To the Russian poets and all poets;the shimmering, undefeated "cloud of witnesses" who conveyed at great cost in their own way: the connecting idea between Heaven and earth. And most of all, to the poet from the former Soviet Union who, dying, in prison, wrote his final poem in his own blood on the wall: the single word, "Hope". Whole-hearted To the Triune God in memory of Mary Adalyn Douglas.
Copyright 2006-2016, U.S. and International Copyright all rights reserved by Mary Angela Douglas
Sunday, November 30, 2014
artificial Christmas shines (but real, to us)
in flocked bright pink or blue
while we hang holly wreaths on every star
or dream we do.
to breathe in the crystal air one second to midnight snows
I would go anytime now to stand before that house.
but then, I was already home.
it doesn't look real to us, they sigh,
the latecomers to our Feast.
I have a different point of view
with oranges piled up on the counter just out of the freezer
awaiting their porous peppermint sticks
so we can sip the orange freeze quite through.
it snowed so much we built an igloo and
that was in Central Arkansas
where even the drugstores seem like fairyland to us
and quite replete in the wrapping paper aisle alone!
we would have worn Christmas bows to school if they had let us;
carried lunch sacks of cordial cherries; dressed up in cherry velvet!
and it's the countdown to the Holy Child
even for the astronauts in training
drinking Tang. we do that too
and toast our kinship to John Glenn because- we eat the same Breakfast.
break off an icicle or two whispered shy springs
to come to the violet winds...
woof woof said the Christmas dog when they fell down-
plunging into that gift wrap, Snow
God lit his holy tapers one by one in our backyard skies
so silverly the Christmas bell was rung.
and every carol sung by the angelic choirs:
(that's us. my sister and I)
head angels in the Christmas Play with golden cardboard wings