only because we built dream cities by the rivers of dream
were we accounted incompetents, ne'er do wells
forever untrained for success,
obstinate in class genus species
but I, she said I washed my cloth of gold, nevertheless
in the Infinite, where fountains flow from Christ's breast
and gold is gold though the dress is faded
after many washings, the sweet rosebud print...
we were accounted nomads, less than.
retail fodder.
how could we stand
those with no plan. of wayward bent
who studied castles and paid the rent
Always,on the songs of Caledonia
the crenelations.
flip burgers they all said, and
flipping from station to station
on holidays for the nation
you'll get along.
but we had the life of trees
our heads in clouds
barely registered on the GNP
in any Crowd- deemed
less fortunate in Society
with mothball gloves and hats
no requiescat, yet, I smiled at home
and home was God, and we set out
on the fairy tale road
or sent
the orphaned dove of the Ark
from dream sea to dream sea flitting withouten any boat
falling flat off the census in odd years they noted it down
immune, but not to tears and the polarities,
abiding in the Trinity,
having had all our shots
and pot shots taken too or it was
as if we were zoo animals
always on view behind the grille
or in quilted coats visible from the road.
with whatever the leftover cans are on Tuesdays.
generic at the pantries
we have paid our dues
washing our souls by the river of dreams.
not self sufficient sniff the orderlies
the would--be takers in hand.
we are God's merry band.
the ones you dread
since it could be you, instead
as you dread sinking Higher
the Cross that's not for hire
the lilies, the lilies, He said,
beyond all tiring.
mary angela douglas 2 december 2018;rev. 23 january 2019
were we accounted incompetents, ne'er do wells
forever untrained for success,
obstinate in class genus species
but I, she said I washed my cloth of gold, nevertheless
in the Infinite, where fountains flow from Christ's breast
and gold is gold though the dress is faded
after many washings, the sweet rosebud print...
we were accounted nomads, less than.
retail fodder.
how could we stand
those with no plan. of wayward bent
who studied castles and paid the rent
Always,on the songs of Caledonia
the crenelations.
flip burgers they all said, and
flipping from station to station
on holidays for the nation
you'll get along.
but we had the life of trees
our heads in clouds
barely registered on the GNP
in any Crowd- deemed
less fortunate in Society
with mothball gloves and hats
no requiescat, yet, I smiled at home
and home was God, and we set out
on the fairy tale road
or sent
the orphaned dove of the Ark
from dream sea to dream sea flitting withouten any boat
falling flat off the census in odd years they noted it down
immune, but not to tears and the polarities,
abiding in the Trinity,
having had all our shots
and pot shots taken too or it was
as if we were zoo animals
always on view behind the grille
or in quilted coats visible from the road.
with whatever the leftover cans are on Tuesdays.
generic at the pantries
we have paid our dues
washing our souls by the river of dreams.
not self sufficient sniff the orderlies
the would--be takers in hand.
we are God's merry band.
the ones you dread
since it could be you, instead
as you dread sinking Higher
the Cross that's not for hire
the lilies, the lilies, He said,
beyond all tiring.
mary angela douglas 2 december 2018;rev. 23 january 2019
