The Spain Of My Mind, The Wind Of Gold

the scent of the carnation in that country,
ringing of bells.
the indigo bells of elaborate welcome,

and the ochre ones for death.
the breath of the carnation.
only the silver child

turns on a dime.
the terraces of night
have their stars.

the dreaming patios
the fireflies in jars

interior saints,
know who you are and
the chapel candles.

and the weary tours.
oh if I could be, endure to be
the scent of the carnation

on foreign winds
at home again
the cinnamon

not for trade.
the windlass of the sun.

the emblem of the wishes made
fronting the grey seas.
the mantilla of snow and

the recent rose not for me

but the rose of fable, yes
the one unfolding of the poem
pale green on the piano,

my weeping serenata
and petal past petal
the lingering afternoon

the trumpets refused
and then, the country of carnation
resuming, first measure,

to exist within.
beyond the aesthetic of elusive towers
of the carnelian,

the segovian, winds.

mary angela douglas 30 april 2018

The Pink Moon Or The Full Flower Moon

the pink moon or the full flower moon
this was an april name the forecasters said
the full gold

the snow moon
I fell asleep, dreaming the Indian names
in a dream like a full blown rose

names swam to me through the haze
all my own:
the diamond breeze moon, and linen too,

the moon shaped like a bird
the harp moon, ascending
with the stars ringing,

Orion in a choir
watching over, who you are

the jade moon
the one in haiku
the one of precious gems

my sister coveted.
but only out of love
the one of let's pretend

we can walk for hours on the flower snows
and not grow cold
the russet moon, the one of apple bloom

when we were made of gold
the one you wrote music to
in whole notes in the afternoon

the moon of cracked china,
infinitely preserved

the moon of many etudes,
breaking into tears. for years and years.
I found the moon of distance always appears

emerald and stern, the moon of will
you never learn
the sugar moon when we sipped honey

like the hummingbirds
the moon of going away
has come to stay

at least on earth
we wait for the moon
of beautiful returns

articulated
our hearts like lead.
and left unsaid,

the moon like a spoke
the moon of hope
to settle in the trees;

breaking into bud.,
the moon of white violets
and keeping promises

at least the ones you made
when the moon was pale green.
and oh, the azalea moon,

the moon in dreaming shades
when the sun fades slipping into,
through Christmas, the moon of the

unheld breath,
before Beauty, descending
the moon of variegated cloud

the moon of opal
when my Grandmother said,
in velvet words

awaking from death,
tune the piano
I am coming home.

mary angela douglas 29 april 2018

To Ray Bradbury, Six Years Gone

let me braid in forget me not blue
fire balloons the tune of You though

maybe we speak of you too much
those of us who read you extravagantly
in some dream summons to life

with each page poured over, each page turned down still,
the magic foundry still going, tangerine glowing
in the few years since you've been gone.

not wanting to lose the day and fearing the night
we plunge on in beatific reminiscence
when we should just take flight; when

what we should do is just live
as if we were made of the sun
that honeycombed sphere

and the zenith still clear
and write, o write the page of gold o

live! I seem to hear you say
as if it were ever August in brocades
with the grass of eternities before you

the windows far flung while the wind says
never out of breath,
come, Yea come, elusively

berry stained and unrestrained
in the green glad praise of God,
red clover proud and sweet.

raspberry replete
the race before you lies even autumn at the verge
still incomplete

the all out of doors rapture of: we're on our way, pounding
the bittersweet, dawning streets
in fresh, unboxed tennis shoes, we ARE

some remnant of the cloudless day,
neon colours and the bests of
and all the marvels out there.

and everything to love:
don't be old, I hear you say, be
newer day by day.and braver.

let all the dandelion hours accrue
into a vintage so rich the wish for time,
more time,

comes true...

