HAPPY NEW YEAR 2014!

A Very Happy New Year 2014 to everyone!

God bless and keep you in the New Year.

mary angela douglas

"Go Out Into the World!" She Cried She Cried

"go out into the world!" she cried she cried

tipping their wings with frost

in the early spring,

the false queen.

the children turned to birds, obeyed.

and lifted heavy wings.

interminable is their flight, oh God-

and the sun is going down

swiftly into a sea made out of violets.

guard their meadows.

they are out of sight.

oh mother bereft of song

how long you waited by the picture

windows of a twilight

for their least return.

mary angela douglas 31 december 2013;rev. 21 november 2014

Certain Poets Read The Skies As They Did Before

writing in diamonds on the winter skies

God in His singular Castle keeps the night

and tries once more to scatter poems

for you

from the crystal highlands of His ultimate Preciousness.

but I am semi-precious and can't

quite catch the drift, do you?

of all this silver coinage everywhere.

and rubies that can't be spent

are gathering in His West 

where the slow swans rise.

oh, ever new cryptology that can't be

decoded yet

though we are trying to-

transcribing what we knew before

or thought we did-

and what we almost hear

mary angela douglas 30 december 2013;rev. 21 november 2014

The Things You Think You Ought To Know

the things you think you ought to know

are snickering in the closet by the chalk board erasers.

the things you ought to know

(by now)

linger by the door when you line up to go home.

they know who you are;

the one with the scuffed shoes

(whose shoes are polished every night

bright beyond new penny, bright)

who dreams while the ice cream melts in the cup

with the flat wooden spoon

day-by-day in the afternoons.

but you know the clouds in pink and blue

are scudding across a winter sky

that looks so springlike out the stenciled windows

and you know the trinity is three leaves of golds

kissed on a single stem,

is loving you and kind

and you can run can run like the wind

far from the things they think you ought to know

and the guilt of the red and green crepe paper bells

made out of paper

made out of paper and they never ring.

the rosy punch and cookies when you

haven't finished your arithmetic

you haven't finished your arithmetic

but you live in a house

where you can count on love

to triumph always in the end

to triumph always in the end

whenever the pastel skies can snow

over the things you ought to know.

over the things you ought to know.

mary angela douglas 29 december 2013

Note on the poem: this poem stems from an experience in elementary school on the last day before Christmas vacation when we had our Christmas partythe last two hours of the day only the teacher held me back from the party because I hadn't finished the arithmetic for the day from the problems on the board because I couldn't understand them somehow.

Finally, she said in a voice edged with exasperation, well, Mary go on to the party.I can see you're never going to finish.  And I remember the feeling of happiness going to the party and sadness at being the last one and the happiness of going

home.

Was It Falling Down In Daylight

[for Sylvia Plath]

"because their words had forked no lightening..."

=Dylan Thomas

how did it feel to write that way

dark side of the mirror to mirror's

sad back to back

expressive but incommunicado

scarcely published in the magazines

bypassing your intensity

was it

like falling down in daylight

with everyone watching you

wringing the light from your last pearls

princess, beekeeper of the denser luminosities-

in the fair far fairy tale woods can

you take the wrong turn

and get lost in the lostness

did you.

when she came with her basket

that last time (the witch) with her

pale green laces her used-up mythologies

her gold apple laced with a glimmering poison

how I wish you had slammed the door

in her face and not invited her in for pastries

and coffee.

oh, but you became a conduit

of darkness with the eyes of the seer

everywhere on the surface of 

your peacock soul so blue and green

so gold and yet despairing

who vividly sees no road ahead

the bridge washed out-

the fog never lifting from the jeweled path

that could be.

who trained you to live without hope

mining your own ore to extinction;

weeping in every cell of the

honeycomb. 

sharp-sheared, untimely in the rose gardens.

didn't anyone notice

you grieving there in your thin, bright dress

(quenching your wedding finery, Eurydice

all by yourself

in the choice that won't come back)

but the thieving oracles

you listened to 

or, was it something someone said

lightly on a summer day, in passing,

not meaning it really, in the strawberry patch

by the side of a house

so that everything afterwards was

kaleidoscope smashed, no longer turning 

except the one ardour for poetry

calling, Sylvia,

keeper of the lamp with the radioactive flair.

or was it something said again and again

and driven home in the chill and damp the subterfuge

or only the owl feather's drifting down

on you, the snowy owl when you

wished for snow instead and

to be washed in light like Christmas

but could not be. somehow. otherwise.

or was it a penchant for the rookery for

the raven's wing on no upswing, for the bleak days.

why couldn't you see so many times

there was a brightness about your head;

like a saint's aureole, it shows in old photographs

that cannot show that the falling down in daylight,

rainlight, goodbye, unbluebirded in a tower of dew

I am vanishing

my winnowed children in the greylight (she cried)-

blinded you instead, gleam after banished gleam

to any other outcome

or crook of the lightening's tree...

