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
Wednesday, March 04, 2015
they could be lilac with a pale green sash
with full skirts that swish , small capped sleeves
or pale pink, sugared with rosebuds embroidered
on the bodice, ribbon of satin, whisper of lace;
Easter easter blue, polished cotton oh brand new
and petticoats of eyelet snow
and slippers of strange pearl and you want to whirl
and whirl, you can't help yourself.
so thought a little girl at a Saturday window
in deep reverie.
these are the dresses I'll where everywhere
when I'm grown. and who and what and how who knows but I won't forget sheer
dresses of lawn, too, and branching taffetas of
cherry; the frothy gown of Cinderella
threaded in gold and with the moon the moon caught shimmering through vast panels of cristal
or ballet tulle, pastels, depending on your mood
coasting over the difficult
or the arco irised she said in small Spanish
coinage of the vivid.
with jewels that do not match
because they don't have to!
she laughed only a slight ruffle
a dress like a valentine or old posies
in an album.
she dreamed beyond
the boxy little jackets
when what you need is christmas velveteen
with tiny rhinestone buttons
not all this
dressed for success.
the job fairs giving the illusion
of carnival, merriment and all the rest:
still all all you want
is a beautiful dress. cathedral bright of lilies, of lilies pale happiness.