To God My God On New Poetry

new poetry, I cried!
new poetry burns my hands at the edges
and collides

with the rainbow tops inside my head
spinning and spinning. out of kilter.
I dislike new poetry

and sit in the shade by the curling ferns of
the lovely beyond their years that bring me to tears
and Beauty, still- 

discounted Romantics, as if

their summers were indeed, my own.

I want something: forever, scripted in gold;
I will never learn the new ways.
for new keeps changing its apparel

preening in bitter daylight

second by second, altering my soul
and my soul my soul is unalterable.
and to those who lie and fly from

post to post just so always in the know
forget me and my song,

my confessional,I've done no wrong
in thinking this-

like Spring in the milky way,
a long way off
but radiant, nonetheless.

mary angela douglas 4 august 2015