Sunday, May 29, 2016

The World Of Trees

for them, the skies are dear,
the wind, the unexpected rains;
the ants trailing up the bark ways

and the children making faery
rings of the white or speckled stones;
the far off violet mists

with the sweet birds, flown

and the gold plated, silver plated moons;
and winter's alterations,
autumnal glows;

the far off sigh of starlight,
the myriad jeweled:
the Christmas gleam of snows.

mary angela douglas 29 may 2016

Friday, May 27, 2016

On Receiving a 50 Lb. Carton Of The Great Books

my categories are never in the great books
she laughed what to wear when larkspur blooms
the color of the moon at Christmas

are there enough rosebuds in the small bouquet
and when the trees sway, what do they mean
and how many shades of green are possible

and what should we sing in the moment it turns to Spring
and are all wings iridescent or only a few
and will I know you in the next life

will we all be together under the sun that never blinks
and will we still dream wide awake.
do you think so?

when the Lord takes all our souls
back home

mary angela douglas 28 may 2016

This Is

and this is a message for you
when you are far away
far away and standing still

to hear the slightest anything
a leaf falls to the pavement ringing
the moon sinking out of sight

and the frost cries,
unable to leave the winter ground.
this is the sound of the breaking

of your heart
by iniquitous courts and of
my standing by to hear the stunning

news that those appointed to judge
have been removed
and the advocate and the Father in Heaven

have arrived on scene.
and this is not a dream.
this is.

mary angela douglas 27 may 2016

Thursday, May 26, 2016


blind cried the angels of justice
they are blind
those who trick the mind of

believers to unbelieve
and hold the world up

the pillars of song
they are wrong
and the wronged

will not forget them
until the tides of men
retreat from lies

and truth rises in the gloom
with the uplifted,uplifting;
the jeweled sword sheathed

mary angela douglas 26 may 2016

Tuesday, May 24, 2016

You'll Carry Your Pink Parasol In Heaven

you'll carry your pink parasol in Heaven
I whispered to the child
that used to be you

from far away
because I had to;
thinking of other days

when we would play
as if Eternity were
already ours

in all the prismed hours

and you with your longing
for kingdoms of the purely pink and red;
piano music

in the same key,
giftwrapped, cherry on top, please.

mary angela douglas 24 may 2016

We'll Wear White Like The Bride Dolls

we'll wear white like the bride dolls in that Kingdom
this, the grass stained children dreamed
or they exclaimed

on rainy days or when their
emerald tears subsided
long after Glinda glided from the scenes

of those sad flickering pictures on
the screen
when it looked like Home

could never return.
how it burns the mind, even still,
and piecemeal. hurts you

when you turn suddenly
back from the cool afternoons
after school

where we wandered:
in-between Christmases.

mary angela douglas 24 may 2016

The Rose And The Gold Have Lined His Mind

[to William Butler Yeats]

the rose and the gold had lined his mind
far from the cries of human kind.
the rose and the gold.

and twining through his verses glowed
the hues of Beauty as she goes
of rose, old gold, the living streams

within, without

no bartered dreams.
oh poet of the long agos
while here, our doorsteps fill

with snows
through you we sing and not by rote
the Irish summer linnet's note;

the wild myths' ocean all before
our dreaming hearts
that dreamed before

and will again
if words we keep
like angels watching

your long sleep.

mary angela douglas 24 may 2016

We Move Through Space

we move through space as through
transparencies of angels;
through time, as though

we never had left home.
and in the tower rooms
sometimes, we feel neglected;

yet sometimes feel,
we're truly not alone.
God on the bright winged days

is living still.
and high birdsong among
the sheltering trees.

and all that's made of anguish
sifts like snowfall
beyond the mind's

imaginative seas.
still may we write in gold
our soul's deep journey

or linger long
in childhood's violet wood
or carry in our hearts

the great locked secrets
of all that's true,
and beautiful

and good.
let news of the outside, rumors
cast away

and leave us here
as contemplation's wards.
that God set between us and the dead-

forever vivid, each noetic Word.
until the day
the dream is vindicated;

accusing fact stands cowering
near the door
and flees into the night

that's never ending
while we in hope depart
for green lit shores.

