History In Heaven

in Heaven it wasn't written this way:
all classroom textbook beef, jerky dried
the kings were in the footnotes

even when they died mid circumstance and pomp
in tiny print not even the dolls could read,

and they could read...oh such a romp
the artisans were tired
and sat under the shade trees

(of being that organized.)
and purple testaments belonged
to the wildflowers

to certain berries, to daydreamed hours
and Audubon led the choirs.
lest we forget

the farmers almanac inset
with silver moons
and the whens to plant strawberries

illuminated like old manuscripts;
recipe clippings cut and saved
from newspaper columns

for Lady Baltimore Cake
oh everything that quaint
and other sundries from

the fancy catalogues
were all the rage.adored from
page to page by

those called average, civilians
in their Time On Earth.
imagine that Heaven gleamed

for the ragbag sorters
the miffed in lesser quarters

angels in the corners of antique maps
helping their ships set sail
in the small ponds

and under the bridge
with swan carvings
where the children played.

the game called
Former Days
as they were remembered by the

poets exiled
elaborating the jade trees;

how it felt then in Tivoli
when the opal winds blew
the stars clear glass out of the skies

make way make way for Apple Pie
Applique and the ladies painting china
in the retirement homes

and it came their time to die.
all ages folded into one
Dantesque Rose.

mary angela douglas 30 november 2018;rev. 23 january 2019

Nothing Is More Beautiful Than The Sky

it's everything you dreamed of
and what you wanted too
the apex of the center

and taking every cue
it's everything they told you
and more than any knew

but sometimes
you could throw it all away
to begin a different way

having nothing in your hand
no need to understand how to climb
how to make your life sublime

the simplest thing is true
and it dawns when you are through
with proving what you prove

sometimes, to a discerning eye

nothing is more beautiful
than the sky.

mary angela douglas 28 november 2018

Downtown's Coming Along, But The Ghosts Complain

for Luther Snow Lashmit, AIA, architect of Crystal Towers, other towers too, in Winston Salem.
it's evening when the patio fills up with small stars
a serape of purple thrown over the far hills
and you remember where you were

not where you are. facing the mirage of the triple balconies
buildings that crumbled into the ghosts, surprised,
coming back suddenly for the picturesque marquees'

to see an old movie's

lopped off disguise.
no more gingerbread trim,
they signed to each other then

sighed how the bridges washed out all summer.
the land bridges too.
they were looking for you

the only one who didn't
see clear through them, Art Deco reprised
Spanish grille work or the porticos.

who knows.

this is For Luther Snow,I'm sending this
for anyone to telegraph what happened

to an old address.it's weeping in my hand
in words you'll understand, not fifty words or less;
not minimalist

but it says simply this:
how the sun falls out of the West
not one stick upon one stone

of what we once called home.
the mists that we had honed.

mary angela douglas 28 november 2018;rev. 23 january 2019

Losing the Beautiful Language Tear By Tear

do we live, absorbing the language of the beautiful
or hide under stones
fleeing His presence

in monotone content to get by
devoid of colours and all the whys
wherefores stashed

ccnforming to conform; avoid the lash
or at least, the gossips
demuring to be born and

saying no peacock grace

over the rainbows coded in the waterfall of tears
for all the listless years

not to understand
they skewed your music, being proud
where his footsteps bled into Space

am I allowed

given a trace of former majesty now
the little glow children try to replicate
in words or something

I want to say oh if I may 
kicked out from job to job
at times, from place to place

even then
I don't know how, I didn't
to live discarding the beautiful language

or do we go on, filling in the blanks, a blank ourselves cast down
by every miscast word
that calls us out of place

obscuring the seeing him face to Face
we were born with-
because the only thing we've learned

from all the jobs we earned is
a heart beaten down by clouds
and how to be afaid.

mary angela douglas 25 november 2018;rev. 23 january 2019

Cotillion

we will scoop up the moonlight so that our lamps won't go out
and leave every night surreptitious as the seas
twelve princesses at our ease

at our own cotillion.
and we are breathing lilies lightly
rosebuds on our wrists slipped from the tower

in love with mists and our own dower
insignia of the rose we are those
who wore out their embroidered slippers nightly

waltzing in twilight blue dungeons.

we will cross the lake making no mistake
do not follow after;
spy on our sequined laughter

like Amy Lowell's "Opal", darling-diaphonous,
shimmering with one thousand radiances, hidden
shot silk, and brimming with mirage-

and pinned like a corsage or flung carelessly
a glittering shawl
in our illusory wake

all the colours in the lake
the trees will glow concealing
all we know

to wake drowsily farther on
in a faun coloured dawn

we won't grow old or waited on
let us have our few white nights
on the shores of Spring still fair

our stephanotis and our stars
in the dreaming everywhere
far jasmine and the sandalwood

fish not caught, swimming in amethyst,
we won't be missed or understood.
rose and briar in the wood

the branching dancing
of an hour.

sifting through Infinity
in our own vicinity.

mary angela douglas 22 november 2018;rev. 25 january 2019

Maybe One Day We'll All Go Back To Oz

maybe one day we'll all go back to Oz
dreaming the cornfields away...
launched into an emerald day

and loyal to the Cause
of finding what we lost
along life's less than yellow brick way.

