“the grass withers; the flower fades…the word of our God shall stand forever.”
-Isaiah, the Holy Bible
“And call no man on earth your Father.”
-Jesus
no more cattle drives, as I recount:
I was walking too close by the edge of the sea
that isn’t anymore;
weren’t you?
at least, that’s what they said
among other things, before they shot the
horses out from under us…
I was counting vermillion angels
floating on silos at sunset;shining,
apple- blossom clouded
and listening to “Appalachian Spring”.*
somehow, they said, not so
pointedly at first, making me feel at home-
you’re not enough-
how it is with all of us now,
I couldn’t say. too much
stolen time…the circuitry’s been changed.
who let these people in here?
do you know?
they think I don’t know.
I know enough:
when blankness descended,
they called it music.
they still do…
they don’t like what’s in your head.
they don’t like that you have a head.
perhaps they’re waiting for the headless horseman.*
who could explain the beads they
bartered or why they shone like jewels so long ago;
thinking ourselves among friends, soothed by their guitars we were led away:
no rodeos left for the horseless riders.
no lemonade poured for the thirsty, anymore.
but there’s a porch in Heaven wrapped thrice around the moon,
tree-house balconies on pine-needled air,
where Bradbury’s grandmother serves us coconut cake…*
(the kind with dark cherries on top).
where we say Grace and mean it.
you’re not that far from where you were before…
in this world, this is no small accomplishment-
let us leave the kitchen chair pushed back from the table
consulting the dish-cloth calendar towel-the gold edged Psalms with the purple ribbon-marker.
scarlet sparkles on the spiced apples
from your last summer studio day
when you left your Coke half-finished on the piano
thinking you’d drink it later…
and green- golden shadows guild the picture
you leaned against the wall at a king’s command,
not a king at all as some of us found out-
only a lifetime later-
come help us save the world, they sing
with periwinkle flowers in their eyes
but it’s the last you’ll see of your childhood home
and the people who raised you-
and blts made by hand, finished off in your very own Munsey toaster…
mimosa splendor
ermine tears
your thistledown sob
where are you, grandmother-
holding my string of pearls, my
necklace of the mustard-seed…
the gold signet ring of your favorite brother
who died at 12-
surely God will help me find
the dustless corner where I stashed
the Schirmer's olive folios-
the ivory keys scented just like snow.
the color of my eyes.
beauty wavers, losing her pleats
looking for lost pinwheels;
scanning the wrinkled linen of the skies-
oh, but we’re still on the fairgrounds of the Free
where the Laughing Lady’s laughing just as long as
you’ve got a quarter and a lime snow-cone-
and Christmas marionettes in show windows
dressed in special plaid velveteen for this occasion
pour and pour their Victorian tea not spilling an amber drop
all gold beribboned, glistening under -
my Deportment Store sky.
Listen…they’re moving their doll mouths:
“It’s still not too late-run away; we wish we could.”
Pink thunder sounds above the Orange plains…
the buffalo clouds turn restive
above old cattle-rustled friends who think en masse
and not like me;
the stars are broken ornaments above their
Christmas tree farms…
I’m leaving this- dear Christ and your Christmas, tree-top Star, go with me!
I will rummage in fragrant dresser- drawers
for the pure precognitions
I know – were mine- before
the spiritual carnies came to town-
selling candles and sucking out
with borrowed straws
the ice-cream from my soul-
content to find in confetti tissue still
all my lost visions folded fresh
with gardenia sachets and
by such a kind hand….
I’d bring you the frosting rose unmelting
from my festive birthday slice, Grandmother, remember?
I’m almost very young again: with gifts done up in
glossy pink and blue-
on 45 rpms, the music of the great composers-
In love with holy freedom with the raspberry finish of the sky
and the blackberry night shining down and down
the blessedly pathless woods
mary angela douglas 15-17 january 2012
Notes: Ray Bradbury, great American writer of real American dreams
*Appalachian Spring – incredibly lyrical suite by Aaron Copeland, expressive of the American Heartland and Appalachia
*The Headless Horseman, ghost story by Washngton Irving early Americn writer who lived and worked around present-day Tarrytown, NY
*blts - bacon, lettuce and tomato sandwiches on toast
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