mary angela douglas 28 april 2018

We Had Castles, Castles By The Score

we had castles, castles by the score
and apricot sands, wavy blue water
painted by hand on huge sheets of

glossy paper, we
in honeycombed shadows
played all day

in castles, pink, on a green margent
emeralds in the trees
and the trees rained them

in a glittering breeze
we gathered them in our pinafores
till the last rays

and took them indoors
and that is how we lived
and though you think me poor

how I live richly, now.

mary angela douglas 28 april 2018

TO MY MOTHER BY THE SCREEN DOOR OF HEAVEN, LOOKING OUT

was she in larkspur, that shade of blue
when the wind was blue
the awning of the house

the color of dusk
then we were thinking it
is really autumn, rust, majolica satin

and the gold no longer brushes the
cream of clover on the lawn, can.
glow over the zinnias anymore

in their spiky and sometime fuschia-
universe;
was she in larkspur, was she

larkspur's soul come back to the recital
how could the children answer that
being told not to speak

in their frail armour.who wanted to say
not finding the right way exactly oh no
the zinnias are in peril

but the wind speaks, you thought,
the wind creaks and the pines know it
just like the playground swings or

when we play too early
the Christmas Firestone records.
isn't the wind a child that blows

now soft, now tempestuous
blind with flowers and
telling all the secrets, knowing them by very heart;

or holiday managing all apart
our art of thinking it is so
the wind, as a fairy princess

no matter what the records show;
tossing the gold of ancient kites
we never see.

and though we dream and dream
the fallen stars and the mysteries
all about our feet and silverly;

as though we were royalty
it is of that lady disappeared
my mama, in the strawberry myths we

braid about you, continually
we would all primrose bright
primarily- Sing.

mary angela douglas 27 april 2018

To My Mother On The Porch Of Heaven

was she in larkspur, that shade of blue
when the wind was blue
the awning of the house

the color of dusk
then we were thinking it
is nearly autumn, rust,

and the gold no longer brushes the
cream of clover on the lawn.
was she in larkspur, was she

larkspur's soul come back
how could the children answer that
being told not to speak

but the wind speaks you thought
the wind speaks and the pines know it
isn't the wind a child that blows

now soft, now tempestuous
telling all the secrets, knowing them by heart
the art of thinking it is so

tossing the gold of ancient kites
we never see

and though we dream and dream
the fallen stars and the mysteries
all about our feet and silverly;

as though we were royalty.
it is of that lady disappeared
oh mother in the myths we

braid about you, continually
we would all primrose bright
primarily- Sing.

mary angela douglas 27 april 2018

Slippers

she saw the slippers before
or thought she did
when she was just a little kid

at Eastertime
pink rosebuds mixed with baby's breath
new shoes she thought

Princess shoes
and then the bells tolled
1,2,3,

and the Easter grass was green
greener than in the baskets
can there be shoes of glass

the grade school years passed
she read every version

can there be shoes of glass
she wanted to ask, but who
by then she wanted

an alphabet of glass,
to explain it all,
clear crystal and

dewlike she wanted to

live in the letters etched
on crystal tablets
by the soon to be surpassing children

with a stylus of gold
and when she cried at night
and there were no stars

she told herself that story
over and over

mary angela douglas 25 april 2018

Why Should I Be

my lovely stars she said outside my small window gleaming
this was in former days when the earth still rang with feeling
then in our rose cheeked decembers revealing

our crystal handbells 
each note distinct so that
we thought in bells

and painted the pinecones gold
in the afternoons and free from school.
I remember the coffee can candles made

the molds full of red and green blue flecks
simulating stars in the pale or creamy wax
the candles burning later in our dear rooms

brought back from the church fairs
the stairs to the attic coming down
like a ladder from which descended

angels perhaps, my Grandfather in his old hat
and jacket bringing like a wiseman
boxes concealing ornaments that we called only jewels.