mary angela douglas 24 may 2016

Monday, May 23, 2016

They Are Not The Gateway

when is the last time
you wrote your sister
he sneered through the glass

of the Other Side
but the angel cried,
do not answer.

you have fashioned words into rosebuds,
music into stars, trees into leaves
of emerald for her sake.

make no excuses to the rabble
simply because they know no
other script asleep or awake, than echoing

when is the last time, the time, the time
sneered the mockers gathering
in a winter  clime

she wrote in frost
on a window pane of gold
ah, we are not, not, not

bought or sold.
I said to her in a dream;
to God, near His candle branching stars.

mary angela douglas 23 may 2016

Sunday, May 22, 2016

Then Let The Soul Be Freed

out from the history of all of this
much farther out
and out of time

maybe we can go there,
where the velvet of nights
holds no contradiction

then let the soul be freed
from all iniquities
and let there be

cessation of want
of all the little griefs
the great afflictions

surely there is an accounting under God
for these
that blue skied joys

may return to us
the flowered fields

mary angela douglas 22 may 2016

God Used A Mirage To Help Us

God used a mirage to help us
through desert passages:
the cloud on fire;

the haze on the scrub cactus.
we were amazed.
but beyond amazement

when we reached green lands
and the ragged edge
of our souls, looking back

on the way we came

so suddenly, strangely, to know
from flame tip to flame
how illusory the clouds had been.

how the pillars,
like the requisite angels,
come and go.

mary angela douglas 22 may 2016

Saturday, May 21, 2016

How To Read The Music When You Are Far From Home

wind is the same:
still silver, clear blue.
passing through

and grasses
wet with dew
starlit in your mind.

you close the door.
and colours as they were before-

yearn not for what is gone.
carry on, they say.
and yet, there is another way

beyond the protocols of
disaffecting days

what is called memory
opens the door 
into the room called Beauty:

white curtained,
scent of the gardenia,
the little gardened way:

where you have always-

mary angela douglas 21 may 2016

Friday, May 20, 2016

In The Land Of Infinite Franchise

in the land of infinite franchise, disguise,
I looked into the rights of individuals
rather deeply and

into the wishing wells remaining;
the outlines of a half vanished kingdom
I traced through wind, rain and sleet

surmising, if not dreaming.
ah, may all their scheming
come to naught:

those who bear the burden
of diminishing
the magic of belief;

the beautiful eccentricities.
may what they have hidden
be revealed;

may what they have stolen
be returned.

all they concealed come to light and
the evil spells all broken;delight
in tatters, the gold they have taken

from weeping Imagination, set right,
brought home to us
or where we live now

by order of dismal courts,
and trampled on.

mary angela douglas 20 may 2016

Tuesday, May 17, 2016

Poetry And Its Banishment

to John Keats

I saw Poetry as if it were a golden sea
and many ships were there, I thought
and their loveliness, and I cared about this-

and skiffs of crystal and barges
of the rare umber.
and this was a legacy

and a music that could not go under.
this was at the begining
and in the cool of morning

and the mourning doves
did not mourn then.
that came later

when the sea abated
and the ships grew plain
and the light was no longer

jeweled. with the kingdoms, my kingdoms, shunned.
and oh they did not want;
they did not think it meet

that Poetry could be that sweet
and such a surcease
from pain

and the old names
the heraldic, the fantastic
the murmuring lyrical names

they struck dumb.

mary angela douglas 17 may 2016

There Were Flowers There

I caught the hem of my dream
at the turn of the stairs
and it was all pave light

and diamond blue in flight
all loveliness then.
I remember when she said,

the princess, softly
from the green garden chair
that there were flowers there

in the garden of the day to day
and the children zinnia splashed,
at summer play

and it seemed it would always be that way
and yet, was not.

