when you’re tracking the trackless birds of sweetest Sound
all music falls away, not wanting to be found; shaded by shade trees of an inner
“hush!” – you’ll be at rest, raindrop-sequined,
creamy preludes at an end, for now-
held fast in the boughs of the
guilding hymns or the heralding ones or the rocking chair-
(my Grandmother sings so low)
you’ll fall asleep not knowing which is which;
wake up in incredible brightness.
paper over the vintage wallpaper and the snows
where little stars can get in;
I’ll be mending my violet dress
with the silver underskirts all day-
while the Cobblers mend the Unseen.
the mirrored doors spin shut
on a pale green sarabande
I used to play
on a toy piano with multi-colored keys;
which attic dissolved it?
I really can’t say
who bit the head off the Chocolate Rabbit
my sash is caught in the turnstile oh… crumply satin-
I can’t let go, in fifteen crinolines,
stiff-starched- Sunday’s best,
when everyone else “moves on”, please, “Wait!”-
brimming with secrets they shouldn't own and yet, they do-
all set to mine
the gold -flecked keyholes of my own true lore. stand fast;
God keeps His secrets, too
who dyed this morning’s sky so Easter-egg blue and
marked it with a lilac crayon-This is Mine
in invisible handwriting…
have tea, minus lemon pound cake-
it’s only the shortage of the Blessed
who can still imagine the Feast…and the baby tangerines.
the fried fish and honeycomb breakfast He dispensed to
crumpled friends, still weeping, with the sleep still
in their eyes…and this is Easter Day and He’s come back-
though not to stay…not yet…
cray-pas robins in the picture start to sing in my plaid satchel-
above two hills chalked green on manila paper
rosy chalked-in sun rising in-between - three spears of cold, gold grass-
that’s me there off to the side with my bunch of lilies-
as if to say, remember these? I think you loved them,
Jesus…
wash the canvas with egg- white and start over-
throw handfuls of icicles everywhere there’s
not a tree - you can’t aim yet-but everything's sparkling-
I’ll light the confetti candlestick
with Hans Anderson’s last match…
later there’ll be the onyx sky
with its one important Star.
remember to follow it
down the sidewalk Outside - and when you come back home-
nodding like white clover ruby apples in your hands.
keep the milk-money in your pocket till it’s Time; don’t
swallow it.
I’ll fill the teacups with shredded pink saran,
spiced gum-drops…little place cards –
the wedding mints left over,
in assorted pastels - the criss-cross buns…
there must be one in here, somewhere-
-excuse me, while I rummage-
studded with currants or icing’s consolations.
what a lovely Pink Party, the best of its kind-
if only the Very Good Fairy would pop by
with a few grilled cheese…(wax-papered sigh)-
the fairytales, themselves, have fallen asleep
with none to wake them…
mary angela douglas 7-9 march 2012
notes on the poem:
*berceuse, French for lullaby also musical piece I mean, by Chopin as played by Rubenstein.
*Sarabande, stately Spanish court dance.
*saran (I mean the (trademark)Saran Wrap –clear plastic wrap I could never manage, used to wrap food in.
No comments:
Post a Comment