A Mythical CowPerson Protects The Homestead's Hoard

I’m out here hoarding stars where no one sees-

sharp winds, the prairie grass in a summer breeze bending low

the moon so near at hand

and all its gold in a Fool land where people who

want to keep it all to remember are

criticized, cackled at, cajoled.

and psychologically construed.

(How rude).

what if she keeps the pale blue dress she wore

on a day without heartache, and every other; a stack of mail

 delivered

from a wartime front you never suffered

and every magazine she ever read.

Bring in the glass cases to display, instead.

Break open new cherished scrapbooks to adorn and stack them high,

You buzzards. Do you dream in bisque?

And festoon, not chip at day-by-day (you dim subtractors).

the pride in having survived it all with even the same whisk broom-

the sentiment in having loved and lost, the condiments of childhood,

the bell jars with dried roses everywhere.

what’s it to you? 

the trophies from the private wars

you never fought.

the ticket stubs and posters carted out

from movie palaces seen and trying so hard

not to flicker out within her mind-

you’ll bring them every scrip-scrap back

you empty warehouses,

scoundrels feigning cutting-edge therapies.

when there's nothing to analyze-

Good Housekeepers, every one

You blankity blanks

I’m rounding up this round-up now.

why do they treat it like a Faith

that every room must show no age, or accumulation

of personality, not a trace but look like no one ever lived there.

A perfect Model Home for ghosts. But they’d be scared to move in

after you, you bunch of egg-suckers.

Who made it criminal nowadays

to be surrounded by the things you love,

your whole life long-

your layers of civilization

as time wears on

and more and more

to take your stand in the scheme of things till the End-

with your own old armchair, books stacked everywhere read

and reread, dear friends viewed and reviewed a Smithsonian of

personal archives near at hand with waiting birthday candles at-the-

ready, all flossy threads of

all the rainbows rickrack ranged  in a candy striped wicker sewing

 box stashed to the High Heavens

with colorful notions you never had…Mr. I’m Trying Not To Roll My 

Eyes over all this

at least, not on camera…why don’t you build her another Wing?

That would be helping. (Keep your hands off the chocolate cherries.)

Or another cabinet des fees for the

Burpee seed packs in the kitchen drawers spilling over and over for

the hoped for gardens

of magic beans tended by my Grandfather Jack

pouring out like the stars into a universe where

even God keeps on collecting… (think, Expanding Universe, remember?)

 and never says in a disgusted tone,

“What is all this junk?”

But “Leave Her Alone!” that is, if you even asked Him, did you?

before you trespassed here with your

eyeball on that Heirloom Harp…and Grandmother’s bone china.

think how long He’s been at it

And who’s going to show up at His door

Sunday-dressed in pearl

with a van? I double-dog dare you to.

Who ordered you to strip our lives of everything

And call it good, you newfangled, fangy monsters.

Here’s your twilight.

What’s next in the strange cold plan:  The Great Museums?

The Libraries? The memory of the world? You dismantling weasels.

It’s time for hoarding snowflakes now it’s gotten that extreme

and Christmases:  I’m the Ghost of Christmas Past

Long and long ago: You put that down! Or I’ll Christmas decorate you

Before the midnight chimes before that’s scratched out too by the

 clueless rats in the wall,

who favor only minimalist writing.

Forgive me, but it’s true.

It’s time to stop this melting meant for Show and artificially

 induced.

or maybe because you’ve no life of your own

or maybe you’ll become famous for making old people cry

late at night, after it’s all been carted away by the undertakers

come too early.  Or the Grinch.  “I’m repairing this Holiday Tree

sweet Cindy Lou…and the figurines…too”

What did you do with the Baby Jesus? Did you take Him, too?

my Cindy Lou cried so half the neighborhood heard:

Holiday Schmoliday.

Good night interior designers of Control.

Good night, Good neighbors with unfurnished trending souls

Get off get off Our Own True Lands and Loves.

And go build something of your own.

mary angela douglas 3 october 2012