Monday, September 30, 2013

I Want A House On Moss Green Velvet

I want a house on moss green velvet
that can never be foreclosed.
let it be ringed with milky quartz in a circle.

let it be swept with pine branches 
and when the dust flies,
let it hide the creditors.

I want a house on moss green velvet
near wild berries, just in case.
let wild fairies trundle through the forest

flinging me enough peanut butter crackers
to last through a lifetime of winters. 
and I willl wash my one good dress
(the one with a bit of lace)

in the creek by the one good road and blessed-
that shines like amethyst on Sundays
invisble on GPS.

mary angela douglas 30 september 2013

Brocade (Gold-Leafed Were The Tears She Cried)

gold-leafed were the tears she cried
into the mirroring brook.
those of slender means would know
and dreaming children at their sums

in a dress of apricot and Empire-styled-

just how far she had to go.
gold leafed were the tears she cried:
peach-bright, mourning the last of the pears.

and ancient ballads prophesied

the demise of plum blossoms
all around her;

all around her, the twilight of the flowers;

all around her, the lavender snows.
gold-leafed were the tears she cried
and for the children at their sums:

simpatico, in a dress of flowing apricot

and velvet in the waning hours
of Light

mary angela douglas 30 september 2013

So Beautiful Are The Cupolas Under The Solar Flares

[to certain echoes of Akhmatova]

so beautiful are the cupolas under the solar flares

I could look everywhere never finding
anything to compare in the history of light.

but you have taken wing

I suppose, like Icarus
in the first frost of it all;
while in a sky-blue shawl
I have said all prayers twice over
for things beyond repair.

my soul is azure, sapphire set against your gold...

and willing to admit without tears
that the scent of grass is cold in all the Capitals.
that nothing is more vital in the raspberry-gilded air

than all this shining

and the luminescence of the failed poets

mary angela douglas 30 september 2013

Sunday, September 29, 2013

Sipping Cherry Cola Through A Moonlit Straw

sipping cherry cola through a moonlit straw
I mused on green creation and was overawed
and sifted through the mounds of ice cream

strawberry, chocolate, coconut noon had

melted in the patios, and scooped up to the
tune of cherry cola through a moonlit straw

sipped slowly.

tomorrow for breakfast,
ambrosia sundaes, 
berried angel food...

mary angela douglas 30 september 2013

P.S. If I don't have ice cream in the house I just write about it.

Golden Slippers Has The Child

golden slippers has the child
and a green dress that rustles
when you turn
a trillion petticoats of foam

when you turn and a cerise sash

that you never tie
golden slippers, said her mother

spending a lifetime just to say 

to her it won't always be this way
on this side of the willowed stream

oh may you walk on pearl whenever

the breeze stirs the roses you
may feel disconsolate

weep into a rainbow handkerchief

for every petal falling

for every petal falling down
she said to the child 

to the child in a green gown

walking lightly farther on
on tiptoe
toward the eternities

mary angela douglas 29 september 2013

Always He Untied The Knots In Necklaces

[to Milton B. Young, my grandfather]

always he untied the knots in necklaces

in an old jewel box until
it all shone mother of pearl

on an ebony lid

or he untangled Christmas lights
bright lotuses of red and green

orange, blue and lemon shining through

his patience brought from a creaky attic
downstairs to our living room

like Heaven to earth for our Christmas tree

and meteor ridden, stardust in a bucket
he collected overnight all summer.

how I miss his constancy

I thought he could solve any equation
I knew he would always try.
bitter the lemon in the tea without him

missing the mint he gathered then

from his small garden flecked with marigold, old fashioned roses-
Saturday afternoons.

mary angela douglas 29 september 2013

Oh Singing Once More To The Cranberry Skies

oh  singing once more to the cranberry skies
recollected the Princess, it's all tranquility.
and children looking up from play

could sense that something golden

came to stay and they were swinging
on old tire swings hung from the stars

and could hear their Mamas call

its supper now all through the cranberry
neighborhoods of the glassy galaxies.
and it's like milk glass-

it's the Milky Way said grandfather,

the whole shebang; it's his you thought
and yet it's not and the cranberry sunset

fades and takes the light from the mirrors

of the Princess, reflecting the day back to you
and you are no longer sequined with love

