Canticle Of The Anonymous Poets

[to the unknown lyricist of the "Carol of the Bells"
and so many other carol makers]

we are the circus behind our eyes:

the pink or peach ballet of blind words
on the tightrope of who could care less.

candlelight in the sun,

who needs us? pale of commission or

knows if we have ever snowed on earth;cartwheeled

in a universe beyond  or if we played our part
at the matinee one Sunday-

going on, at the last minute.
oh see what we've become, 

a pirouette laid aside with old programmes;
faintly scented,rose-pressed in a book
of an obscure library

or starlit, rare in an antique trunk:
the ball gown she meant to wear o, where?

backstage at the operas of the vacant lots?

in a fine hand's fading ink on cream, the self-addressed

invitations to the parties,

were you viewed askance

on the bus to work, in the fields or
only kept at home. unknown. unknown.
struck down.
struck from the records.

bit by bit we'll learn to walk
again and again;

we'll take our turn on earth and learn to be much less

than we imagined: pierrots with confetti shadows;

second-hand columbines...

be happy when the wicks of your words fall

short of flame that you danced

on without a name
for the One who gave you life.

when all sad things are tallied up
 by His slightest

angels, doves.be read by God;half-

remembered at Christmas, sung by someone!
even children's choirs anonymously
 on the grandmother's glass records

as in the cherry sprigged folk tunes on

crystal hand bells rung

but for the Christ child, newly sprung!

mary angela douglas 14 october 2014'rev. 31 january 2015