Making The Lost Things Right

to the children lost in the ether

or to sudden fevers

or taken away in  prairie fires

in unexpected blizzards.

to the ghost haunted:

with aching hands on the spinet

and no sheet music

to those who never had

fairy stories read to them;

were never tucked in

under the eiderdown

unless it were everlasting snows.

or who didn't live live long enough

to roll doll carriages in the sunlight

as though they were fine ladies

or to play with pink silk parasols.

or let the chocolate "melt in their hands".

to those who color crayoned only

wars of the everyday

and lived in the Land

of the sudden things thrown

barely missing their target;

recipients of the skewed valentines at School;

the unmistakable eye roll.

unreturned greetings;

who wept for ribbon candy

under a molasses sun

that could not dry, not ever,

the honey of their tears-

to those, for years

skirting the bright red maples

in hand-me-down dresses

two sizes too small

who never saw blue frocks on birthdays

all the way from Paris

with huge bows at the back;

sweet collars of lace.

or cap and ball in summer.

or a lemonade palace,a Christmas tree

glittering in the front room

with expectation of more...

who had no tickets to the World Fairs.

to those left out at school

who fought with the cave shadows

and could not win at marbles, tiddliwinks

who wore out the earth

with the soles of their feet

running from trouble with a sinking feeling.

to those not sung to sleep

may your summons from Heaven one day come true:

glad roses and gladiola be flung before your feet

and all the crystal clear birds sing
 in the larch trees

only only for you through a transparent greenness

of the home with bright curtains floating in the wind-

with honeysuckle in old mysterious jars

and gilded gingerbread forever

mary angela douglas 29 april 2014

The Lacework Of The Day Remains

the lacework of the day remains

the curtains shine

the apples on the table of

the still life that is mine.

the anjou pears unwrapped

in winter sunlight.

I never bought-

steam rising from the coffee cup

with scant cream.

but there is nothing scant

about the things I dream.

mary angela douglas 29 april 2014

Blue Words Were Spoken From A Golden Book

blue words were spoken from a golden book:

aqua blue, colour of summers, or aqua green

(mystic, the colour of repainted bookshelves

in the living room;)

pure gold of the honeycomb dream that

graced our summer table, peach ice cream

and constellations with improbable names,

zinnia bold-

in daylight invisible. you said they were

still there.

star forms. color forms. the jigsaw names

I remember, tar papered, the little room we

played was a playhouse and it's rick-rack curtains,

stored antiques. the bells of bicycles, the afternoons

lush with ice cream trucks.

scholastic paperbacks in the mail

crisp in brown paper, crackling.

more extravagant than school reading.

the infinite swish of sprinklers on the lawns.

the Monopoly days, the afternoon clues

from Nancy Drew. the humid roses, boiled.

the summer camped rains

and orangeade. with hamburgers on the side.

the sound of the back screen door-

worth more to me now

than many kingdoms....

mary angela douglas 29 april 2014

Daydream Of The Sequined School Assembly With Pale Pink Programmes

caught in the sequined rains of every colour

we longed to be brighter than the brightness

of all things

and all at the same time.

and sorting paper roses for the play

of course, in every pastel ever made

you said, maybe your costume should

be made of stars

(real ones) or liquid as waterfalls

and they will call you Princess Many Waters,

your secret Indian Name

or you will wear a dress of tulle in every shade of the rose

that flares out when you dance as if you were blossoming

for the whole Garden

or you can't imagine anything but chiffon

for the Waltz of the Flowers

and crackerjack tiaras from the Lost and Found

mary angela douglas 29 april 2014

To Be Read With Strawberries And Cream

the topiary rose trees shine

on either side of the nursery rhyme

entwined with pale pink ribbons

at the borders of these

countries of strawberry symmetry

where the dress of the Princess

matches a tea rose-petaled sky at sunrise

when it's always high tea

laden with raspberry cakes

and there is no sunset

and the cream is gold jn the dairy

never spoiling

and everyone is always

merry in the dell

even when it isn't Christmas

mary angela douglas 29 april 2014

Almost A White Horse

[inspired by the film. Into the West] 

almost a white horse with a mythic eye

arose from the sea bred carousels,

stranded pearl,

from shipwrecks under-reported,

glimpsed - now-

barely breaking the surface.

almost a white horse is

stamping the mists down,

and I see clearly for awhile

caparisoned in the rose gold

that might have been, brought near.

the old fear stilled if

almost, a wish to be tamed

could have been granted.

