I have been partial to the speed of clouds
suspended animation of the leaves
the winter vagaries
and I like a clouded marble.
the elegance of the departing waves.
resolved into the spell of ice
syllables saved for the special occasions
like the good china used for company
the pink linen cloth laid on the cherry table
variant equations someone else can understand
it's not my job.
starshine is enough and truly, God yet
sometimes in late aftenoons
the feeling of not being here at all
and the soul resounding, yes
that has always been the rule
going out or coming in after childhood
was sent off into exile they said I never did
like the mopsy rabbits the flopsy ones
or so's, to bed without the blackberry supper
disappeared not mattering as much
from year to year
and asking, what is here
my soul feels everywhere and nowhere
at the same time
in need in want only of the starry ladders
swinging down this is not my home
my lovelies gone
except when caught in music
and in the divinity of words flowing
from a spigot of gold in the
quiet beyond midnight
I who have know clouds dream
that the angels awake
to guard lost armies
who were never told
the war is gone.
and everything else, with it.
mary angela douglas 1 may 2018
suspended animation of the leaves
the winter vagaries
and I like a clouded marble.
the elegance of the departing waves.
resolved into the spell of ice
syllables saved for the special occasions
like the good china used for company
the pink linen cloth laid on the cherry table
variant equations someone else can understand
it's not my job.
starshine is enough and truly, God yet
sometimes in late aftenoons
the feeling of not being here at all
and the soul resounding, yes
that has always been the rule
going out or coming in after childhood
was sent off into exile they said I never did
like the mopsy rabbits the flopsy ones
or so's, to bed without the blackberry supper
disappeared not mattering as much
from year to year
and asking, what is here
my soul feels everywhere and nowhere
at the same time
in need in want only of the starry ladders
swinging down this is not my home
my lovelies gone
except when caught in music
and in the divinity of words flowing
from a spigot of gold in the
quiet beyond midnight
I who have know clouds dream
that the angels awake
to guard lost armies
who were never told
the war is gone.
and everything else, with it.
mary angela douglas 1 may 2018