Why Is History Almost Always

why is history almost always

taught as the history of everything terrible
that ever happened to some or all of the people

left on the shore
and the earthquake is coming
the years without reprieve

the innocent seized upon
the heart in need.
I long to learn

the history of light
how ferns unfurled
the history of night

the bright emblematic
history of the stars
of fireflies in jars released

the history of peace
if only for one moment;
live, in that moment

the history of summers
in the evening breeze
the shade of trees.

the rock where God abides.

why can't it be
no longer the history of lies but
the history of fortresses that worked.

at least for a while
the honeysuckle and the baby's smile
the truce established.

the prayers till dawn.

the embellished stories
the sum of our hopes
the Christmases when we were home.

no more the barbarians at the door
the time of drought.
I want to find out

how the heart was singing still
despite all evidence to the contrary
in undisclosed kingdoms; how did they feel

the beautiful and real who held the line.
and within the bells still yet to ring
the dream of Spring and other things

why won't they tell us, that.
on all the pink and green maps.

mary angela douglas 31 may 2018

Separated

separated in the wars
we crumbled in the blue green:
mermaids, mermen

amongst the corals, 
the glinting of the magical fish
there were we, set free from submarines

cooling our distress
in the under kingdoms
where the water laves

and dreams suspend.
friend from friend,
will not when it ends!

you'll no longer ask
not even of God

who needs rest too when
sod is torn from sod, and light from light recedes
and home declines from the living stream

we'll live like water lilies do
or

we are upended like trees
in a storm that has no eye
our roots inverted

pray to be clouds;
implore, the sky-

mary angela douglas 31 may 2018

Reprieved

let this poem speak in Light
and rose on rose, garedenia, bright
of the refreshment of gardens

of skies and we will shine like opals
in the secret kingdoms of His grace
and one day, face to face

let it be in blue evening, a time
you've always loved
in the articulated pearl rising of the moon

of doves, the secret doves
and the Ark renewed
that earth may no longer grieve.

and grieve.and grieve.
and we will walk as though we had wings
though we are old

and shine in the secret kingdoms, gold, scarlet,
the purple of what we please-
and be reprieved.

mary angela douglas 30 may 2018

Homage To The Disappearing

this is my homage to the disappearing-
copper shone, pennies! between the cracks
in old houses,the ones at the back

of old parks of the ancien regime where the carriages roll up
to the screen door so the princess won't drown her silk slippers
or where you go to draw up to the fire in a chintz chair

and can't find the host
in well constructed novels
just the parlour maid (who's nice enough to you)

after coming in from torrential rains 
as your best ghost
in your best bonnet;

pity, the dripping roses on it.
this is for when you are tired of explaining 
in fruitcake interviews heavy as lead

well,what would you do in five years...
said the head of HR:
put the coffee on to perk?

we can't have tears at work,,,
and that's how you filter out the jerks

and you're in a mood, after cappachino
which no one drinks anymore; (who cares, you do,)
to fancy finding the crystal shoes

all on your own

stashed behind a twinkling rose bush
and not telling anyone.it's YOU WHO'S CINDERELLA
contrary, they will say as you slip away

without walking through
the door not opened for you
but slammed so that the cages rattle

as "not a good fit;so sorry for it"
drifts under the door in the voices
of Heckle and Jeckyll

don't call us;we won't call you...

"obstinate as that girl in the red shoes
who danced herself to bits
in some versions..."

