A Beautiful Narrative Stalls

a beautiful narrative stalls,
is led to a stable of gold...
or it is a sugar loaf

for children at a rustic table
who break off pieces
to dip in blue bowls of

milk.
this reminds them of clouds like silk
contained in a blue sky

and the sugar loaf is bright,
sparkling like snow outside
or it is buttered gold as sunrise

the world without lies
dew beading on the leaves.
or all of these at the same time

in needlepoint.

it is a rose trellised hour.
the children are their Mama's best roses,
the heirlooms; this is how she thinks.

but the teller of tales must choose
which ruse to pursue

though the children want everything for Christmas
they were made for that

to go down every last jeweled road
singing their scraps of song
to swing on the swings in moonlight

too long
so that they grew cold
with no fortune told but the Star 

so far

from Auntie Em in a crystal globe
pleading oh please return
return from a poppy bright sleep;

it should be Spring.
but the trees break out into weeping
instead of flowers...

mary angela douglas 30 april 2019

Little Bug

little bug you were made
to live in a green shade.
setting all things aside

may you safely abide
despite all humankind
in the shadow,

of His mind.

mary angela douglas 28 april 2019

Precaution

the figure is receding in the painting
in a ghost tale by M.R. James.
oh no. here it comes again.

now it's calling your name.

it's getting nearer.
taking up the whole frame.
turn the page,

why don't you
and it's in your range
turning up all the lights

and quenching them, then.
read on if you dare.
as for me

when I'm out traveling anywhere
first thing that I do
is turn the paintings to the wall

to escape that view.

mary angela douglas 28 april 2019

Meditation On Tithing

What is God, a waiter?
10 percent. Thanks for the meal.
what on earth.

here you go, God.
the souffle was admirable.
maybe a little bit more.

Extra change under the placemat.
who am I
to question

that accounting.
it says in the Book, a tenth.

haven't they any imagination-

can't you think
what is appropriate on your own?
ten percent; My God,

to You who gave the whole.
I can't stomach it.

mary angela douglas 28 april 2019

The Green Waning

a gusty day, and I am middeck my crumbling yellow cake
high rise, dispositioned castle
when I see crosscurrents in the wind

wildly tearing the green leaves of April
that Shellyian fly thick and thicker then
that suddenly. grieving the trees

I dream of wanings

of the green waning who can explain like
the bud that does not flower
crowned with crystal

in the winter u-turns.
but this, who can explain
a green autumn

now they fly updrafted downdrafted
green and green again lost birds with no wings
who can forsee

who could
when they first leafed the trees
under an early moon

and the new clover tufted nearby

they would be gone so soon
in the green waning
the predicate of all lament

that covers the earth
in so many ways for whose sake
I weep poetry;

this emerald eclipse at daybreak.

mary angela douglas 28 april 2019

I Will Mourn In Small Bells

I will mourn in small bells
the disappearance of clouds.
this will be music

and till an uncertain ground
but wind through
the orchards of dream

my own especial ribbon.

how will I fit in
the puzzle of the day to day
strumming of chords

some might say.
or might not
mind at all

that I see rainbows through
the burned out apertures.
and halos

around each word.

mary angela douglas 26 april 2019

Sour Puss Press;Give It A Rest Or Minimalism Was Ever A Dead Door Nail

it's impossible, on reflection, ever to say
clearly enough merrilly enough
how glad I am never to have been

featured by Sour Puss Press
which, if I were rich enough to buy it
would immediately be renamed by me

Lemon Tree Press. Then, Lemon Meringue.
There. Doesn't that sound better?
I imagine jawbreakers of the Christmas variety

lemon, lime, tangerine
the kind that last all day
the way a good poem should.

a good poem.
You know. The old neighborhood
with the lilacs over the fence.

don't wince.

It makes you feel good 

when you read it, You need it.
or transported on a Christmas train.
Lord, they hate my Christmas train poetry.

Choo choo, I say
I'm coming through
with tinsel askew

and holly berries.
Make way.
Or get  run over by angels

chortling in bumper cars.
Haha. I don't care who you are.
I don't want to wear a black beret

a pencil skirt you can't even walk in.
and, oh dear, a turtleneck. industrial grey grey grey
I want to smile.

