there are landscapes in the countries of the soul
drear hinges in the long ago you come upon
thinking you have made the wrong
turn in the fairy tale, have strayed have strayed have strayed
or fallen sideways down a puzzle piece staircase
your shadow shortening before
the stern gaze of fixed angels and
facing the sundial on your own.
your shoelaces untied.
and you make your way in a jagged countryside with night
coming on, cinder block houses the sheer lack of consolation
the very constellations not the same
who is reigning here, my soul...
and the wind is singeing where the sunset meets the treeline
yet sunset doesn't come.
in the distance who is beating a strange drum
is quelling the heartbeat of the Sun
and the leaves fleeing an undelineated disaster.
you would walk faster but to where.
I found such an afternoon though I don't know how
I slipped through
and wandered there awhile dumbfounded keyless
mapless all of that compass pinpointing of a
a dreariness built to last
The weather vanes shirring, the quiring of birds;
prevailing, the out of kilter as if Time itself had sprung a spring
and we couldn't go back to the living streams.
all slept. all could not dream.
but on awaking it occurred to me
there must be other landscapes
as there is ever, always
an alternate side to sided things
bluebell bluebird brightening
profuse with flowers and if we are quiet
and quiet for hours
thinking only of jeweled things
and mind our manners before God
the sap of the stars
the tent poles firmly planted in the verdant
almost without noticing the change
and spreading the honey on our toast
we will find suddenly those slopes
childhood meadows and the blue violet pond
real as real
our once upons.
our open castles with the pennants stirring
in a lilied when
all the gilded Kingdoms again
the tournaments of joy, returning.
mary angela douglas 6 february 2019
drear hinges in the long ago you come upon
thinking you have made the wrong
turn in the fairy tale, have strayed have strayed have strayed
or fallen sideways down a puzzle piece staircase
your shadow shortening before
the stern gaze of fixed angels and
facing the sundial on your own.
your shoelaces untied.
and you make your way in a jagged countryside with night
coming on, cinder block houses the sheer lack of consolation
the very constellations not the same
who is reigning here, my soul...
and the wind is singeing where the sunset meets the treeline
yet sunset doesn't come.
in the distance who is beating a strange drum
is quelling the heartbeat of the Sun
and the leaves fleeing an undelineated disaster.
you would walk faster but to where.
I found such an afternoon though I don't know how
I slipped through
and wandered there awhile dumbfounded keyless
mapless all of that compass pinpointing of a
a dreariness built to last
The weather vanes shirring, the quiring of birds;
prevailing, the out of kilter as if Time itself had sprung a spring
and we couldn't go back to the living streams.
all slept. all could not dream.
but on awaking it occurred to me
there must be other landscapes
as there is ever, always
an alternate side to sided things
bluebell bluebird brightening
profuse with flowers and if we are quiet
and quiet for hours
thinking only of jeweled things
and mind our manners before God
the sap of the stars
the tent poles firmly planted in the verdant
almost without noticing the change
and spreading the honey on our toast
we will find suddenly those slopes
childhood meadows and the blue violet pond
real as real
our once upons.
our open castles with the pennants stirring
in a lilied when
all the gilded Kingdoms again
the tournaments of joy, returning.
mary angela douglas 6 february 2019