[insert a duet of eyerolls here]

but you're all out of view and in the clear
a bit on the distaff, don't make me laugh,
who knew

and learn to make do in treehouses
washing your ballgowns out in the creek
in another land, in your spangly spangles

no longer on hand

for  last minute duties in the file room
while the phones are buzzing on every line
and you can't there every time

at the opposite end of a very long mine

and the mail is due, says Captain Hook
to go out now before you're cooked
haha. imagine on a Monday

where DID you put that file?
I'm sorry to report we've lost the whole kit and caboddle..
so there goes your last doodle on the messages while you

were out pad

as you float off in the afternoon
with your cardboard box of knicknacks, vending machine snacks
to the train or the bus

and rush to consume your heated up porridge
at least, you think it's yours
and then three bears show up

with an eviction notice
quite grumpy from their idyllic walk
all over their 1 million acre estate and

listless from berry picking, just full of complaints.
AND HONGRY...
  then you wake up in Heaven: no longer temporary.

mary angela douglas 30, 31 may 2018

Lost Letter To Rilke

all things are transforming you, you said
in no cloudy citadel yourself at that time;
a life fraught with roses

the glances of roses and those at overwrought tea parties
who looked at you contemptuously, who is he,
as if you were a saint, freakish or something to move

when coveting the expensive antiques in the room
out of place or touch among such modern courtiers.
I caught your meanings on a latter day breeze

the words for feelings I had felt for a long time
outside on the porch, or in the evenings,in the small garden
by the magnolia tree

thinking, I thought then, of nothing at all..
what can I give or say or sing
to the poet who opened such a door on Infinity

as though we could live there?
we could live there as though in our dreams
you almost said come near to the face of God

to the ghosts of music in forgotten fields
let birdsong enter where you were
before you knew and now,

are you beautifully altered.
differently attuned.

I thought your effigy should decorate a tomb
forever embroidered with the roses you loved;
your reveries on earth's October avenues,

the rustling of leaves.
and now, it is all leaving: all you wrote
in how I lived-

or pure silks of victory should stream from Duino
after you had gone for the wanderers, later on
lost in mountain fog,

countryless and

climbing by your way

fast fading out in old photographs
or Song should be renamed for you alone.

mary angela douglas 29 may 2018

Angels In Their Cloudy Dispositions

the skies are painted over: eggshell blue
why can't the angels make up their minds
or setlle on ecru with a tinge of tangerine?

you've no idea how many layers of variegated,
green leafed
figured wallpaper they have used;how many sistines;

over aeons I mean, or in glorious lipstick shades
or over the last, graced moments of any given day
glazed over with frost (the crystal quandries considered)

bringing out all the hues before they disappear into lost evenings.and silverpoint forever.

I'll take the rose they say, in my diminishing year
and to the Lord but wistfully,
do You carry the same cloud

only, in fuschia? but never,
who's in charge of this dress shop, anyway?
of couse they know, sorting the laces;

preferring the Alencon.

oh, we'll take some in snow, pastels! say the younger ones,
their halos askew. while their older cousins want the
stained glass, broken parts and scattered views

soft focus through a child's keen,
momentary tear;
that way they get to use up

all the crayons, fingerpainting the stars, and
innermost,the orbits of the heart
out christening Christmas.in poinsettia,

silver bows
above our yards.

mary angela douglas 29 may 2018

Sometimes In My Dream There Is A Boat

sometimes in my dream there is a boat

I cannot see;I know it's there by the sound
of the waves slapping against it.my boat.

it is a most patient boat. it's sturdy, unpainted.
something unperturbed about it.
and it's firmly tted to the dock,

a kind of rowboat.
once in a while I see a kind of light
limning the oars; no one in it.

my boat is patient. every minute
it waits for me. unconcernedly
having its own reverie.

I know one day
I will step all silvery there. it will be time then.
the sky of orchids going down.

over the waters, a vagueness,
something I should have said
but no matter now.

someday I will look out and see
a night with one star
and lingering fades;and singing....

my muse torn in two which shore which shore
is mine
almost I will cry and then

like a child I will forget.what I began
why was I crying with the clouds smoothed over.
why was I crying in my dream

why can't I remember
the whole thing.

mary angela douglas 28 may 2018

I Dreamed It Was The Birthday Of The Sun

I dreamed it was the birthday of the sun
we wore saffron but in paler shades and brought,
courteous to the end,

small presents wrapped in scarves of old gold

it's the glittering thread that unravels
causing consternation among the new monied.
I fled the glare of myths and tributes

and wasn't invited again.
well you know anyway
that gold is not always

gold, or fame like cherry filling.
that peachbright we will rise again
in greens and blues, God willing.

