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
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
