancing by many rubies

anyone else's rainbow;

we're opening now, a box of sky-

cloudy and bright

reconstituting everything submerged and

packed in lies you're

pealing out your perfect time in time

above all those

who couldn't repair

the sheen beyond blue

of the bluebird soul

savaged by idiots...

but she's in scarlet or in gold

and it's all holiday astonishment again-

and building the ship around her as she sings

breath by breath till breathless in the end-

notwithstanding-

shout Hallelujah! for the

rose-bright flare of song illuminating

more than was contracted for-

I am sure:

unique as a sunset thumbprint rainbow-ridged

perpetual as dreaming could ever be made to

be in sepia or technicolored.

you're all apart-

rebuilding a burnt-out nest

on every stage

till it shone

like a gold never seen

in the land of let's pretend:

a metasong sailing into space

becoming only you - yourself-

where is the place for us

and all our encores

broken from the stem

like the home you made for music

all along?

the seam in the earthquake shifts

and is never the same

mary angela douglas 22 september 2011

The Mere Mention Of His Name

old books came back to the

countries of my heart and

rooted there:

to all those scratching the surface

for loose change-

secretly, I said, "adieu".

I meant it.

familiar as twilight like a birthright

the white stones sang

under the thinest thread of moonlight-

I know that I will find

along this path

of the fairytale's declining year the

glissando shimmer of the

harp-won days-

and turn again, like Dick Whittington,

counting the silvered seconds till

all Beauty Comes to Pass...

it's the bright rose hush of petals

scattered near the rosebuds I

will guard like a severed childhood

the mere

mention of Your Name

that's outlawed, now-

mary angela douglas 11-12, may 2011

Green Were The Worlds We Lived In Then

green were the worlds we lived in then;

green worlds have not departed.

moss of the stars, sheared

damson petals breaking off

from shifted moonlight

in my mid-speech-

I'm sorry.

I'll take the drenching word

again I laid aside

and presume to speak till it all comes clear

that you breathe the stars

you breathe the clouds

and carry the winds of

greeness in your pockets-

not only for an april, but ever-after...

through troubles bending the

wings of your lost angels

still it is all this seeming Emerald we

are meant to keep as the Heart's own Trust-

though it spills over

like a cataract

whenever it is that God may choose

this blossoming at Your Side...

mary angela douglas 9 september 2011

Lament Of Therese Of Lisieux

just now the bars are coming down again

blue morpheus winds are rising

in my soul extraordinary

courier and friend-

in my soul there are no bells;

there is only You.

it's only waking up

that I can't bear;

the white rose in a dream with no confrère

remained so incandescent

in the end

and caught in a warren

I don't understand-

Jesu, my flag is not down.

bright dreaming son or brother

or someone else

under the drizzling skies I feel

that I'm dissolving far from you

and running late to say:

it's only that I recognize

that star you held in your hands-

the one that made you suffer-

the one that, even now

compels me to weep sapphires

endlessly

on your behalf-

and to lean into Space...

mary angela douglas 8, 9 september 2011

The Paper Door Cut In Silence

the paper door cut in silence

cut the Maker

of paper snowflakes, coloured

Christmas chains, small birds

that fluttered in secret cherishing

never flew past the

small incisions necessary

for the valentines remaindered-

and the silhouettes strewn

in old storybooks shut.

behind the paper door cut, die-cut,

the Maker no one knew pursued

his endless dreams of making and

the scissored stars fled shredded

downwards everywhere

while we looked up in

amethyst confusion...

but He is the Maker

striving still

at the isinglass border of

your most recent dream:

someday to bring, in Person,

galaxies and real roses to an
opaque silhouette

mary angela douglas 5-6 september 2011

Scribes

the blackbirds in the margins of their songs

are long past earth

and poured out gold that

you can't see

my silence breaks apart

but not from theirs

on branches of anomalie.

this is the rippled singing

I believe, and God,

I'm not ashamed of there or anywhere at All

while here the meatless

spaghetti boils over again..

for it's wreathed in stove-top mists

the blackbirds in the margins of

their sighs will rise with grace notes, duly noted...

sweet cherried jubilee

just when you are reading in your room

or prescient, in the back garden

by the tangerine nasturtiums...

over your shoulder,

flocking jewels-

and in your heart as on no other day the

sparkling arrows of the inexplicable-

mary angela douglas 4-6 september 2011

Wild Roses

stooping to find the name for myself

in the bottle-necked world brim-filled

with stones to stone or to confine-

I rise to find

all names are taken:

only Your Name shines

above gardenia galaxies

and our lost home

with the blue curtains-

and I'm in the

tatters of the words

I cannot find

to say that

even then, I know-while kicking through the vacant lots

You strewed my path with wild

invisible roses.

that I might not-

weep time away-

mary angela douglas 3 september 2011

Song For Therese Of Lisieux

keep me as the apple

plum peach

apricot and

muscadine of Your Eye

in all the hills, hillocks

burrows, rabbit hutches

flower-filled canyons on

Your green stone;

count me as all your stars,

extant-

though each one's carved

with hearts and wings to burn and

flow away...

I favor blue morpheus wings in

Heaven- please remember I

don't want to intrude

whenever you're painting your

rainbows' cherry after cherry

double-hinged but wouldn't you

rather make

for old time's sake:

another flood of roses?

remember that I am Your dove

though pressed in a leatherbound

book of saints and tissue-veiled

though edged all around in obdurate Gold-

mary angela douglas 6 september 2011

Lieutenant Columbo Drops By The Dollhouse On Christmas Day

watching their very first rerun of

cooking with rosepetals

(on the dollhouse tv)

straight out of the box

the small dolls couldn't be

happier-

even if they can't

tell how

to change the channel.

somehow, bills never come

so why worry?

tonight's a feast as it will be,

always:

there's the stewpot

ready - the parsnips and

carrots glued to the kitchen

table beside the Big Spoon.

the immovable cherry pie

on the sideboard and

"beautifully latticed, if you

don't mind my saying..."

but why do the curtains sway in

the breeze when nothing else

here ever budges?

they're tightlipped but

smiling.

besides, there's roses

in their checks.

oh, and one more thing...

why is that plastic porchlight always on?

amary angela douglas 6 september 2011

Forgotten Waltz No. 2 (After Liszt)

subsiding in the crystal wave,

the mermaid turns of phrasing

let us renounce

while we still can

the plated words, the minimal things to say

that wear off quickly and betray-

while the heart's

own music is buried.

oh when

will the jeweled cathedral

rise

from the lake of mere forgetfulness;

the sword be taken back

from the glistening hand-

and who told you

the prospering word,

laconic

day was gold-

and a necessary armour?

mary angela douglas 3 september 2011