mary angela douglas 27 may 2018

Dressing For The Occasion

I dreamed the skies were navy chiffon
silken the clouds, lemon silk
alternatively, putting it simply,

we wore the stars that season, the sheen of
pale green, midwinter's cherry velvet
it was my soul dressed in violets

holding her bouquet
on sequined occasions, not on display
this, when on waking I remembered

I was dressed in rags
clothes too old, laundered to infinity,
even to give back to the Goodwill

though pink and blue plaid taffeta
a darling skirt, sweeping to the grass stained ground.
paired with an ornamental blouse.

what difference does it make
I dreamed in my dream that
once I close my eyes

I wear cream velvet well,
and not from the lost and found;
dressed in the enterprise

of lily gilding imaginations
and gloriously beaded
with little seed pearls,the foremost rubies

I am, whispered each basted cloud,
hand embroidered in the grand style.
poufed out, with many petticoats.

mary angela douglas 25 may 2018

Noel

noel breathed the birds
through the frosted skies
while I wandered through

the Christmas tree stands
living on the scent of pine
next to the thrift store,

its necessary discounts.
I'm still in Christmas land I thought
noel

and still alive I roam
from field to field
beside the interstates of winter.

noel.
to invisible bells and their merriment
within me regardless of every setback
noel.

the King of Love still reigns.
near empty are my pcckets
noel noel

my soul in red and green rockets
rejoices. inheritor of the beautiful am I
despite all exigencies noel noel

I will peal 
like the birds in risky weather.
we all go on forever.

sing, Noel

mary angela douglas 24 may 2018

Half Answering The Phones, Then Hanging Up, Or Drifting Away

am I speaking to an empty room
sometimes, I wonder
though the room is full

is this delusion
do I speak to tombs
and the ghosts all out to lunch

or at the crystal punch bowl
drinking transparent raspberry punch
has all etiquette gone

the dodo's way
my conversation lingers in the air
like fine perfume perhaps

the angels wear or all the flowers in Spring;
so have I learned to speak
in a fragmentary way as if in asides

a mongologue from an out of the way stage
or only to God in prayer
oh broken modern circuit of the unbelievably contrary

the inherently rude
what were you given language for
I wonder

in a supercilious age
you deserts out of range;
only to cause more pain.?

mary angela douglas 22 may 2018

Blue Light Scatters, Apart From The Rose Of Day

blue light scatters, apart from the rose of day
my angels chime, unwilling to go away
outside the bell jar Time where snows drift

faultlesssly.and then we pray, my darling ones remembered.
I pick up the sticks of childhood on the plum stained way
and suck the honey from the honeysuckle; stay,

cries something in the cupboards made for me.
we will dress in lilac remembering those springs
with shoes to match with little straps 

and the lemon drop sun shone on everyone then
when we were carried into Christmas
by those who loved us,

forever happy at the Matinees or
barely awake and dreaming it was Heaven,
the lawn done up in diamonds.

mary angela douglas 20 may 2018

Shadows Are Beautiful (final version)

shadows are beautiful a something, someone said
deep in the recesses of my mind where there were;
shadows, forming the contrast in the pictures

framing a cinematic mood
or in the cool of april chilling the green
summer sought they are

who seem to be merely the absence of glittering
light, a dark violet stain on the brilliance of the
grasslands, the oasis.

How wearing is the light in the glaring of the day
then we need shadows, shade
and thirst for them then.

the homeland of breezes.
they sang to me
not in the game of let’s pretend we are something,someone

better
beautiful shadows whispered to me
you do not need to be seen to be who you are

and I have lived that way
and am not ashamed of it.

mary angela douglas 19 may 2018

Shadows Are Beautiful

shadows are beautiful a something, someone said
deep in the recesses of my mind where there were;
shadows, forming the contrast in the pictures

framing a cinematic mood
or in the cool of april chilling the green
summer sought they are

who seem to be merely the absence of glittering
light, a dark violet stain on the brilliance of the
grasslands, the oasis.