CHORUS (or what is left of it):

in the lousy kitchenette

the realms of your eyelids, Ladye,  fluttered: "snow"

mary angela douglas 25 december 2013;revised 29 december 2013

Dear Reader:

Please look for light not darkness.  Please hold onto hope even in dark moments.

God is real.  Life is not only what it is in the  moment.  Please always hold on. Nothing is worth throwing your life away.  Nothing.

God is with you.

Start With A Star

start with a star

a little brighter than usual

flashing a lighthouse message

above scant trees.

is it that hard

to imagine?

you could be going somewhere else

than the errand you thought you'd choose

or was chosen for you:

a journey through purple darkness

beyond the Christmas card silhouettes

silk-screened across the indigo;

glitter on parchment representing snow

or starlight, take your pick.

and then a cold night.

you're in the fields or just at work;

not thinking of anything at the bus stop

and the light grows larger now

filling half the sky

and work grows dim.

start with a song.

you think you might have heard before

only, not like this, and not for Him

as if the notes had burst all bonds

and turned to gold around and through

your listening attuned to nothing else.

start with a feeling, almost a little jeweled

washed silver to gold and back again

and resin is singing too now

through all the winter trees

of gilded apples on the branches of the universe

you only thought you knew.

and life starting over with the Star.

mary angela douglas 25 december 2013

Necklace

could it be made of small stars

she asked the Fashioner softly

so that nothing could catch fire

in the vicinities

or carved from ivoried snows

to be worn in extreme cold, quarried

from a warmer rose, rosepetal stictched to

an even seam

even seeming like spring

at the earliest, set off

by pale green velvets,

the mazy motion of the trees.

I am setting off she prayed

on a journey that has no end.

make it from light, my Father

or wrists of rainbows

braclets of the miraculous

spanning the unshed tears,

the underpasses

overlooking the crevasse

over which I must pass

heart-rended, even without shoes

slipping on the pearl of Your shadow...

moon painted, bright beyond wonder

so that I may not forget You

mary angela douglas 24 december 2013

No Muted Merry Christmas Angels Sang

did they 

have a meeting earlier in the year

and not invite the rest of us

who still believe

all sugarplumed, lay plans to have no

muted Merry Christmas?

experimenting, I went everywhere.

I smiled; then I was welcome

speaking of this and that. 

Then I said Merry Christmas!

bonhomie scattered like geese

in flight before gunshot.

happy holidays they whimpered.

or, the same to you, I'm sure,

they sniffed.

wanting to remain cool in the world wide

cool club where God Knows Who

makes the rules; I never did.

my reputation for a Christmas song.

did I say something wrong

my inner child laughed.

oh let me say it louder then.

MERRY CHRISTMAS.

PEACE.

GOOD WILL TO THOSE OF

GOOD WILL

on earth, on earth

quadrophonically now in

surround surround surround surround sound

in cathedral bells in neighborhood gingerbread;

white lighted snowfall lamplit candlelit knowing

Light has come into the world let me be Merry

and know why

and never be ashamed.

oh heralding angels weren't

oh, Christ the King

Christ the King

Christ the King

is chiming snow bright in the air

ring out my evergreen children everywhere

 mary angela douglas 22 december 2013

Orange

only one orange

is blazing like the sun

brought down to earth

only kinder.

no sunburn.

an orange wrapped like a present

a little hard to open

but when you do

isn't it the kingdom of orange

made just for you

orange orange

overfilled with orange

the soul spills over into laughter

orange through and through

orange peel remaining

you could file under Oh.

it's gone now.

and wish for another.

but that is asking for so much

when your hands still 

smell like flowers.

mary angela douglas 21 december 2013

Note on Poem: I haven't eaten an orange for over seven years.  It's complicated.  Difficult to ride the bus.  Difficult to chew the stringy ones on sale.  Easier to store frozen fruit and lighter to carry than a bag of them would be.  Today someone gave me a Christmas orange. And I wrote this poem to express the amazement I feel (and felt as a child) that one small fruit could hold so much joy. And bo so orange.  Thanks be to God for His unspeakable gift of the Orange.