for a long time afterwards. opaque is the mirror

and the heart is scarred and something
folds the moon into a cloud
that hides from you that hides from you


mary angela douglas 29 september 2013

Friday, September 27, 2013

The Dream Life Of Roses

[to Gabriel Faure]

do they remember their rose names or do
they dream only in rose itself, no particular rose
colour all plausible rose colours or of a shifting of petals 

a slanting of rains almost sighed for
a corral of petals shaded by green
that comes and goes, again or is
shattered by unexpected winds or
are they ever expected or do they dream

of a world where winds are soft and peach
falls silently peachlike on the ground before time lapsed and
water like rose water lovely shining,
never an enemy, is dripping from the eaves of
leaves and always.

in what language do they dream
in the various tea rose margins of a sleep
allowed by God, so long as to be inconceivable
so beautiful as to have no latitude at all

and of a sheen beyond the earth-bound insignias
of what can be seen

of deep fuchsia or pale yellow or marvel of
marvels, magenta obliquely 
Spring- the last of the ivory, the

light pink in a light chagrined with no sunrise
to call its own but only the rose-lights haloed, fawn-
in sweeter snows unmelting
and are their shadows flowering too
and do they ever awake

mary angela douglas 27 28, september 2013

Wednesday, September 25, 2013

The World-Wide Worker Bees In Their Midnight's Sun

the world-wide worker bees in their midnight's sun
droned on but underneath their droning
how could they not dream of flowers.

and it was summer and the gold medallion swung

between star and star in broad daylight
and in the open air
they floated from fragrance to fragrance
under no one's scrutiny.

no one can deny this happened once.

and in an age where fairytales were dimly sketched
on the rose quelled tabula rasa of the laboring children
it was something to know

this could happen again

and to you 

mary angela douglas 25 september 2013

Tuesday, September 24, 2013

Let It Fall On The Pearl Of His Ear

even if no one hears, let the Word be spoken;
let it fall on the pearl of His ear
let it flow through tears

through the ravines of your lost rivers
let drought be water
let winter be spring

let sorrow be joy
let missing be found be found be found

mary angela douglas 24 september 2013


There are more reasons for this than I can explain.  I have loved and written poetry my whole life since the first grade. Always I was looking for the highest thing.  (You know how that is.  It goes on forever.  You never get to the end of looking for it.  And you are always looking for it even when you don't know you are. )

Well one answer is why shouldn't I write a blog dedicated to the Russian poets.  They have been through a lot.  They have kept their individual souls and their national soul (the best part of it) alive through mind and body numbing experiences.

But beyond this, like many people after reading reams of world wide poetry (as much as I could in English translation) there was a mysterious indefinable and unique beauty there that captivated me.

Also I thought of- (since I was also reading the poetry of all the now independent republics of the former Soviet Union) when I thought of the Russian poets I also meant to say all the other ethnicities and unique individual poets of all those republics, even though I know they would not refer to themselves necessarily as Russian.

Poets and artistic people generally are so often regarded in the West as weak people, prone to suicide, prone to shiftlessness or despicable in other ways.  I did not want to think of myself (as a poet) in this way.  I wanted to find the most idealistic, the most enduring and the most beautiful thing and I found it in the Russian poets, specifically, Akhmatova, Pasternak and most of all, in Osip Mandelstam.  I  love all this equally with all the English and American poets. (And by American I mean not only U.S. and Canada (North American), but Central and South American and all the Spanish-speaking poets) not forgetting either, the poets of the former Eastern bloc (Eastern European) countries...the Turkish poets, the Armenian poets, the Arctic poets

and truly every country, every island, every mountain or valley kingdom on this earth and Vietnam and Cambodia and Indonesia and the Philippines and Taiwan and Malaysia and most dear to me, Ireland, Scotland, Wales, England and every pink, blue, green, yellow, violet tinted piece of the globe.  We need every poet known and unknown, every poem as much as our own heartbeat.

This is the meaning of, the poem I wrote "Through These Sheer Battlements".  In my mind the gold of Shakespeare coexists with that of Mandelstam and in Mandelstam's poem "In Petersburg, We'll Meet Again" (which is somehow a bell always ringing in my mind), I felt-  beyond language- someday there will be a world where we all meet in the feeling behind these beautiful, heartbreaking words whether it is Shakespeare, whether it is Mandelstam, or Garcia-Lorca or Verlaine or Rilke or Dante, or Tagore or other venerable poets of China, Japan, Europe, Asia, Persia, Africa or Inuit origin and others whom I don't yet know but whom God surely does and remembers - whatever it is that is poetry, will be forever our own and as incapable of dying as the redeemed soul.  And no one can take it from us. Ever.