How wearing is the light in the glaring of the day
then we need shadows, shade
and thirst for them then.

not in the game of let's pretend we are something,someone better
beautiful shadows whispered to me
you do not need to be seen to be who you are

and I have lived that way
and am not ashamed of it.

mary angela douglas 19 may 2018

On The Removal Of Certain Statues

the ghosts of former statues drift
through public squares
unmoored we are,they wail

as if they could
twice dead and solid as moonlight.now;
once we gleamed near shade trees

sentinels of grief
to those who raised us
now are we razed

we who never dreamed but were
immemorial,so were we deemed once?
engraved, and left there, weathered, weathered

eating the air of time for lost sons remembered
and home shattered, shuttered, never to be repaired
lost mirrors now

of the,- the ships that reached port
too early. of the untimely frost
of the absurd cause ruined nd ruinous

dragged from our perch
and assailed , war criminals
rocks on trial

though we have shed no blood nor drawn it
where will the ghosts of war go now
we are banished from city and town

the widowed brides long past
of those whose line died out for nothing
we cannot ask, being but that

shadow of stone.
sentinels now of a grief expressed nowhere
because we were on the wrong side of

the question we never understood
for those whose farms burned down
or would have had they not stood in the breach

and we would weep if we could

slow tears of stone
but we have grown wings in a manner of speaking
scrawled over and stained as though we could be shamed

and from our exile dreamed did we? that
gone are the trumpets from our marble hands
the horses from under us so are we punished

who never drew breath
all snowy sunsets down!
but wished we could day after speechless day

unmoving in the college quadrangles
we might have stood in, being the semblance of men
for those who rode death down and drowned

for no resounding glory.the phantom son of their old age...
ghosts of ghosts are we
in perpetuity

now they have come symbolically to say
we must wrong the wronging brother his last image
that canceled equation of the brother against brother

the space at the supper table new defiled
a puzzlement before God.
and ever, the unwreathed tomb.

the marble mistaken child.defaced,
erased now.

mary angela douglas 17 may 2018

There's An Angel For Going Out (final version)

[to my father, in memorium, Robert R. Douglas]
[4 october 1924 - 7 april 2002]
and to The Arkansas Gazette {November 20, 1819-October 18, 1991)

there's an angel for going out
when candle flame wavers
and one for coming in,

in a shifting of scarlet leaves;
dreaming, I was that song
in jeweled octobers, all along

all garnet to the very heart...
the one that puts violet creases
in the wind: then it is Spring

and the weights are lifted
the ones balancing grief with
joy.with

the justice of well made stories.
the broadsheets corrected.
we don't often speak in headlines

of the angels of the end;
of endings in gold leaf
and Sunday coloured comics

I want to think as if
in a blind snowstorm of thinking
through these too humid summers

the Pavillions at Petit Jean
favoring the angel of the cooling winds;

of the angel of returns, returning again
to first beginnings and the angels of light
in linotype scattered and snowy quiet.

like the names of Crosett,Kenset.Paragould..Magnolia,
Arkansas names like gold or diamond mines on hold

we have lost certain angels, with roses bedight
gathering the children on rickety bridges;
under the red clay sun and by favorite creeks or

slipping out of our pockets at noon,  on deadline;
at night the moon like a milky quartz
in city deserts, public squares and in the cypress gloom

of old paintings. there was a refuge I thought

or in a Proustian bar of exquisite music.
Macarthur park 'melting in the dark' and our
commentary then; who leaves cakes out in the rain

hold your horses,green icing??
here is the melody and the land I lived in then
the gardenias in the fluted vase

when we were at home the last summer,
amidst the emblematic mockingbird, the applebloom
the angel of stars and staircases descending

into the Unknown, the banishing one

of disenchantments disabused;the cowboys in old
movies, the cartoons...like Depression era glass
rainbowed, the angel near the throne

who suddenly called you:not by your newspaper name
one crystal bell resounding
among all the others.the railroad tracks, the small

towns made suddenly infinite as you are leaving
and on the waves,unedited,
painted, printed on the silk screen of skies

by cherished pines and the hidden fault lines,

the angel of the mariners
of the soldier-chroniclers of Time.