There Is No Death Of The Romantics

swans in the mirror of the soul

float on, having been banned from

post modern poetry.

where else would they go?

constricted and confined

condensed at the ballet to

save the audience time;

no longer needed at school
when slipping through the slit
of the Valentine box

wrapped in silver foil
decorated with red construction paper hearts
on white lace paper doilies, no more.

configured differently-

oh! not at all.

for they shone brilliantly

beyond the dress-circle diamonds of the

spectators who cannot guess now

when the clues are far too few

what they are missing.

over the footlights

swans in the mirror of the soul

drift on a wisp of

Pavlova, perhaps the

waters of Coole;

half-murmured in a dream

you've neglected to be transformed

your former poets mourn

and supplicate but you must be

dreaming

they say to you on the job and if they knew

they would disapprove of the Romantic

leaning of the ghostly scholar

poet, pianist holding out to you

unseen, too rich and variegated the

thread of what has been

cleaved clear in two.

no cream for the apple tart.

other ages darker than this

you think but cannot say

have known have known the

soft flutter of few stars,

alone above the trees and witnessed, then, that

the swans in the mirror of the soul

float on and exquisite as pearl by pearl

impervious to wars, cultural or otherwise-

to poets unlearning their trade
wild Beauty wild with grief

unraveling and undeterred.

mary angela douglas 19 december 2013;22 november 2014;28 december 2014

Time At The Fairytale Threshold Cannot Pass

time at the fairytale threshold cannot pass:

let the lime tree flower endlessly by

the little door or suddenly turn to snow who knows

why distaff gold once spun

is spinning yet and twelve princesses

in rainbow raiment find 12 reasons

to be glad in their worn shoes

where it's always twilight dancing

that's not much further down your

dreaming mind and you will stand

in deep midwinter by the rosebuds

not knowing how you came;

forgetting to bloom in the snow

and breathe the haloes

round them, rosy-ringed

not feeling the cold at all.

oh inexplicable were the things you

ought to know; that they remain.

so holding the sea glass shimmer in your hand

half-waking in your room

these tokens of light sustain 

the music of the tune that

you were there

oh, you know you were

with your mystified heart

your umpteen reasons to be glad

that the waves would not depart

because you loved them

mary angela douglas 18 december 2013

Isn't It Enough That The Orchid Skies Intensify

isn't it enough that the orchid skies intensify

and then the cold.

and this is only one kingdom.

isn't it enough

the moon is a melon that is sliced by clouds

and there on your plate again

oh silver waters, there's the full melon

once more floating and floating

how many stars 

and no census possible.

flower on flower flowering

failing in an orchid light

in the frost of words improbable to say

or even pronounce and

full as the dewdrop heart on the green stem

wavering in the summer heat and then,

all lilac gone

and more than enough.

only, somewhere else

mary angela douglas 18 december 2013

Snow Should Fall Like An Eyelash From The Moon

[to Dylan Thomas and every dreaming child]

snow should fall like an eyelash from the moon

(that softly)

on the child reprimanded for dreaming;

made to stand in corners after school

for paying attention

to the spooling blue of the sky outside the window;

the waving trees. and you wave back in your greenery,

too, it seeming that important to acknowledge friends.

let peppermints spill out of the stockings

with the orange and appled profusion

you have merited early,

oh child like a silver riddle.

like an ivory eyelash from the moon.

swirling and swirling

thicker snows will come to you

and a violet noon from the vagrant poets

who can't misunderstand you.

hand in hand their angels sing

and they have set watch on you

and sent the feathery owl-wise snowflakes spiraling

like an eyelash from the moon forever and ever

where you will wander-

leaning into the icicled chiming and

tracing the traceries of the frost-made feasts

on All Souls' windowpanes;

stalwart in green and gold, remembered,

taking your stance against the vanishing

mary angela douglas 13 december 2013

Lost Saints Wandered Through Forests Of Miracle

lost saints wandered through forests of miracle

treading the light but never crushing it;

famished, making the music shine:

alone.

how are you far from home

when you carry Him with you

lost saints wondering wondered

and they did not err.

and they are shot with gold.

and they are jewel like in their speaking

if they should speak.

how will small animals defend themselves 

when they are gone

when the bluebird blue no longer

hangs onto

the hidden flowers,

before the approaching heel and

with none to gather them.

mary angela douglas 11 december 2013

Note on the poem: this poem is my impressionistic tribute to old legends of the saints such as The Little Flowers of St. Francis.