and I will write of this though you will think it strange
I call this a poem

don't be so dreary.
I know what it is, its Christmas tinsel and wishes tied on tight
so the winds won't take them

and I am not ashamed of dreams.
"recollected in tranquility"
oh singers of the dry sticks rattling

witchlike, overproud,

why should I be.
who sing every carol
till it's worn clear through.

mary angela douglas 25 april 2018

Famous Among The Dolls

we will be famous among dolls
and read our poems to them
midway through tea

their arms outstretched, their eyes so shiny.
fruit flavored punch in tiny cups
and any poem you wish, small

cookies in a dish passed round
and all over doll town
they'll be reciting our verse

telepathically
or under the trees
with pursed and rosebud mouths
and in their best frocks.

mary angela douglas 25 april 2018

In A Disconsolate Year

falling away is easier here
I said to myself in  a disconsolate year
and yet not entirely without joy

imagined yes, this is cloud life,
how it feels
and drifting on the reels

as they spin letting enough light in
to mirror the key light effectively.
each in our own remote viewing soon

recounting to an angel's tune
how it was back then, back there
how it may be again

though worlds will fall away by then
as if they had never been.

mary angela douglas 24 april 2018

The Disinherited

'No worst, there is none. Pitched past pitch

of grief.'

-Gerard Manley Hopkins

I see words like weeping clouds
and Beauty with no name out loud
the soli Deo gloria

bright words in exile.

where is Light I asked my heart
while they sing paeans to the Dark
and scattered colour everywhere

that children live in disrepair
imagination bolted to the floor

how is it they have changed your face
oh Poetry, the sign of Grace
and what was once such obvious disgrace

is lauded now

now where there are no Lauds
but infinite is the applause of circus crowds
for vacuous celebrity

and the trapeze swung in Vain.

Oh Lord of the vanished plains, noblesse
of stars, the wingspan of your flights
is mothlight trapped in jars

how is it without transfiguration

I view the endless night, real glory muted
in a new Dark Age
while all aspire it seems to naught

on every page
while I rage no beauty, truth or love is there
and store belles lettres in the vault

that none unlocks now,
or even knows how.

mary angela douglas 24 april 2018

I Win Nothing (Final Version)

I win nothing
and yet the stars are my personal ceiling
and my feelings very often

gleam, a sudden garden
even after all these years,
I win nothing,

am not notable, subject to sticks and stones
yet I hear notes all the time inwardly
so liquid, falling as

into an endless profusion; this is no illusion.
the small hills dotted with childlike flowers,
the crayon lawns

I could wander on
for hours as no one's pawn;
I win nothing.

I have no power but God's
as He grants it, drop by luscious drop
and shift the kaleidoscope imperceptibly

in my room, each afternoon,
but just enough so that the facets of
rose and olive appear to me and the emerald,

the azure too, as if to compose, innumerably
the beauty of the world, the undiscovered zones,
just out of view

I quietly acede.to being, becoming nothing,
no volunteer in the world's jangling, never satisfied sphere
compiling year to year innumerable badges.

I watch the beadwork of the rain on simple windows flame
more Sistine, rose windowed than can be believed
though others scoff or leave me off the train unknowingly,

as it pulls out, unknown not even accounted for,
falling off the edge of the ship's manifests.
slipping seamlessly

how can I care about this, though plain vanilla
I exist
they think,why should I resist, defend and over explain

when I am out of the wilderness
and into the milk and honied lanes
so easily, how can I complain off camera,

where I maintain and laugh
that I win nothing.have no name,
virtually

nor wings, nor knowledge how to fly
straight into, leaving the door ajar,
the world's blind radar

where the successful are,

mary angela douglas 20 april 2018

I Win Nothing

I win nothing
and yet the stars are my personal ceiling
and my feelings very often

gleam, a sudden garden.
even after many years
I win nothing,

am not notable, subject to sticks and stones
yet I hear notes all the time inwardly
so liquid, falling as

into an endless profusion; this is no illusion.
the small hills dotted with childlike flowers,
the crayon lawns

I could wander on
for hours as no one's pawn;
I win nothing.