mary angela douglas 17 may 2018

--30--

There's An Angel For Going Out

[to my father, in memorium, Robert R. Douglas]
[4 october 1924 - 7 april 2002] and to The Arkansas Gazette

there's an angel for going out
when candle flame wavers
and one for coming in,

in a shifting of scarlet leaves;
dreaming, I was that song
in jeweled octobers, all along

all garnet to the very heart...
the one that puts violet creases
in the wind: then it is Spring

and the weights are lifted
the ones balancing grief with
joy.with

the justice of well made stories.
the broadsheets corrected.
we don't often speak in headlines

of the angels of the end;
of endings in gold leaf
and Sunday coloured comics

I want to think as if
in a blind snowstorm of thinking
through these too humid summers

the Pavillions at Petit Jean
favoring the angel of the cooling winds;

of the angel of returns, returning again
to first beginnings and the angels of light
in linotype scattered and snowy quiet.

like the names of Crosett,Kenset.Paragould..Magnolia,
Arkansas names like gold

we have lost certain angels, with roses bedight
gathering the children on rickety bridges;
under the red clay sun and by favorite creeks or

slipping out of our pockets at noon,  on deadline;
at night the moon like a milky quartz
in city deserts, public squares and in the cypress gloom

of old paintings. there was a refuge I thought

or in a Proustian bar of exquisite music.
Macarthur park 'melting in the dark' and our
commentary then; who leaves cakes out in the rain

hold your horses,green icing??
here is the melody and the land I lived in then
the gardenias in the fluted vase

when we were at home the last summer,
amidst the emblematic mockingbird, the applebloom
the angel of stars and staircases descending

into the Unknown, the banishing one

of disenchantments disabused;the cowboys in old
movies, the cartoons...like Depression era glass
rainbowed, the angel near the throne

who suddenly called you:not by your newspaper name
one crystal bell resounding
among all the others.the railroad tracks, the small

towns made suddenly infinite as you are leaving
and on the waves,unedited,
painted, printed on the silk screen of skies

by cherished pines and the hidden fault lines,

the angel of the mariners
of the soldier-chroniclers of Time.

mary angela douglas 17 may 2018

--30--

There's An Angel For Going Out (First Draft)

for Harold Bloom and Jeanne Gould Bloom
whom I know only from a kind distance.

there's an angel for going out
when candle flame wavers
and one for coming in

in a shifting of scarlet leaves
and one that puts violet creases
in the wind: then it is Spring

and the weights are lifted
the ones balancing grief with
joy. we don't often speak

of the angels of the end,
of the seesaw motions of the spheres
of endings in gold leaf.

I want to think as if
before I disappear

in a blind snowstorm of thinking
through these too humid summers, years
favoring the angel of the cooling winds

of tears

the angel of returns, returning again
and the angels of light, the cherishing of
the cherries on the boughs

and snowy quiet.

we have lost certain angels, with roses bedight
gathering the children on rickety bridges

slipping out of our pockets at noon, at night
the knights of pathos littering all the trails
to the Holy Grail

in city deserts and in the cypress gloom

of old paintings. there was our refuge we presumed
or in a Proustian bar of exquisite music tuned
to the inner pianos.

here is the melody and the lands you lived in then

the gardenias in the green glass vase
when you were at home
the angel of stars and staircases descending

into semi mysterious realms, the banishing one

of disenchantments, disabused;
rainbowed, the Angel near the throne
who suddenly called you by an opal name

one crystal bell resounding
among all the others.
and on the waves,

painted on the silk screen of skies

the angel of the mariners
and of the soldiers of Time.