mary angela douglas 17 may 2016

Monday, May 16, 2016

I Live Like Light Years Do

I live like light years do,
arriving too late on the scene
to be of use as I am

but then somehow a remnant
remains, a beam of an extinct sun,
a radiant one

and something shifts in the columns
that aren't upheld.
and the children sigh how is it possible

and then go back to their play

mary angela douglas 16 may 2016


doors close and then other doors, close on them
and this goes on all day into an evening and they call it
revolving, on some planets

and I just want to leave when doors close
on doors already closing, closed
on the farthest train, farthest out

and the doors chime on the doors closing
this time not on me, not on mine not on
the Sublime

and then
I'll know it will be Heaven
and we will be Thine.

mary angela douglas 16 may 2016

Old Homework Rattled The Windows

old homework started rattling at the windows;
seeping under the door.
old homework.

name the parts of the ear.
the vocabulary of bones.
the dates of the major invasions

the letters you wrote home
from summer camp
lying, everything's fine.

and Time. Time's up.
pass your papers forward.
and rhyme,

what's an iamb anyway
and will it rhyme with lamb
and can you tell me who I am

or does it even matter
as long as homework gets done
and the sum's the same

checked backwards or forwards

msry angela douglas 17 may 2016

mary angela douglas 16 may 2016

I Get Random Telegrams From Old Wars

I get random telegrams from old wars;
so and so has fallen ill at the Front.
old battlelines are redrawn

and treaties sworn off of.
and scars have marred everything so that
there are no accords.

sometimes I know
they are in delerium,
the numberless names

the quaffed flames
stirring, almost coming back to life

as the ghosts of their pleasant
dreams return to me sobbing,
seeking sanctuary, safe. harbour:

all,all- riderless horses with their jeweled bridles.

I shield them from harm,
from devious charms,
those young dreams uninured;

but I know the dreamers of them
are dead, the pure;
flag fallen;sand castled

washed away
some dismal summer day.
whereas, the wounded- stream on...

mary angela douglas 

mary angela douglas 16 may 2016

Sunday, May 15, 2016

Oh God, Wedged In, I Praise

oh God wedged in this slightly dingy place
oh I praise you that I am still alive
and that the cracks in your ceiling-Sky

still let the light in which does not subside
so that here amidst your blues and greens
and even the obscene crimes of this world

we know that souls on fire in their beatitude
may still look down on us,
and long for Earth;

ah, clouded in mists
when viewed from afar
and the Space capsule door ajar

in dreams,
perhaps the astronauts wander home
and are given cherry pie

once more
that doesn't defy gravity.

mary angela douglas

mary angela douglas 15 may 2016

Saturday, May 14, 2016

What Was It You Wanted To Know?

the thing they will tell you
will not be the thing that is
but only what they want

you to think it is.
it will take a long time
and many heartbreaks

before you see this is
how it is when they
begin to tell you

whatever it is they will tell you
they think you will swallow
as though it were something

but you with true insight will feel
there is something fishy here

some eel, some bottom feeder
lurking below the surface of
these lies.the whole

sea of them.

mary angela douglas

mary angela douglas 14 may 2016

Leaving It All Behind

the soul as charioteer;
the soul at its zenith;
the soul as choirmaster of

the years and all the birds
gathering in the diamond boughs
of the why's and the how's

and where is where
when the soul is about 
to disappear

and the neighbors look
only for a spare hat and coat to wear
scrambling for what remains

as much as can be carried out the door
to add to their store

while the soul from higher plains
looks on.
and laughs.

mary angela douglas 

mary angela douglas 14 may 2016


here in the shade of aprils past
I weave the ladder of what is left
of the green and the pale green

wandering through flowered fields
and the star flowered skies overhead.
it is the long dead poets I read

and what they said

the best that lets me understand that I am younger, then,
than the dark green, the cooler shadows
of April, the winds through the window

chiming the wind chimes.
am I out of time, softly I ask the fairy tales
but, they still-golden,


mary angela douglas 14 may 2016

I Am Awake Yet I Am Asleep

trees and the shadows of trees
down the long lanes remembered,
beckoning in dreams