Also in my poems I always leave the light on, even in a sad poem because I believe hope is the strongest thing. And as it says in the Bible, "the Light shines in darkness".

You realize, don't you, that you write or read from your heart what you think and feel no matter what the consequences. And this is one way to contribute to beauty and truth in the world.  And this is most of all something worthy to offer with love and respect to other human beings and with all my heart and bowing down to the ground while keeping the stars in mind, to offer as a child learning always every day how to speak in his or her native tongue, your (my) very own words to God the Father...

Not to be famous, not to be heard by multitudes necessarily is the test of Poetry, Art or Song, but to know the Word sincerely spoken, deeply sung can never die and will be with you even in Eternity (and carry you there when it is time.)

In His Love to all of you forever knowing the best poem for all of us in all troubles and in all joy is to pray without ceasing for what we need in the moment and for each other -and, don't you think - to praise the One who sent us...

Mary Angela Douglas

P.S. Forgive me for not saying, before, dear Germany, Italy, France and Denmark, your fairytales have helped me for a long time only second to God and my grandparents who read them to me, to remain more happily on earth.  Thank You.

Saturday, September 21, 2013

Twilight Corsage Of The King Of Heaven

I wished for you a sugared almond vision;
wedding mints in pastel green and blue
and pink and yellow on occasion, too;

lime sherbet floating in the cut glass bowl,
the dress of moonlight the orange blossomed Soul
in serene days and nights.

but everything is war-torn that I made
except for the roses.
except for certain roses...

especially the human heart..
especially the human heart.

mary angela douglas 21 september 2013;rev. 22 september 2013

Losing The Blue Madonna To The Skies

[to my mother,  (Mary Adalyn Young-Douglas)

losing the blue Madonna to the skies
the painters grieved in secret
and the children died-
losing the blue Madonna.

losing the gold Madonna to the sun
a white irised stillness filled the mind
and all my madrigals were blind.
my madrigals were blind

and moonlight fell on adamantine pillows only
stuffed with may have been beautifuls
beatific, in a receding light.

and I have lost the rose Madonna
queen of all gardens cried the child
cried the child all on her own and,

wildly, whole angel choirs
could not comfort 
though it snowed flowers

mary angela douglas 21 september 2013;rev. 22 september 2013

I Could Survive On All The Brandied Fruitcakes

I could survive on all the brandied fruitcakes
they make jokes about on TV.
send them please, to this address.

each slice like slicing into the crown jewels:
citron, cherry, red and green, thickets of
raisins, nuts and orange peel

I'd pile them high in my empty fridge
and feast like a Queen
and frigidaire dare you to imagine
how you'd feel if people complained

about getting fruitcakes
when you were hungry

p.s., same thing for the cordial cherries in milk or dark chocolate, please...

mary angela douglas 21 september 2013

I Have Lost The Robins Egg Blue Of My Easter Dress

I have lost the robins egg blue of my Easter dress
the small girl cried into a ruffled breeze;
the candy taste of orange, lemon, grape bright

shells enclosing creaminess; the new grass,

patent leather shining, the certainty of the petticoats
starched and

layer on layer of the cake with indelible roses

meltingly I turn to find, imagining I am in
the Great Ballets and always in

rose tulle or robins egg blue at the after parties

where they serve strawberry ice cream freely
and play pin the tale on the Donkey in the carports

and give small prizes in the afternoons,

and ring the bicycle bells
two times two on Sundays
festively, for good measure.

mary angela douglas 21 september 2013

Thursday, September 19, 2013

In My Cherry Cadenzas

in my cherry cadenzas
fleece shorn clouds traipse by
at the end of their summery measures:

a gold gummed star to light the way
green foil or violet's blue,
glistening dusky silver

fixed at the top of the score and shyer
than the pedals I barely know when to use.
in my cherry cadenzas, I will chase the moon

pretending I am all in lace with a mantilla-
with one pink rose or May queen in
pale lime chiffon-

why not? (with a peony fan)-
or distant in ivory earrings carved like snow,
or snow's imperceptible command

barely discernible from the silken seconds;
for who can say when melting is at hand.
why can't we stay inside the music,

