The Ghostly Poets Gather Their Writing Supplies

[to Kate Greenaway]

Lucy Locket lost her pocket,
Kitty Fisher found it;
Not a penny was there in it,
Only ribbon round it.

-Old English Nursery Rhyme

when we run out of paper we will write

on violet scraps of clouds, on autumn leaves,

the red and gold, the earliest cherished,

last to wave good bye when the winds blew through;

on steppingstones in brooks we lept when we were

lily pad new or on the backs of

old eviction notices, torn off by the storm;

in-between the cake walk music, tisket tasket,

drop the handkerchief games we played; in the margins of

the grocery flyers advertising this week's specials:

cubed steak, gold streaked mangoes;

on old report cards, brought up in the fishermen's nets

by boatloads, along with the tuna

and on the foolscap of  barely inhabited libraries

careful of their Gutenberg

illuminations with their gloved hands

and no parties we're invited to;

no worries, they won't hear us

clambering amidst odd land-filled sighs,

your old Tinkertoys; inscribed

are the unused space of medical charts; the manifests:

and the cargoed dark where fairytales were stored

and the raveling of the hem of the favorite dress

of the Princess-in-exile trailing the earth in her worn-down 

shoes, her silk parasol

with the hummingbird sewing notions

of a ruby throated day that has gone

on drifting bells of evensong;

in invisible sea foam crayon on purpling hatboxes

stacked in the
 afternoon's warehoused suns

the skies kept trying on while we just worked.

and in the pockets of the lucy lockets and on the florists'

cards when the yellow roses have faded

have faded have faded away

mary angela douglas 19 august 2014