then:  tossing, again the

gem bridled reins of the  fairy tale

you quite expected yesterday

almost as if he were free, perhaps,

from the certainty of snows

or soon would be, or someone else

would be-

that blind the heart on the broken journey

that freeze the cross road laden mind

he turned aside, the harrowing reflection

of the sea bred skies over the silk of the waters

for a while-

a cloudless space

between the eternities

mary angeia douglas 29 april 2014;3 may 2015

To The Beautiful Returning On Starry Waters

[to the people of Korea for the loss of their children on a holiday ferry-april the year of Our Lord, 2014]

I know they will be singing.

you will hear the singing before the ship is sighted.

long before. the upright ship holding precious cargo.

enfolding them.

you will wake up in broad moonlight

thinking you heard the ripple of waters disturbed.

it will not be the waters of sleep.

they will be self-assured.

with aureoles around them

golder than the gold of the Florentine masters.

or of their angels.

rubies will no longer flow from the wounds.

the wounds will close.

as the wounded waters once closed over them.

the beautiful on starry waters.returning

no longer the turgid stillness

rippling doom.

you will see the opposite shore

where they were welcomed

even as you wept.

the one made of pure crystal.

you will know it's true.

your tears will dry.

the tears of a thousand aprils away from home.

your tears will dry in the salt air

for the beautiful on starry waters

going home.

mary angela douglas 28 april 2014

Note on the poem: maybe somewhere there is a language with two distinct self-contained,words,needing no modifiers but derived from the same root but with a subtle difference in the vowels that would settle the heart and the matter of grieving for those who have gone before us in death.  And one word would mean, home on earth and the other would mean home in Heaven.  As it is in English though, it is the same word for the same heaven so that those leaving us are still returning Home.

Green Mercies Poured Out In A Waking Dream

[on the canonization of St. John Paul II and St. John XXIII]

green mercies poured out in a waking dream

and this is earth, we cried! and may we

drink the chalice of His skies swirling with

stars and colours.

green mercies poured out in a living stream

and I have gathered violet on violet in this late spring

the dark purpureal and the pale lavender and still

I cannot dream enough. 

and the skies are flecked with doves and the

doves with rainbows and all my prismed sighs

have broken into music.

green mercies flowed into

the sea of all colours the ruffling waves above

the precipice of hope.

and the white bells rang white music, snows

of mercies in a sky of dreams with the imprint of leaves

and ferns in shaded places

where there is no more weariness.

mary angela douglas 27 april 2014

Oh Bear

oh bear.

stuffed with marshmallow fluff

I sometimes wished you were

so I could eat you up

but something in your stalwart

4 stitch quarter crescent smile

made me desist. the snap of your currant eyes

almost lost under all that plush

 we always brushed back-

and so I never did-

oh who is Pooh

what's Pooh to you

did we know him

we certainly do

you certainly did

I hear you say a little

gruffly in my 63 year old sleep;

you always were a truthful bear.

who should have been world renown

with your brahms lullaby wound up

from the back

your starch stiff pineapple florist bow.

furry kind of flower.

we loved you bear

(my sister owned your twin.)

we played "the teddy show"

when we were small

(supposed to be asleep)

but oh! not yet.

remember when bear?

bigger than johnny carson

we heard from the living room tv

complete with our applause.

clap, clap, clap, clap

we both intoned

and then the fun began

oh bear(s).

with your semi-perfect headstands!...

mary angela douglas 26 april 2014

King Midas, Last Spring

it's the primrose, lemon drop, daffodil

sun sang his little daughter

moments before never melting again

it's the saffron saffron sunflower

butter churning wonder I wonder

will my jangling charm bracelet of

the moon and the stars shine more

or buttercup, buttercup light come

streaming while I am dreaming

on a pallet swung by dandelions?

with a yellow crayon I am colouring in

and bearing down so hard on the

castle outlines never smudging anyone

Oh light the candleabras Mama so the

pools of jeweled light will flicker on

in our parlour one by one not half guilding

my little curly dog; her green eyes

creased with fun.

one by one the stars go out in the Heavens

freezing where they are and where she touched them

on her way down

turning a pink gown burnished;

her black-eyed susan, honeysuckle

crown can never wither now sad angels clanged

so we were told that far from the flower fields ourselves-

Oh Papa she called her glad words ringing in the air

piano, bright,

like hammered gold

mary angela douglas 26 april 2014

Red Shoes Retelling

the forbidding angels stand

and snowy aisle to aisle perceived

blocking candlelit the faint

rose of windows

she once loved.