I can't help it. I can't keep it down.
my face is going to spill
like pink lady apples

all over town.

right in two
all creamery butter too
I fully intend to be

because I write with glee. with a quintillion adjectives.
scritch scratch.
you're not crossing out that.

not even for a prize,
your snazziest one with
a lifetime income

in pink bullion.

all heck with it, who cares.
about your market shares.
pushcart. smushcart.

and though it isn't politically wise
I'm so darn happy to be alive
singing the bluebirds out of the trees

making lemonade.
sugary as all get out.
swinging on a porch swing

in a rosy gown
with feet that don't touch the ground.
cloud bound. gold dust or bust

metaphor metaphor metaphor
image image image
frosting frosting frosting

extra icing on the side
multisequined for the bride.

ice cream sprinkles too.
on every poem
I bake for you.

mary angela douglas 26 april 2019

THE LIGHT PRESERVED IN THE INSTALLATION

for Ilya and Emilia Kabakov

there will be light
coming from no direction
not even from the sun

or the midnight one

preserved in the installation
who can say
by what method

snow is falling outside
the temporary windows

by no method at all
a single light bulb
and white rainbows

flooding the scene
you think you remember
though you are not

from that country
but suddenly
the names of all lost things

are calling 
your name
as you stand there

as they did once
in school or sainthood,
taking attendance

the soft light diffusing
what you knew
of yourself

flown into an expansive space
with your half wing fluttering

where have you come from
they ask you in the corridors
as if they knew themselves

the children whispering,

the answer that is floating away.

and are just testing out
on you, the nonenity,
a potential new play.

your insistence on the colour of summers then.

mary angela douglas 24 april 2019

This Jigsaw Piece Of Cloud

this jigsaw piece of cloud
is perhaps getting too much light on it
already it has grown through the

skylight of the Great Museum
of  the Curio Cabinet Kabakov
soon it will rain inside

opals on the underside of leaves
of the monkey puzzle tree in the inner courtyard
where people speed up their strolling

looking for marbled shade
while angels roll up the margins
of the pictures glittering

through the maze

people will take out their umbrellas
printed with Monet
and stray toward the gift shop,

seeking shelter.
but lingering,I'm in between,
a sea cave dream

washed in aquamarine.

mary angela douglas 21 april 2019

Sometting Was Taken From The Sky

something was taken from the sky
was it the color of rose
the faint lemon cloud

the birds dipping silver
through the afternoon

rain

dripping on foreign stones.
suddenly the pavement is gold
then a shadow crosses the room

composed of trees
and my composition is finished
chimes the music, the breeze of hours

but I know better.

mary angela douglas 20 april 2019

How Do You Know

why were there so many gatekeepers
keeping the wrong things out
letting the wrong things in

she would wonder later,
even in Heaven her thoughts
in a cast of blue

the same shade as the only dress
she could find to wear in dreams
as if she were a doll

that came that way
when the box was opened.

and the garden was closed all Spring
or either she was too tall
or too something else

wherever she went
or was carried
by some child who said

sit here, just so
under the cherry tree,
in the snow.

and then was called to supper.
never coming back
so that she was scolded

in the morning
with the dress sopping with dew
this isn't pleasant she

thought in the thought transference
of the angels nearest her
and turned to other things

I know
because I dreamed it too.

mary angela douglas 20 april 2019

My Poem Has Manners

my poem has manners
sometimes it is diffident
it will pour tea

when there isn't any in the house
and the cup is cracked
the one with a favorite flower

but you don't notice
when you drink from it
the whole world seems 

hand painted by God
well, who else would it be
although they pretend

he's not only
an unknown artist
he's unknown period

.

he's not even there
well did you make stars
my poem wants to know

or is merely rhetorical
perhaps you should go
my poem wants to cry

it's like that a lot
you would know
if you lived with it

if you watched it sprout
green leaves.
or wings

if you saw the way
it looks into the distance
as if, into a mirror.

or into the wind

the way it brings roses
into the day
on impulse

and scrapbooks the tears
of small children;
then, their amethyst smiles

mary angela douglas 18 april 2019

Things Have Fallen (In Counterpoint: to Notre Dame In Flames)

things have fallen off a table

and landed where there are pears,

apples

burnished in gold, all rolled away

where we are told odd fables over breakfast

and midas cornered,

the mice pattern fine cloth

allotted the miracle

of a spot of jam

a fallen crumb untouched, not turned to gold.

do I hear singing from the attic,

remotely view

the girl in the pier glass cracked

in the chanson

where the rubies gush through the spires

of the light allotted her

where bluebirds fetched

her snowy gowns?

garlands of myrtle…for a crown

and the three lilies.