mary angela douglas 17 may 2018;17 july 2018

Aren't You Tired Of Trick Questions On Tests

aren't you tired of trick questions on tests
the lack of daydreaming everywhere
the stares you get even this late in life

whenever you wear anything old.
surely there is a Pole left
where you can go

only taking scientific measurements part time
the rest of the time painting the aurora borealis
on what is left of the skies

so that the children remember colours
and don't cry for the failed interviews
what is failing but falling through

to the other side
where God and the stars are.

mary angela douglas 15 may 2018

Jeweled Were The Butterflies,On The Bough

we keep the flower thoughts to ourselves she thought
not to expose  them to the wind where peach breaks off
in the orchards of the sky

lest we fly, too, all butterfly away too suddenly
beyond the day, the afternoons the evenings of no longer.
she dressed in tulle
she thought it should always be that way,

in sequined slippers on a distant stage
wasn't she the very face of light
fly off fly off we cried all butterfly ships away

we cried on a certain day
when all the petals on the bough
just slipped away

mary angela douglas 12 may 2018

Apple Or Orange

in gradeschool once or once again
while having to prove in the workbook
yes I really can

tell oranges from apples
is this what we go to school for
I remember sraring at the clock

at ten after three

then looking quickly  out the windows
that hand cranked  opened from the inside
all those rows and rows

why  don't they believe me yet
that I know an apple is not an orange
and also, put the other way

an orange is not an apple
and why does the clock hand move so slowly
between 3;10 p.m. to 3:20 p.m.

when I can see the buses lined up already
can picture the older children lined up
with their flutaphones

and right now even at 3:10 we could be
on the road back again to home sweet home
if they would just let us

and, meanwhile,  why don't we talk about
the clock or am I the only one who sees

the clock needs help, it's lost its place
in the line somewhere drifting between 310
and 320

I want to know this they never talk about clocks really
except for the hickory dickory which is a rhyme
I loved as long as the mouse was a singing mouse

from Disney's Cinderella otherwise,poor mouse
always going up and down the clock never
stopping for apples or oranges

why am I so small at my desk so that my feet 
won't touch the floor
is that why I keep getting scored on sorting the

one apple out of the picture with the oranges
from the picture that teacher just mimeographed
at lunchtime so that apple or orange

they're always painted in purple ink
why do they think that I don't think
that I think apples and oranges could

possibly be the same thing
when what I really want to understand is
What is Time?

and why does it always keep slowing down
at the worst moments

mary angela douglas 11 may 2018

Retributions

they didn't die off dammit.
their beautiful ghosts are still there.
sitting in your chairs that used

to be theirs the ones in rose velour.
they want you to stop eating potato chips
and scattering them everywhere.

you will not banish them by thinking
now it's all your stage.
you'd better get used to it

they're out there trimming the rose hedges
as we speak, the ones their ancestors planted
and plotting how you'll wind up on the street

for smirking at your tacky tea parties
boo hoo so sad too bad they're all deceased.
and I'm the sole owner now.

watch out for that pier glass and how
where theyve long been known too  suddenly

to appear each time you comb your hair.
beware. they're out there still.
they always will be, see.

while you're hiding in the tv rumpus room
with all yur degrees.

they'll soon be tearing it out while you're asleep
that pumpkin coloured carpet you're so fond of...
with the olive accents.

mary angela douglas 10 may 2018

Palazzo In Pink

Im going to find a pink marble palazzo
and fill it with ancient ferns my
secret mosses the milky quartz

from Arkansas.
inner gardens courtyards
for the mockingbirds

for Telstar going over my Grandfather
and breakfasts at dawn
with Orange Tang.

and Silly Symphony cartoons.

what taste the new neighbor has
perhaps they'll sniff
the titled in the vicinity

what do I care for the air like wine
cherishing my library of Nancy Drew and
the Great Books

about the looks they gave me on the way to St. Marks.
I will be there
dressed in pink lace

slightly mindful of the snarks and

ready for the day
having things my way
sea creature emerging

from a roseate shell
God and I shall get along there.
very well.

mary angela douglas 10 may 2018