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
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