(I want to ask my Grandmother)
music box where towers never failed
where the princess lived at home

with the Pinking Shears and
unassayed by the riddles posed
as the cherry cadenzas fade
mary angela douglas 8 september; rev. 19 september 2013rev. 20 june 2017

Tuesday, September 17, 2013

Bright Red Geraniums On The Window Ledge Of A Dream

bright red geraniums on the window ledge of a dream
nodded and smiled as if from an old fashioned fairy tale.
the cats were prescient and the crowds below

bowed without knowing to the kings
within their midst who, after all smiled up
at the red geraniums and just couldn't

help themselves because it reminded them
of the old neighborhood
in the taffy sunshine

mary angela douglas 17 september 2013

Get Coupons In Your Sleep; Save Precious Time

get coupons in your sleep;
save precious time
the dream crawl read

at the bottom of the dream screen.
I was negligent in this
as in all things with an empty

basket except at Easter time
collecting the pastels for another day
home sick;

on Saturdays, unfolding the folded
bright red maple afternoons in which I
didn't you feel time is glorious

and is it still unfolding silvery seas
within you, turquoise settings
whenever the sun sequins brightly
off the unseen waters?

mary angela douglas 17 september 2013

Monday, September 16, 2013

The Slotted Spoon They Issued You

the slotted spoon they issued you
on that first day to empty the
moat of tears surrounding the castle

is all that you have left now

of a job impossible to
do right.

the golden winch for a golden well

that never filled with water but you
kept on drawing up pails of
emptiness dutifully.

oh how will they evaluate you

my well-spent child of fairytales.
go out to the forest.
bring your own black bread.

in your shoes of pearl,

tread on the rainbow shell
of the mollusks who have moved on.

maybe they'll never hire you

mary angela douglas 16 september 2013


tiny dessert poems I have stocked
or demitasse refreshments with their
little gold spoons clinking

the playhouse china for awhile

whenever I run through my allotment
of ducats, Spanish ruby necklaces or other

plunder or it starts to thunder;

it's cloudy but it's clear
we won't get groceries today..
have another bowl of 500-bean

soup I brought from Jack last May

before his Mother threw the shoe at him.
I'm getting rather sick of it.
even if fantastically like all his stories-
you'll never get to the bottom of it.

eat up. feel right at home

while it rains and rains.
and for dessert please take,

oh, no, please do:

another slice of
lemon meringue poem.

mary angela douglas 16 september 2013

Green Horses Neighed For Their Gold Apples

[to Dylan Thomas]

green horses neighed for their gold apples.
pink in a twilight never-ending
it was maypole beribboned; peach rose-budded

or all the canals were violet,

the tiny gears still capable of  turning
blown by a sigh, a child's silken

puffball of a dream,

a hidden courtyard's
roses blooming in the snows...

I knew.

green horses in a golden courtyard
remembering it like yesterday
that the Princess only laughed

and all the fountains with her.

still intact, my artifact breathed God again

upon the music-box of the world

mary angela douglas 16 september 2013

Saturday, September 14, 2013

Do Not Thread Your Clouds Through That Blue Needle

oh, Lord do not thread Your clouds
through that blue
needle of a sky
let them drift dreamily away

having been warned
oh Lord do not spill thread upon silken thread
of your extravagant rainbow over
these dark waters;

may Your rainbows find the Ark
and hide away.
it is the needling sky that watches me

it is the needling sky that watches me
it is the needling sky that watches me
having no pity

and no Heaven

mary angela douglas 14 september 2013

Friday, September 13, 2013

The Lost Book Of Wonder Filled My Eyes

oh, Lord do not thread Your clouds
through that blue
needle of a sky
let them drift dreamily away

having been warned
oh Lord do not spill thread upon silken thread
of your extravagant rainbow over
these dark waters;

may Your rainbows find the Ark
and hide away.
it is the needling sky that watches me

it is the needling sky that watches me
it is the needling sky that watches me
having no pity

and no Heaven

mary angela douglas 14 september 2013


pale pink in some lights, lilac
to the floor with a sheen you
never see except in dreams

embroidered with the moon.