somehow a rainbow's door
will open to us, once more
like Eden's did

and all the glory hid
in the dew sprung grasses we'll unlock
to no ticking of a clock

to no heart of tin
having to pretend
no scarecrow jiggering,

falling over the dock.

we'll reign and rule
with all we learned in school
and then forgot

sure that we walk with an old familiar Friend
who made it all begin
where nothing ever ends.

with Home around the bend.
the moon, not breadcrumbs
in our pockets.

mary angela douglas 21 november 2018rev. 25 january 2019

Beautiful Obscurity

soli Deo gloria


beautiful obscurity I have come to know
the hem of the soul from the inside,
rimmed in gold

and in the waking nights have spent such coinage
on God, doling out the graces.
If they accuse, if they accuse you oh my soul

of not working hard enough God knows
what is made in tears. 

through sheer curtains, the ice in the breeze
bee sting and honey in the same blanched hour

building the blocks of abcs
with childish real intensity
though mockery seeps through

taking all from You

we vow to build anew, even overdue
even on our knees,
in beautiful obscurity.

mary angela douglas 19 november 2018;rev. 25 january 2019

Triste

tears start at the edge of the picture
beyond the frame
and then they start again

where there are no witnesses
and everything is rainbow blurry
are you in a hurry you ask of 

any passerby

and try to explain to yourself
in cryptic signs only God could understand
what is this land why isn't it mine

and will it always be defined or can you say
beyond the edge of the picture
in the Radiant weeping away.

mary angela douglas 19 november 2018

I Would Like A Small Castle You Said

I would like a small castle you said
at the beginning of wishes.
with walls pale blue like the sky

that turn to pink bye and bye
and then cream, a tinge of tangerine
a small castle would be fine

the living room a forest green enclosed
a fountain from a living stream
and when, we dreamed

let there be stars.
maybe God heard you from afar
though your wishing voice was small

and bent His opal ear
to your faint call
because your heart was in your dreams

and like a small rose,
flowered 
out of all roses:

the most crimson, winsome  of them all.

mary angela douglas 16 november 2018

Your Least Gesture In The Snow

thirty three thousand names they have given you
but never the one at your christening...
fate, destiny, doom, coincidence

the lifting of the gloom for an unexpected light
and the waters divide
and you had angels on your side

didn't you?

who knows the reasons where you go
and when and how
could you retrace your steps

would it all be different somehow:
your least gesture in the snow
and did the puzzle fit each bit forming

a stained glass view
of the kaleidoscope "you"
did the fairy tale come to pass

or were you shattered like glass
or will you be
the moment you step out the door

into Samarra and the turquoise night
or feather floating upward
astonished, from the ground

should we herald in gold
Icarus, Icarus-
the jade sea's sweeping;

guard the sound.
the rain inside the clouds-
the weeping.

mary angela douglas 15 november 2018;rev. 25 january 2019

Music And Chains

for Victor Borge

I dreamed of an infinite music: in chains.
The chains grew stronger
they made little arrangements
the chains were acclaimed
they went on stage
music was dragged clink clink to a broom closet
and gagged. Chains yanked free.
poor music. we were so sad.
those of us who noticed a difference.
things got so bad.
chains went on to make a name for themselves.
the darling of the world. unfurled.


music hid in God.
in the flights of angels.
in the sod. in potted plants.in vague hotels
in wishing wells
in the songs of birds in far countries
their Emperors never heard of

in the ionosphere.in baby tears
in all you used to hear
when you were glad at the musicales


in poorly lighted halls...
and in the trees in flower
in the art song streams diverted
or in dreams converted,
scattered like jewels after a break in..

and pensive, in the twilight hour,
finishing up old symphonies.
variations, turning on a dime or on a midnight chime
for tea and sympathy
just waiting it out, in 3/4 time.
with the orchestra timpani.

mary angela douglas 14 november 2018;rev. 25 january 2019

Christmas At The End Of It

we could have borne anything
had we known Christmas would be at the end of it
and so we thought of things that way

from a really young age.

an orange like the sun rolling down the hill from us
until the whole earth caught fire
we're still at play; why waste the day

the candy canes absconded in the waiting after school
the lump in the throat not knowing which rule you
broke today

since there's no telling though everyone's telling on you.
the swelling in the head that comes

from waiting in the rain between buses.
and you, such a small doll, too.
with your collar of lace.

a mysterious grace between punishments
when the sun comes out
they blame you for being faded.

thus we trudged on.
in our cotton stuffed ways
our red headed yarn in disarray

bearing fixed smiles
and a mysterious radiance
in our appliqued aprons.

so that you always say
it's the vintage music box
always just slightly off

that's struck, replaying
in a mournful way and yet,
remaining music

faithful to its one tune

the crepe paper bells
never making a sound
rang for us still

they always will

showing that Christmas would be soon
even when you are the last one in class
beckoned to the Christmas party by the sour puss teacher

shunned in front of everyone as
the last one to finish your math

when snow comes down
we don't care
there's music everywhere

I, loving music dont despair
cannot explain away even in latter days

how we foraged on
always with a song
sponging it all in, in water colours

for the classroom murals
even with disapproval
happy anyway at the least, least chance

and in the roundelay rounds
to illustrate the Beautiful
being burned down it felt like that

never tipping our hat

without turning the page or
acknowledging rage we were always

still phoenix arising
in Christmas surprising.