I have no power but God's
as He grants it, drop by luscious drop
and shift the kaleidoscope imperceptibly

in my room, each afternoon,
but just enough so that the facets of
rose and olive appear to me and the emerald,

the azure too, as if to compose
the beauty of the world, the undiscovered zones,
just out of view

I quietly acede.to being, becoming nothing,
no volunteer in the world's fretful sphere
compiling year to year innumerable badges.

I watch the beadwork of the rain on simple windows seem
more Sistine, rose windowed than can be believed
though others scoff or leave me off the train unknowingly, unknown

falling off the edge of the ship's manifests.
what can I care for this, though plain vanilla
they think me why should I resist

when I am out of the wilderness
and into the milk and honied lanes
so easily, how can I complain

while I maintain and laugh
that I win nothing.have no name,
virtually

nor wings to fly straight into
the world's blind radar
where the successful are,

mary angela douglas 20 april 2018

Into A Fine Brocade

for Martin Burke

who can gather pure thought into a fine brocade
that will not fall apart
nor fade

may be commanded in the fairy tale
to stitch the roses back
after the hurricanes.

such a person, could they even exist
I thought to myself
when the winds at my wrist

became the corsage of small carnations
thus, I am in league with Lorca
and his green winds

and cannot stand the business of the world
that tramples on.
dead are the roses of the bygone age

the way that people felt then
in the old novels.
it couldn't have all been

mere pretense.
the princess in tulle
lingering near the clear fountains.

oh weave it back
I said to the weavers

like a friend said once
and then did.
so that the lights in the castle

will flare up again
and we will reinvent
the non bureaucratic scenes

and watch wide mystery
cut a swathe through the stars
as happened in the once upons

when we were all young
in Eden.
not knowing the word for tears.

in the fragrant years,
before the Fall.

mary angela douglas 18 april 2018

There Must Have Been A Reason

there must have been a reason 
the ancient artisans lived alone
carving the jade breeze

becoming the flute the breath of God
passed through
the melancholic wind chime

there the leaves turned lightly in the wind.
the thought of missing friends
and dragonflies were

violet, flitting through long afternoons
and dream poured into the wider tributaries
one lifeime wasn't enough

only to see the snowdrops flourishing
silver among
the pink hills..

mary angela douglas 18 april 2018

Bluegrass Colours Then The Storm Is Past

a disquieting blue when the winds come through
I could see by the white frame house
in the trees that were formerly green

is it the dusk and yet it seemed not to be
that paints them that way
then we look at our hands

becoming blue when they were rose
a few hours ago
somewhere a storm is funneling

and it is blue, clear through
a bluegrass blue
we knew, we knew

and we can hear it come far away
as though we were fairies
in the summer grass

who understand everything
but never said a word
since none believed in us

even if they heard
or paid attention to us

feeling new worlds have come to pass
far away, in the night skies. close at hand
in the new sprinkler grass

listen, listen for the blue.

mary angela douglas 18 april 2018

If We Didn't Have To Go Back

if we didn't have to go back
(to school, to work, to...)
we would stay at home all day

and eat the locally famous peaches
study ballet and audition for
the 12 princesses or more

dancing their shoes to tatters
well, what else matters
perhaps peach cobbler

all things formerly out of reach
we'd teach ourselves, wear
cherry velvet in the evenings

and play board games
and wave our wands
of mystical mysticness

over the winter grass, the plains
where cattle low nervously feeding
before the great snows

descend
descend with the princesses once again
this time in cream, and carrying little bunches

of late violets or

binding ourselves to handpainted Kites
the ones our Grandfather made out of
plain brown wrapping paper

eating life savers in every candy shade
and being the Easter parade.aloft
next door to the stars

with time to savour.