full skirted like an inverted rose
a rustling like the Holy Ghost,
pale green

dancing when standing still.

perfection, crystal beaded.
fraught with small birds flossed

in blue, in gold, in my extremity

I dreamed one day
my Soul will wear this
and be glad

mary angela douglas 13 september 2013

Monday, September 09, 2013

In The Picture Book The Red Hearts Shine

"The Queen of Hearts
She made some tarts,
All on a summer's day;
The Knave of Hearts
He stole the tarts,
And took them right away.
The King of Hearts
Called for the tarts,
and beat the Knave full sore;
The Knave of Hearts
Brought back the tarts.
And vowed he'd steal no more."
The Queen of Hearts, Old English Nursery Rhyme

[Note to Reader: Even as a child I found it impossible to believe that the Knave didn't eat even one single tart.  Although, maybe the Queen was an awful cook but in that case there would have been one tart with just one huge bite taken out of it. And I don't think the King would bother himself with beating someone who stole baked goods, no matter how much he liked them.  So here's my version and I like it a lot .  I hope you will, too.  And that you have plenty of baked goods in the house in case you get hungry later]

in the picture book the red hearts shine

on the frosted tarts beneath the lime

raspberry jam perhaps? or something that

rhymes with cherry compote?
someone should be smote but
I reserve judgment;

they haven't been stolen yet.

and where's the Queen?
in another part of the castle, green
as first grass, suspecting nothing;

(the play runs that way)

practicing her piano obliviously.
be quick I warn, here comes the Jack

to the rococo picnic table at your back

not even with a napkin stealing the lovely
petit fours appealing-
but with a tacky bandana.

you can catch him yes, you can

this Chopin's not going anywhere today.
disconsolately you'll murmur
and float to the bay window
in your appropriate gown:
(sprigged heirloom roses...
on a pale blue background)

to save the pink cakes under your nose

from the knave in plain sight.

mary angela douglas 9 september 2013

Sunday, September 08, 2013

I Thank From My Heart All The Muted Poets

"He that dwelleth in the secret place of the most High
shall abide under the shadow of the Almighty.
[I will say of the Lord: He is my refuge and my fortress;
my God; in Him will I trust..."
[Psalm 91, The Holy Bible]

"Unless the Lord had been my help, my soul had
almost dwelt in silence"
[Psalm 94: 17]

I thank from my heart all the muted poets
censored under the sun.
those for whom thanking can never be done.
who hid us under the half-wing of their radiance

while the other wing burned-

mary angela douglas 9 september 2013

The Gingerbread's Lament With Little Punctuation

the crinkly eyes of the gingerbread man
can seem so worldly-wise though made
of raisinettes or currants depending on

the custom of the country or only on
what is left. a sliver of a maraschino
smile seems wryly to indicate he's

seen all this before and he'll be none the sweeter for
the icing you will tip on his gingery hands
and feet if only he were more fleet than the

icing flows he'd leave the silver tray he's pressed
upon but he dreams he's home and all festivities
have shone and will shine again please oh yum!

please pity him:
it's Christmas.

mary angela douglas 8 september 2013

My Candied Apple Ferris Shears The Sky

my candied apple ferris shears the sky
and people from the ground shout you
are up too high

but angels hoist the wheel behind

a bright pink cloud that blinds
the crowds forever discontented
and, at a moment's notice-

with any happiness you've found

even this snow cone fleeting.
fleeting is the Fair, the ferris wheel.
all caramel.

but I am twinkling still, so there.

mary angela douglas 8 september 2013

Friday, September 06, 2013

With My Small Rainbow-Swirled-In Pebbles

with my small rainbow-swirled-in pebbles
I scared the Giants away.
though they were sad because
they had no language
I would not give them mine.

mary angela douglas 6 september 2013

The Soft Paws Of The Tigers Rend But Not The Soul

the soft paws of the tigers rend
but steadfast are my angels, the  archangels,
the afternoons.

the soft paws of the tigers near
commanding fear from those born to rejoice
 but there is no reproach in the thundering

amphitheatres who only want more of it.

weary are the uses of adversity
and we turn away, no longer bearing
what we see while simply waiting our turn.

softer and softer tread the paws;
most terrible is their rending.
but that rare constellation the Soul, burns on

mary angela douglas 6 september 2013;26 november 2014