she once loved the quiet woods

beyond but now she dances on

and cannot stop her vivid tarantella

to breathe in the scent of pines

gone shadowy as in a dream

and she is spinning past the moon

in a dress of silver and centrifugal

are her tears and unseen in the dusk

they fall thick as mercury droplets on

her red shoes

made of fine leather that blazed

in the shop window on that summer day...

and now decree from year to year

she'll always be this way

the ghost of her dancing on the turquoise seas

seen by little children as a warning that

truth in an instant disregarded has its cost;

yet God is kind and beauty unrelenting.

thus was the poet-storyteller told

by his transparent imagination

broidered with lilies

and solitary, aisle to aisle, in snowy steadfast

dreaminess transposed from heart to heart

and red as reddest roses shone, as fragrantly,

with a melancholy festiveness that lingers on,

and hidden, folded petal in petal

or under a heavy candy jar lid for our disclosing

sweet after sweet, little children

his love in

his love for art

and where it was deep midsommer...

mary angela douglas 26 april 2014

God Considers The Scarlet Ibis

the scarlet wings filled all of Heaven

or could have in the blueprint

built to scale

and I have loved you best He sighed

and set the plans aside and started

sketching amaryllis and in the margins,

borders of the rose-

there should be rubies in the earth

so they will delve and stars that range

beyond the heart's conception

the Heart...

the heart like a scarlet ibis plunging

planets ringed in

flame as unpredictable as bright.

but will they love me then-

or flight

mary angela douglas 22 april 2014

And Diamond Light Filled the Kingdom (Variation On A Well -orn Theme)

that stepshoe is too tight the sisters wailed

and who wears see-through shoes that's anyone anyway

they sniffed though not in unison

but it was too late for complaining now

when Disney birds flew through the grate to

dress her hair with roses and with key in beak

one bluebird springs the door

and she's downstairs in time from the dream crumb attic floor

that's their rude ceiling

and in a pink sprigged gown with mint green leaves

to hear the intuitive Regent say

but there's one more, isn't there?

how glittery shone the shoe on its real owner

if diamonds could speak, they would be her.

now Light has come we'll all dress bright as day

sang Cinderella

as ashen faced the sour-pussed

passed away

mary angela douglas 22 april 2014

Plucking At My Rainbow Trees/When Luck Runs Out

"song, let them take it"

-William Butler Yeats

scavenger birds took to the air

plucking at my rainbow trees plucking at my rainbow trees

unraveling my iridescence

thinking there was none to see.

one saw through the one crystal pane remaining.

one saw the berries threaded through; ah, Yeats beshrewed!

all on a snitched and golden string and vari-coloured, bulbed
though it wasn't Christmas yet.

you don't really read the fairytales, do you.

I bit my tongue not to say

the whole way through-

but someday you will act the play, unknowing

where the stolen gemstones pale to dust;

the hoard of kidnapped words

you planned on using abusing

will slit their bands

all wild-swan in the morning

leaving you, the bare stage.

mary angela douglas 22 april 2014;rev. 20 january 2015

Madrigal

how can I reach the top notes of the floral-

Jesu, after all you've seen.

this is not that april.

and I have followed

where there is no green

and where the small white stars of flowers

have been shaken.

somewhere my madrigal waits 

and I will know it.

Jesu, under the pink bloom of that sky-

you will not cry.

how long has singing left the world

since you were here;

the voice of silver floats above

but I cannot capture it.

mute as snows.

one day my madrigal may unfold

a Spring that will not leave again,

a home,

till then my madrigal bides

the feted castles' sleep.

and this is not that april.

mary angela douglas 21 april 2014

Little Girl In An Aqua Easter Dress Clutching A Bunch Of Flowers

and God slipped through the unsuspected mind

all honeycomb gold with a streak of wildness

at the core; a secret rose unclosing and yet closed

the poets said

but I stood in my mama's garden holding onto

an iris wind and I knew when it passed the garden

I was in the Spring of Him

mary angela douglas 19 april 2014

And It's The Juniper Tale, Again In The Quilted Weather

and it's the juniper tale

and it's the pearl cloud over the moon

in dark rose weather

and you cannot sleep under your thousand covers

because of all the colours

and the fragrant stew -your best receipt-

made from wildflowers and who

will account for this accoutancy

the willow wisp over the marsh grasses

and it's all evergreen at noon and

icicle music when you turn
on the dark blue pea under the mattresses.

you need a few things to lessen your hunger

so you bite the juniper tale in two

and they won't ask for a sequel or measure

where your footprints wet with sleet went

as if they cared

they wouldn't fool small animals

foraging in the Easter grass or perhaps-

the Easter baskets a little taken

with the violet bow,

pale purple violets under the snow

and your best premonition

more than halfway through

this juniper tale for you

or whoever finds it first
shining chocolate in gold foil

mary angela douglas 19 april 2014

Note on Poem: You may think I mean will o' wisp and that I mispelled it but I didn't.  I just changed key from folktale to a wisp of the willow song in Shakespeare in Othello as this is a hard scrabble poem and yet with a hint of the desperately, even more long-ago lyrical recalled in extreme circumstances.  But if by sound association you would rather it be will o'wisp, feel free to think it is and it will be.