But it is not the saints that are lost, even by the poem itself you can understand this since they carry their home (God, Christ)with as within them and it is, after all, the forests of miracle, this being the chief one.  I also mean "saints" in the old-fashioned meaning,as all believers.  And it is in the last stanza's reference the heel of disregard, the heel of unfeeling power that approahces to crush the "small animals" or the defenseless, yet, like them, our defense is of God, so what seems like lost is not lost, what seems like threat is not threat if you realize that you carry God uith you who has said to us "I will be with you, wherever you go".

Her Wishes Were All Strawberry, Flecked In Golden Cream

[to my mother]

her wishes were all strawberry, flecked in golden cream

that never soured in summer; such a dream

of raspberry ice in the dead of winter making you

happy to be cold or colder then or

a slice of green lime in sparkling cranberry

that is quenching but you can't guess why

her wishes were a blue sonata in a bluer

town, true as larkspur lilted the lilies, as

pink as mignonette at sunset

sunrise never far from here

is a stillness gathered in a white bouquet

of all white fragrances you can't imagine

simply, said the good fairy,

such a sweetness concentrated.

will you try?

I, too was enchanted by her wishing.

entranced, I only stood there-

moon coloured, shy and wondering-

incapable of granting anything at all...

mary angela douglas 10 december 2013;revised 11 december 2013

Loving The Spotlight Till The End

[not to the target market (because there isn't one)]

if it's going to be the last word that you leave

is it really going to be hammered out in a workshop?

and if it is really what you feel

why would you need professionals

to help you see it.

any child can look at the moon and wonder

where all that silver comes from.

but we labor for gold.

mary angela douglas 7 december 2013

It Wasn't The Doll-Like Certainty Of The Bride

it wasn't the doll-like certainty of the bride

I sought from You, Lord.

but only to know the Father of the

Light inside and glide through tempests.

it wasn't a doll like certainty veiled,

feted adorned with life-like flowers

for which I cried.

why would I when

You have given all the stars

without being asked.

and your flowering floats

from winter skies

and each springtide

petaled numberless and fragrant

beyond the heart's capacity

to abide..

it isn't the doll-like shine I missed

the temporary shelter time after time.

how could I when .

only one gleam of your

Christmas

sustained me-

one sparkle that lit-

the Magi on their way

mary angela douglas 6 december 2013

True Reading Is First Reading

true reading is first reading;

lullaby gold

you've lost more than you know

once on a Saturday with Aladdin 

jewel like in the shining cave the soul wandered.

and now it's graded

grade to grade

suspected.  even followed.

evaluated.

can you remember chanticleer clear

the princess in the picture book

roseleafed in the rose that was her

home?

the true test of the knights on the glass mountain.

how you turned the page with no one making you?

no blackboard demonstration, QED.

no diagramming even in coloured chalks

what the heart already knows.

from birth: the Light flows, the baby laughs.

apple green reading.  crunchy

in the attic, red delicious on

a snow day snowing words

fresh as evergreens, sweet peppermints

not required!

not core!

no book reports, just books galore.

the report of midsummer horns

in the Faeryland inside your head

and no critics to get in the way.

you and you alone opening

the antique casements

you could open on the seafoam green foam

where it's you that sees

with no interpreter

the ghost ships foundering there forever

on the reefs when you dream: only in coral.

then soldiers drilled in the counterpane hills

and were never wounded.

and you were not assessed

who owned the Palace where the books were stored,

ridiculous cried the Prince.  Off with their heads.

they stormed no battlements then;

oh beyond meed and free as the air and Blessed

what higher Degree ah wanderer over opulent seas

could anyone else ever give you, anywhere

mary angela douglas 4 december 2013