"Fled is that music;do I wake or sleep?"
John Keats
I did see the saints and they were gathered
as the song says and I would be
forever singing that song
by the river Beautiful
in their white robes
snowier than snow
and with gold tinsel
around their waists
the kind we wore as children
in the Christmas pageants,
American primitive
early American primitive, silken
whispered the angel docents in the dream
isn't it lovely
yes I said as it is well with my soul
like a bell intoning: well.
how deep the wells of music are
when sung to the Lord but
primitively as us in our gay gowns
as Grandmother Moses remembered
all red and green and flat paint and
busy is the scene and the fields are ripe
and I sing apple orchards apple orchards
and reach to gather them
as though they were made of gold
those apples
then I wake up to
voices yelling in the hallway
in a concrete fortress, edge of town
and the voices echo as they always will
oh candle burning down, my soul,
the jangling of tears and fears crystallized
in the pit of my stomach like
milk blue mornings before school it's deja vu
the coriander fragrance of the bed bugs
a sense of je ne se quoi, the richer inhabitants
willing us all away
and where are the angel voices fled
I sob.
are they stilled?
mary angela douglas `15 november 2017
WINSTON SALEM, NORTH CAROLINA
John Keats
I did see the saints and they were gathered
as the song says and I would be
forever singing that song
by the river Beautiful
in their white robes
snowier than snow
and with gold tinsel
around their waists
the kind we wore as children
in the Christmas pageants,
American primitive
early American primitive, silken
whispered the angel docents in the dream
isn't it lovely
yes I said as it is well with my soul
like a bell intoning: well.
how deep the wells of music are
when sung to the Lord but
primitively as us in our gay gowns
as Grandmother Moses remembered
all red and green and flat paint and
busy is the scene and the fields are ripe
and I sing apple orchards apple orchards
and reach to gather them
as though they were made of gold
those apples
then I wake up to
voices yelling in the hallway
in a concrete fortress, edge of town
and the voices echo as they always will
oh candle burning down, my soul,
the jangling of tears and fears crystallized
in the pit of my stomach like
milk blue mornings before school it's deja vu
the coriander fragrance of the bed bugs
a sense of je ne se quoi, the richer inhabitants
willing us all away
and where are the angel voices fled
I sob.
are they stilled?
mary angela douglas `15 november 2017
WINSTON SALEM, NORTH CAROLINA
