Monday, January 28, 2013
a long way down the violet road
I tried to go.
it vanished in the shifting winds,
the snow. Oh, God, are you still here?
I cried out in the cold
and on the frozen prairies,
then flowery meadows arose.
I am a wild rose planted by His hand
in a language now foreign.
a long way down the violet road
I tried to go
with diamonds in my hands
to feed the diamond birds
mary angela douglas 28 june 2013
giving You back the gold of the sun:
the honey-gold and the amber.
giving You back the white-gold
of the moon and rightfully,
the blue stars and the red.
giving you back the green
wind, her April sources
and the rose slip slipping into the Dreaming
all over again.
Oh how did it cost so little:
the clouded violet in the snows:
the tunes still turning my music-box soul.
it's You in the marigold darkness everywhere
I know I know I know
in the rushing gold of the words You gave us:
the honey-gold and the amber
and the white gold of the moon
mary angela douglas 27, 28 january 2013
Wednesday, January 23, 2013
[to Miro Zdrahal]
we all survive with just one scrap of sky,
the bluest one-
even with no boundaries left
to cross, when the storms come;
every soldier for himself, the histories go.
and come again.
we can survive with just one
scrap of sky, and the green light all around filtered through the trees and
through our tears and through long
aeons of His smile.
the only one:
the last Republic in the sun.
mary angela douglas 23 january 2013
Tuesday, January 22, 2013
[to Christ the Lord, even so...]
a harp is weeping at the door:
I have found an inconsolable stillness here;
there were jewels
they didn't come back for
even though the moonlight read:
here you will find the harp at the door.
it will be weeping.
now the glissando of the things that did not happen
is struck is struck down
by angels sparing you the memory of what was never intended
spoken into the funnel of jeweled afternoon.
or maybe it is that you had merely dropped
in leaves the colour of rust
the fairytale instructions
on the way to the Castle
so that some have turned to magic in no refined mood
self-spelled in the spume of the proud clouds drifting over:
itinerant traces of a yearning music
far from the range of their hearing it, now.
oh think but not too long on those
who labored hammering
into such a soundless arc
the jeweled manifest of His singing
mary angela douglas 13-22 january 2013
the last Christmas train has left the station.
beatitude is drifting with the sun.
all things have gathered flight
for the last poets rising
on a golden wind
now that frost has cut the
moon out of the skies.
and the snow in the heart keeps sifting down
keeps sifting down
all along the kleig-white evenings
where you whispered to yourself
and the First Angel, out of hearing
I am no longer cold.
mary angela douglas 13. 14., 19 january 2013
Thursday, January 10, 2013
the bride in the mirror of his Eye.
discards the sun, the smaller planets;
why would she need them now or
the woolly path from childhood, cherry bright
her mother hemmed in close firm stitches overnight
that wouldn’t ravel out
so she couldn’t catch cold coming home from the Anywhere
in her merry silk slippers, singing…
and radiant with her own radiance, still-
she seeks Forever, stepping out of the Chancery
telling herself, this must be the good I dreamed of:
while something murmurs
who let the Thunder in
through the ash trees
and every bough is quivering
no. it isn’t.
then everyone smiles so much
admiring the gown…and says she’s the
prima lily ringed by bridesmaids, after all
in pale Giselle her afterlife hues
the bride in the mirror of his eye grew
vastly small; then
crowned with something glittery so they knew
it wasn’t her, how could it be
boarding a train that wouldn’t come back
because there is no station
and she’ll awake to a matinee scattering now
of a dream within a dream of all that she believed
she must she must she must the Chorus chimes
dissolve into a perpetual Roaring as if, on cue;
they’ll say though not so openly as before
it’s like the wave purling from the shore my dear my dear
when it hits the rocks;
you’ll get the hang of it,
we’ll help you till you do…
except except the wave turns back she thinks
(while she still can) and is free, that way
occasionally in the tide of things from day to day
to talk to God or the winds in spring
without anyone knowing anything
or having to.
but days have gone or just grown dim
while she’s so quiet, turned within and can’t be found
in the fractioning mirror of his eye of childlike puzzlement.
not quite, distress
that there’s a gaping where the green wind blew
sometime in April
and the kaleidoscope doesn’t work
mary angela douglas 8 january 2013