Notre Dame.it's not the same.

my poems burst into flame

and the toy ladders cannot reach them

weeping the violet or the rose.

I have composed it in my sleep

the thing to say

when it gets this way

but the throat of the swan

on the spun glass rivieras

is braided with tears.

mary angela douglas 17 april 2019;26 july 2021

Wouldn't You Like?

wouldn't you like
to be God's kite?
I would!

with spots of gold,
a pale green butterfly aloft
in His sure hand

to float above his trees,
his dreams of trees
his dreams of trees themselves,

dreaming.
and it is Spring.
and you pass through pink clouds,

your colleagues.
past iridescent birds
then you remember your golden spots

turn turn on a green wind.
why not?
my friend.

mary angela douglas 16 april 2019

I Weep For The Great Cathedral

The fire at Notre Dame cathedral on April 15, 2019 is a case of unbelievable, unparalleled and unconscionable negligence over a very long period of time. We live in a distracted age;we have terrible preoccupations. But our distraction and our preoccupations have cost us something immeasurably dear.

I believe in prayer and hymns and in Holy God and His Christ with all my heart. But here on earth we must be responsible and ever vigilant custodians of the treasures we have inherited and somehow, Paris and the whole conscious, breathing art world, artisans and builders of specialized fire codes in the case of Notre Dame had what they call these days "an epic fail." No one spoke up for what MUST have been obvious to many. That the Cathedral was fragile. And needed our care. Just as we need still need to care for the small cathedral in our own hearts and minds, that houses our immortal souls.

 I am no one. I am in no position to judge it. But did no one ever consider that this could happen? Did no one plan for what to do? Hearts were so broken in the moment but in the moment, it was too late though valiant efforts were made, heroic efforts. We can build again. We can make it as beautiful as possible. But some things cannot be mended. We grieve for those lost things.

I only hope with everyone else, that we can preserve what is left of world culture in every single country on earth.

My God. Even billions of dollars, all the money in the world cannot bring back to life what was created ages ago. A loss impossible to measure.

Perhaps in Heaven Notre Dame still stands intact. I believe that. That is my hope. Notre Dame will live again. It will shine out again, a beautiful beacon. Perhaps it was meant to be this way so that it would no longer be a beautiful fossil from medieval times but the work of our hands, our modern hands as well, joined in spirit with those who came before, in one communion, in one grief, in one restorative hope. That Beauty in God and, reflected, in ourselves will no longer burn down to ash. That we may truly be His image on earth as it is in Heaven. That we may be worthy of Notre Dame.

That we may know, as those who went before us: all spires point to God.

ADMIXTURE OF KABAKOVS, ILYA AND EMILIA (AND NOTRE DAME)

here is the boat
you want to get in.
to go to the other shore.

the other shore is a toy.
this does not deter you
from drawing up many plans.

the plans take on
their own luminosity
they have their own closet now

and several angels.
the glass of rose windows
reverts to sand

the plans are everything now.

mary angela douglas 16 april 2019

Aftermath Of A Cathedral

waking up at 3 a.m. at first, no thought
it's still dark
then suddenly, the sinking of the heart anew

oh no, it really happened not to you
to the cathedral
weeping embers still

oh blessed mirage, 
kaleidoscopic ark
and smouldering dawn

no war did this.
what must they think of us
in Heaven

who built you stone on stone
that you might remain
the myriad tollling

hours refrain from speech
what words can reach
what hearts can comprehend

the loveliness lost
how mended, how
we kneel in your dust

and find
His radiance still,
within.

mary angela douglas 16 april 2019

Beauty Itself Is Burning Down: To Notre Dame

BEAUTY ITSELF IS BURNING DOWN: TO NOTRE DAME

beauty itself is burning down
a newsman cried
with Notre Dame lit like a torch

against the sunset sky
what can we say
from faraway

will the rose windows melt inside
I wondered, can it be so many saints have died
and now their images too their agonies renewed

for another contract, lease

is the name for Paris, rue,
not rosemary, please forget me
what I knew or thought I knew of