I see and the fingers of moonlight
reconfigured where there is
this quietude, the night music

and the groves of a rustling like silk
when the winds come through,
night winds from the star

that I remember as if they were saying somewhere,
lost angels, finding again the way:
all this will fade and yet will remain;

the leaves, rustling, the forests in shadows

the pools of moonlight
and the night birds singing
and I so glad to be in their music

while I am awake
and yet, asleep

mary angela douglas 14 may 2016

I Sent Messages

"This is my letter to the world..."
Emily Dickinson

I sent messages to the sun;
they melted.
to the seas,

where they dissolved.
to the clouds:
and they became rain.

I sent messages
as if they were rainbows,
mist, relief from pain

or roselike, in the gardens
of the earth.
or far from the flags 

being furled.
I sent messages impearled
and radiant with dew

and they were flowers, birds, bells
pealing and pealing
and I carried them

over long deserts
as if they were stars
or kept them in jars

as if they were strawberry preserves;
or on my back,
even when I lacked

everything but them in the world.
and I wonder, where they have gone,
into what whirlwind

that no answer returns

mary angela douglas 14 may 2016

Thursday, May 12, 2016

Unto The Folkloric, The Embroidered Threads of Song

unto the folkloric with its fantasie impromptu
its scarlet and golden thread entwined
on an embroidered vine

and from the vine
the carols sought over long distances traversed
the beginning of earth from

the fond word of God
and this sod
on which we tread

our heads full of dreams
and singing the song to and all things
so that they begin again

entwined with the ruby. the golden thread
heralding the Heart
and the choric

mary angela douglas 12 may 2016

Reading For Comprehension

the idea of the story?
who thinks about the idea of water
when you are drinking it

after being parched?
the idea of light
when the sun comes out

after a week of cloudy skies?
what is the idea of the rose
when you are the rose itself

opening by only the whisper of air,
the warmth of one ray
what is it today

you would have us learn
with your flow chart of ideas
to deconstruct, reconstruct

taking the soul apart
to label its components
as if this were wisdom?

and, as if, we were broken
in not knowing this!

we who are already familiar
from dream times immemorial
with the rocking of the boat

of our sleep

and the silvery
in which we draw enchanted breath
and will never find there

the idea of Death

mary angela douglas 12 may 2016


a temporary brightness clouded our eyes
on the blind way home;
we thought it was you, o Lord,

because it shone.
not always is it your gold that beckons us,
but even so-

reminding us of You,
it glows.

mary angela douglas 12 may 2016

I Understand A Little

I understand a little of the Palm Sundays coming down
o Lord the temporizing sunshine, welcoming parades
the cries of Hosanna that fade fade fade

the very echoes dying away

and then the skies grow dark
and you are left to face alone
what you did not impart

how hard it is to see true friends turn to dust
or what is left of them, stare you blankly in the eyes
then turn aside

as if 
you had never been.

mary angela douglas 12 may 2016

The Glorious Salvage

the messages left by wandering strangers
under rocks the storm turned over
the letters you sent into space

that never returned
the unopened valentines unearned
somewhere there is a post office

for God's neglected children
with brightly foiled on cardstock cards
keys without locks

embossed invitations
to all the weddings

illuminated silk-screened

the tick and the tock of birthdays acknowledged
well into the gloom of descending age
the Christmas letters packed like fruitcake

full of delicious crumbs of this and that
and citron glowing and the green cherries mystifying
sugared pineapple.

Somewhere everything sent is acknowledged
somewhere everything received is complete
somewhere the handwriting is neat

in letters that swoop like sea birds
in graceful curves on floral stationary-
with something jeweled in their beaks;

from all the shipwrecks,
the glorious salvage

mary angela douglas 12 may 2016;rev, 20 june 2017