mary angela douglas 13 november 2018; 27 january 2019

Reveille Or Something Like

(for the dead of World War I...in eternal life)

is he the one standing there trying to recall
was it Camelot or Avalon he loved when he was small;
Atlantis?

have words grown underground, no longer to be found
the blocks he played with as a boy
each letter like a castle he could capture toy by toy

what was warfare then

the game of let's pretend a fortress in a garden close
the Christmas leaden soldiers out for a stroll
by the piano with the piano rolls

out for a lark. if not a song.
is he the one waiting there so long
for the gas lights to come on

like pale green swamp gas, just a spark
it flickers and it's gone into the Dark
the slogging through the mud

the gaping wounded and the life to come
suddenly made real, from all our zeal
jagged as pure lightning

on a filmstruck reel
we're off lads we're off the planet now
and vivid as you please

and sorry for the way we took our leave, somehow,
Time out of mind...the sweethearts kind;
from grief, they're blind and cannot feel us near

and do not see us in the starry spheres,
the ghosts we left behind.

mary angela douglas 11 november 2018

Veering Off From Homework, Studying For The Test On Monday

the phoenix scratching in the dust may be deciphered yet
veering off from homework to stories of E. Nesbit or

from facts and figures we forget so merrily rowed
when we write in Tyrian purple on the Phoenician clouds
and the gold mines are reopened,Solomon knows

we write in boik reports

the miners vindicated for their fools gold dreams
coming back on the scene and Sutter's Mill.
the movie version of events. we love to watch

while eating all the thin mints Girl Scout bought
because we couldn't sell them all ourselves.

there you shall paint in noveau green acrylics
the blessed world again
the banished once upons.

I with my long lost crayon

you in your lost tiara harried on
no more; no more from the stage door. may we
maytime restore the playhouse to the semblance

of what it never was before...Resphigi,
the ancient pines remembered
and the ones outside in our yard

soft, in their summer appellations
our fondest constellations
Segovia, strumming the red rose days

on our record player while we affect
Spain and the flamenco, Holy Days. 
holy is that music, all we had to say:

say, Simon Say we're all for Fizzies
in black cherry

Time, the landable Moon is on its way
at our profitless Stand
sipped slowly

mary angela douglas 10 november 2018;rev. 27 january 2019

Stone Upon Stone And Then, The Rose Windows

edicts of kings or councils of clerics
no wonder I looked out the classroom window
and thought of Hans Andersen instead

lining up his tin soldiers for marginal wars
and illusory dead.
stone upon stone and then, the rose windows

and coming home where it is always Christmas
the fir tree highly decorative and not cast out.

or I am looking on a world of glass not doubt
after the ice storms and everything is shining
and the Snow Queen will not last

the puzzle will be solved, the puzzle being Love,
Divine love...the Dove high flown from the Ark the
deep bells rung out from the Dark the necklaces of stars all

candlelit in every colour...fantastical, the babies coo
and clap! in the morning dew, shutters flung open

the posies in the window box will dance
once again the dreamy narrator will soothe:

the hard things were past.

it was summer, it was glorious summer
for all of them, at last.

mary angela douglas 10 november 2018

Art Song 1

because you sang of the moon impearled
as if you held all pearls in your hands
they banished you from the Music Room

and exiled you to a foreign land
where strange birds caw from the chinaberry trees.
but all your songs come back to me

come back to me on a variable wind
and I transcribe from the tone deaf world
scorned beauty's skirls.

and witness the shining retinue
the gold leafed trees
in a variable wind.

mary angela douglas 9 november 2018

Still. On The Map Of The World

still on the map of the world

or floating off the side

of sidereal enchantments 

blooming on the tides

o my ship of comfits, of the gold wrapped doubloons

of the Christmas counting backwards

and the ancient runes.

o fir tree of the magnitudes

I am holding out

for the fireworks in the evenings

of the banished  doubts

and the red gold shouts

of the angels in marine

and the green blue fishing out

architectures of our dreams

and the hull made out of rubies

and the mast of opaled light

and the journey undertaken

and the Magi's flight

is returning and returning

in a single teardrop life

that refracts the weeping rainbows

and the ships gone down at night.

mary angela douglas 8 november 2018;rev. 30 january 2019

The Poem Is At The End Of A Road

the poem is at the end of a road
a road snowed over or do you even know;
you carry the moon by its ivory handles

(the world has come apart this way)
sad ship in a bottle; how did it get this way,
no longer sailing on water.

the poem is sailing somewhere else than here.
you hear it calling from another chamber and
as though you were pinned in a caved in sound

crystal shattered all around (the stars,
you hardly whispered);
a blistering wind, the voice of friends

you saw;you felt, you thought you heard
there, in the forest
of dimming words.

you thought you thought
a herd of angels is crying.

mary angela douglas 6 november 2018