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