mary angela douglas 18 april 2018

How Not To Live Like The White Rabbit

how not to live like the White Rabbit
with ruby eyes scrutinizing the
most minute of pocket watches

and in a peach waistcoat you'd never guess
from what you learned in school.
so you dreamed otherwise

but never learned
to speak only when spoken to.
is this a curse a voice

offstage intones
you know, like the fairytale curse
oh no. I'm besties with the lillac fairy

who turns up at the christenings at
the very last salvaging instant
and suddenly you look outside the dream door

and the floods recede.
they recede and you go back to your beadwork
amethyst and pearl

forgetting the outside worlds
and their fine dining.
and that they are repining.

mary angela douglas 18 april 2018

Could I Ever Truly Live

in the books I want to read
the earth is carpeted with flowers. always.
my dreams are lined with cool and shaded moss

by living streams we are not troubled.
the clouds float as slowly as you want them to
holding each hue and then letting go

and when the world turns to snow
it's as if we all live in a glass globe
only lightly shaken

and every page is like coming home
and because I thought, I think this way
some called me slow, of little significance

what do I care.
the books I read I could live in
i consider them the maps

reality should follow
and not the other way
turned inside out

could I ever truly live.

mary angela douglas 18 april 2018

Secrets

we were harmonizing under a watercolour sky
I remember it that way, my sister and I
with hours to play;

Disney, at the Matinee
in seats of plush red velour;
we felt like Queens of a Saturday

the cartoon first, the popcorn fragrance
mixed with theatre dust, the anticipatory dreaminess
air conditioned coolness

and Hershey Bars, and all the stars
from our backyard
astronomy lessons at the museum

basebell surprises with our Grandfather
the organ music not like at church, kind of carnival
how is it the Arkansas Travelers

played every game with a 7th inning stretch
so there we were small girls in petticoats stretching then
outgrowing our shadows so that their hems needed lengthening

near our Grandfather's redwood tall stretch

later fetching watermelon, Arkansas best
so juicy at the picnic tables by the roadside stand,
the rustling trees, and Heaven stands still

and that after hot dogs thick with relish

and Grandmother said, you won't be wanting supper now
will you.
and we thought no, especially not after we had those

cracker jacks too but we kept that a secret
practicing being circumspect
having just found in identical boxes

before we pulled into the carport
the late dusk settled now,
the same revered plastic decoder rings.

mary angela douglas 18 april 2018

She Only Photographs Clouds

she only photographs clouds.
clouds as if they were foreign destinations
exotic locations

where the film crews rule
clouds as if  they were ancestors
the trace of rose left as a legacy

the tangerine compensating for
everything left unsaid
or angels 

drifting, among the newly coronated dead.
there are legends that say
there were people who came from the clouds

sky legends, she has read them all
from azure corner to corner
and home, among the lilies.

mary angela douglas 16 april 2018

In Memory Of The Birds Of Dream

the birds of dream shone, all night
they were singing on the silver branches
of the trees of dream

that was when I was young
only now I am telling you
this happened; this was real

it wasn't only occasionally they shone
it was outside Time and distance
above human wars

above the stifling of song
above the stifling of song

in forevers.

mary angela douglas 16 april 2018

Throwback (Final Version)

someday driving into the Caledonian,

into the mists of what is left of
an unexpected blue

and the folkways branching like cherries
and my heart as full of song as the pear
branch blossoms in May

unsure of whether it be pear blossom
or the light of uncertain stars
uncertain stars the light of my songs

the light of what does or doesn't belong in this century
and I a vivid ghost looking into dead mirrors
I will not waste away

nor seek as was said by angels
the living among the dead
with the rains I will be, and never lost

among Caledonian hills,
keeping the density of storm clouds
while they live, and full of bright birds

with the unexpected lightning of rainbows
around the Throne

and with the Holy Ghost discerning everything
singing as I can with the surging winds
the petals translucent as they are scattered

and as they sail;

well beyond the status quo the growth of capital;
well you may say, well, toward
the summits of gold.then:

God on high, Christ as he would be remembered
and brushing aside infernal gossip.
the need to know,

removing all its springs
just how the music is wound.
for the white and gold,for the white and gold;

the opaline weddings of the skies.
and Poetry as it would be known, unto God.

mary angela douglas 14 april 2018

Throwback

someday driving into the Caledonian,
into the mists of what is left of
an unexpected blue

and the folkways branching like cherries
and my heart as full of song as the pear
branch blossoms in May 

unsure of whether it be pear blossom
or the light of uncertain stars
uncertain stars the light of my songs

the light of what does or doesn't belong in this century
and I a vivid ghost looking into dead mirrors

no I will not waste away this way.

like the rains I will be, not be lost
among Caledonian hills, 
keeping the density of storm clouds

while they live, and full of bright birds

and with the Holy Ghost discerning everything
singing as I can through the surging winds
well beyond the status quo the growth of capital;

well you may say, well, toward
the summits of gold.
and brushing aside infernal gossip.

the need to know, 
removing all its springs
just how the music is wound.

for the white and gold,for the white and gold;
the weddings of the skies.

mary angela douglas 14 april 2018

Silver Turrets Beneath The Tufted Clouds

silver turrets beneath the tufted clouds
I dreamed another scrapbook dream outloud
this one, whose seams were pearled

I didn't want to leave or to fade out
in the margins of that mist with violets at my wrist
I cried, almost dissolved or dispossessed

that birches were silver too
and all I thought I knew 
before I doubled back before the double doors

leading into/away from the drift of  another language.
never matter whose. or if by the Snow Maid formed
will I be considered worthy I asked the dream shapes

before all deja vu

or I tried to: 
my attendant, colorform angels
as they wavered

once more like consciousness, that bright rubber ball
I am bounced back into the waking room
trying to make sense of the feltboard figures

slipping further down that won't stay put
and fingerpaint imprints,
glints from the silver towers.

mary angela douglas 14 april 2018

Saints Stood Still In A Blizzard Of Lies

saints stood still in a blizzard of lies
their eyes fixed somewhere else
their whole attention riveted

so that the sun melted;

in the blizzard. we dreamed its molten gold.
we sang the funeral verses of the sun
said Mandelstam

certain others.
the dove over the flood waters
continued fluttering.

but the waters rose and rose.

this was written down, memorized
then torn up then he doesn't show up
for the breakfast in transit.

Nadezhda. oh, on Nadezhda
it wasn't that long ago how many decades
that for decades the whole opus was hers

held in the heart and lined with gold.
now we have intermittent translations;
occasional transmissions from a far outpost.

the light grace of summer stars

such his soul was in the beginning
oh Russia have you forgotten him
have you forgotten

those men and women bartered life for verse
mere verse. or lived through seven hells
unrecognizable to themselves.

it wasn't that long ago

they stood frozen, recalcitrant
in a blizzard of lies, saints of words despised
and traced the incomparable

in invisible ink
upon their midnight skies.

mary angela douglas 14 april 2018

When You Review The Coming Day

when you review the coming day the precognition
of the orange and cerise sunset before you
the gold flecks on the tree this side of the house

at noon
significantly the cloud shapes foretelling
rain you'd better take the clothesline laundry in

you think steam rises like somewhat familiar clouds above
unknown factories in the distance
while the birds decorate the wires that stretch

like collapsed blank bars on musical scores
what will it be this day, will roses bloom too suddenly
will you not watch the news all day and find at vespers

the Kingdom came and everyone's dancing
their ironing interrupted, children in wrinkled clothes
as if a war you didn't know about at all had ended

along with the need for rent and groceries
did Christmas come
startling the children in the depth of Spring

or will you buy ice cream on the street
in a sundress from the 1950s.
It's lime green

you don't know yet that business about the moon
you've only gone there in your dreams
only you predict it will shine a fuller coin

bright silver
later, when everyone is home.

mary angela douglas 8 april 2018