Hugo, I thought randomly

cathedrals burning in a green april
april, the cruelest
does the world skip a beat in an afternoon

of eight centuries
the world within the world

we never see
not being visionary

the cathedral erupting into great roses
in a penultimate Spring
the cathedral a great green candle

consumed for the Lord

as if by example, we should be shorn
of our somnombulance
in the lily of this hour

with the traffic no longer surging, transfixed

in the rose of its crumbling
singing, singing singing
the bell into the tower

the tower withstanding

the bell in the tower
the bell in the tower
beyond all wars and scars

the little mockeries in peace time

and yet, crowds grew
and thronged the singeing avenues
willing the walls to stay

for hours and hours
the spire of Notre Dame
our lady's arrow-sorrow

lit in a golden flame, flickered, floated sideways
what next? The flaking, flinging down of stars. the moon falls into the earth, a mirror no longer

ashes for beauty?

time itself collapsed in a deep black hole

remnants of a single spring twilight
our souls in the rubble still singing.
will not cease, will not leave it this way

on this, no calendar's day.

mary angela douglas 15 april 2019

Late Summer

for my sister Sharon (yet again)

you'll wear your trapeze pink
and dangle from a cloud
or we'll go gleefully

to the five and dime
in search of dangly earrings
once upon a time

and come back with hair ribbons instead.
lilac cologne.
new stationery with fanciful borders.

that was the summer we planned.
and hamburger stands
and blowing out straws

at our Grandfather
sitting at the little table
thinking we were grownups

while he beamed.
and we breathed in pink and green

watermelon after the games.
already we were full up on cracker jacks
but he would have to explain

to Grandmother
why we looked sick
at the mention of supper.

though double dipped ice cream
was not amiss.
I remember this.

how the mown grass fragrance
made me want to never leave.
the drone of airplanes above

the vivid zinnias.
and the sky trails.
how I cherished

getting the mail
full up with school ordered paperbacks.
the summer classics.

the quick fizz of coca cola
in the jelly glasses
poured over ice.

the sifting of days.
the malted ways.
piano pieces in the afternoons.

I miss you all.
and call you over
the backyard fences of Heaven.

mary angela douglas 14 april 2019

We'll Find Ruby Slippers For The Dolls

we'll find ruby slippers for the dolls;
and click, click, click, all of them.
and name them Dorothy one and two

to infinity. their Totos too. their bears.
we'll manage it.
we always do and give them tea in pairs

when relatives ply us with so many dolls
we could found a small kingdom for them.
so many Glindas!

what will we do with that many wishes
to go home...
if we knew

how easily we
would slip through the gate
and not return.

that the rose briar hedges would prove
impenetrable

we would have saved them all;
the wands too.the Christmas changes of outfits.
but how could we know then

the emerald wind
was once.
once only.

and irreversible.

mary angela douglas 14 april 2019

Reflet Dans L'eau

should there be flower competitions
we asked of our garden green days
is this compatible with

the waltzes for flowers
and our new Easter outfits
in lilac and rose?

ecru lace, the edging on clouds.

who knows why. or how
we loved to drift in this way
down flowery paths

with our flower philosophies

the winds blowing petals before us
as if we were princesses,
and only they knew.

that leads only to more flowers,
corsages in the afternons,
a hint of Chopin, Faure...

of the faraway.
if the world were like this...!
only to be, to live

to arrange the hyacinths
in a vase with a green blue glaze
and so, to mark Time

with the flower festivals;
the cherry trees like a vast sky
above you where you walk

with your small songs
the trace of your watercolours
beside you, the ghosts of all pastels

in the reflecting pools.
the blue green fountains
and nothing is amiss.

I dream of this.

mary angela douglas 14 april 2019

The Rains Are Sweeping the Canyons While We're All Inside

beautiful canyons spanned the distance
but we were all at work.
at school.

in the laundry rooms.
watching tv.

what if it had been different
what if we hadnt kept our heads down
when the Perseids showered

their gold for free.
what if freedom was for beauty.

playing the mandolin
under the moon.

what if candy cane deliberations
in the Christmas drug stores
at the last minute, while the snow flew

had meant everything always.
and the Nativity.
set in the window

with its yellow bulbed star
its radiance
and the beauty

spanning the distance
had been
where we lived

instead of just
keeping our heads down.
taking someone else's word for it

taking one test in the row
and passing the rest down soundlessly
when the silver rains swept through;

motionless. registering only

all the second hand things we knew.
or were expected to.

mary angela douglas `12 april 2019