American Folkloric And Pink As The Prairie, Stars

pink prairie stars and near to the sloping blue

how long will you linger

after the wagons roll

how long.

catching the glow of

your mysterious pastels

I do remember

wishing for a house of sod

built out of the sloping blue

out of the sloping blue and God.

the cornflowered air.

and long can I linger

how long inured

to the wheel tracks on my back

the Conestoga furies

the swamp grass gas

in every hue and fretting the faery fires

for my sweet Mary.

downstream from Heaven

the grave of old settlers

barely remembered

near the sloping blue...

mary angela douglas 19 april 2014

Note on the Poem:  I have made a kind of American

settler ghost-poem and coloured it a pink prairie sky-colour

(and a sloping blue of the hills infered).

The Many Coloured Bear At Rest In A Variegated Light

[to Mr. Perry Cordill in praise of his painting, 'Papa Bear']

a popsicle bear shrilled the little girl

blue raspberry! where he slurped it in the grass 

while reveling in the sun smiled her mother

(that must have been after the children dropped them

as they'd run)

or soaked to his bear bones in the tangerine rains that come

half butterscotch half butter rum said the miner

a little shyly

in the coldest creamiest Spring we've ever had

or flat dead-center in the Northern Lights

a rainbow sherbet bear the little girl breathed reverently

coming close to it

still shaggy, for all that resplendence thought

her thoughtful maiden aunt with sensible shoes

and cherries on her hat

a Kodiak bear at large in the paint store in a western town

at the foot of gold mountains

with blueberry yogurt on his muzzle

a sunrise bear it just can't be sunset

or this is how he feels at the height of summer

all rainbow stippled, matted with orange blossom honey

or lumbering through Forever the God of

all rainbows at his heels

driving him farther into total Bear Happiness

into berry crowded thickets.

in a lingering spectrum

fantastical

mary angela douglas 19 april 2014

Corina In Her Red Shoes

corina in her red shoes leaves scuff marks on the stars.

corina in polished red patent in a white summer dress

painted by the painter.

corina in her red shoes, indoors when it snows

sparkles like rubies, doesn't need to know

if there is really music anymore,

a book of fairytales open to the page

she loves the best and more tumbling

from the shelves and in a green dress

with cabbage roses

she is princess for awhile

in cotillions of her smile.

corina tap dancing down the avenue

for several carrots and a few odd apples

strangely patent red at the market

don't you tell.  my golden delicious.

corina in new springy shoes

with the strawberry satin straps

was seen on Sunday, shod in pink velvet, velvet shoon

and floating tune by tune with God

in a magenta wide brimmed hat in a lemon sundress

what do you think of that?

mary angela douglas 18 april 2014

I Don't Think God Wants To Be An Ideology

I don't think God wants to be an ideology;

I could be wrong.

perhaps He wants to be a song

the multi-coloured riptide

underneath it all

the supra-golden hull

floating on the baby bubbled air

the thin ice we're accused of

skating on

(just to be near us in the everywhere)

or fresh baked bread.

a creel of star works, nimble

Engineer of dreams  that, then You may

fall into,,,everything! You made

some lapsed  summer berry crowned afternoon

or start the snows and feel the crystals

flitter round You at the center

cold as ice cream.  colder.

the wise the merry and the tender.

kaleidoscope molding Denizen,

shifting the stained glass as it shatters

so my wounds are fewer than they

might have been without You murmured our soldiers at the end.

oh without You what would anything matter-

the pull of swans that patch the winter skies

when they are broken.

the raindrop splatter, camouflage of tears

and years and years of Spring.

the carriage dazzling us home again

where we grow petaled...dear Diamond
at the center we can't see
without going blind.

 oh, I know what we'll be THEN
said children thinking they made it all up themselves:

(endlessly and endlessly, Perfume)-

the King's own roses

mary angela douglas 18 april 2014;rev. 16 november 2014