I Saw The Light Of Everything That Lives

I saw the light of everything that lives

beyond kirlian coronas, the breathing of leaves

the scars on stones relieved

down to the least pebble

waterfall strands with mended rainbows

the wounded petal of the sky

when singing birds flew nigh

the cry of little stars.away from home.

gather it all in, next I heard

stentorian angels sigh

that God is walking by

around the brief, the maplike corners

of the earth where the winds blew

differently than the winds you knew

in april's past

there is the terra incognita from the mast

there is the threshold of dream

the poets who lost their standing

on an earthquake seam.

where are we going

where have you been

everything asked of everything then

and pearl answered pearl

and the merry go spin

and the riddle

I cannot tell you.

mary angela douglas 31 may 2019

He Doesn't Like Magic

he doesn't like magic

unless it comes from him

(he thinks it comes from him)

swans flying in

from someone else's sky

depress him.

he's just the guy

for beribboned surprise, or, enterprise

the sudden folding of the fan

and then, the flourishing

of paper lilies.

the joe of all trades soda jerk.

replete with cherries.

he's THAT merry.or lemon ice,

who could be that nice.

he's the one with the wand that works.

the jumbled cups of many colours.

all the oranges in the air

disappearing everywhere;

the knave of hearts, a little dodgy, with

scarves, chiffon, stretched on and on

from a silver tophat, endless song

or mysterious cures for this and that

a gizmo that says Once Upon

"suspensions of belief":

just press HERE.

and skyrockets launch at his command

and bluebirds stream

on every reel, in every Land.

ooooh, for the taffied children.

the jelly bean raffles,guessed

the well made plans. ah, yes.

there's nothing nothing to conceal

it's all just sleight of hand.

he hopes you'll understand.


mary angela douglas 31, 30 may 2019

Waiting Your Turn At The Open Mic, With Light Refreshments Served

"My soul, be not disturbed
By planetary war;
Remain securely orbed
In this contracted star..."

Elinor Wylie, Address To My Soul

it isn't that there should be rules
only it would be good if you could stop the cymbals, noise in your head (the whole time someone else is reading their one poem)

of your own poetry and how nervous you feel to get up there yourself.don't worry.

all things have an end.
this moment is itself a single star blinking.

be still

know only that you are listening
to soul translation
from the original

like sea music coming out of a seashell
held close to the ear and pearlescent.
or static from an old radio, used up

in wartime's obsolescence
at least in part, you've only got
as far as that poet could get the transmission

to come through, without the text
you have to listen hard to catch it
the quartz instances, the heart slipping

on wet stones
then starting up, tremulous
quaking, fish or mermen,

who can tell
a shift in the music, a broken spell,
the ship is freed

the icebergs brood ineffectually
but we sail on.

what if in a huge field the poet before you
has suddenly come upon a rare flower
and drifting, you miss the name...

medicinal flower, the one that would have
healed...the hidden code revealed.
the phantom word in no dictionary at all.

there is life in the flow of words paid attention to,
if not in homage,
no matter how flawed

it may be the heartfelt flaw is the one beauty resplendent
in the antiseptic reading room
doled out by the library with a disclaimer.

where some are gathered
and certain angels, say, are whispering there:
by the back wall:

old speech teachers,beatific; language itself, pale
growing paler, murmuring to a few:
Speak louder, so they may hear you at the Poles...

you may be the last poets anywhere.
as in the last moments of everyone on earth
sometimes, there is gold in the last utterance

of Light
they will say later, in Heaven, on other planets.
referring to this event.

listen...
what if it is, will be, the next batter up,
the last words that you hear, the numbing toll,

the last cherry glaze on consciousness itself;
rustling of crab apple trees; indistinguishable
from moonlight.

mary angela douglas 29 may 2019

There Is No Wilderness

there is no wilderness
in which he will not write
of running streams
or label the stars in jars
and set them on shelves
for future, for tender, reference
counting the opaline his;
every instant, an amethyst.

you will say, perhaps,
why must he sieve the snows;
does he really need that many starfish?
or to carry the roses from Here to There
in a rundown workshop
all chimney smoke
and no wood...
to an infinite garden?
if he only could.

beware of him the mothers cry
clutching their infants close.
he comes from the tribe of wishes
shining into no mirror at all
and crystal pendants
on foreign chandeliers;
year on year,
gathering prisms like moss;
and into the great concertos
that have not yet arrived
he will dodge as into thickets.

why is he alive
at such a cost, contradiction
of being lost and labyrinthine too
pressing the words down carefully
into the Spring mud
as if they would fly away:
the scudding clouds.

and growing stranger day by day
radiant and painting the sun
in an unequal contest;
developing the film all night
ah he is armor bright,
inured to all affliction
so that tomorrow,
the contract with dawn
may be renewed.

mary angela douglas 26 may 2019

Van Gogh Seen Sideways Or From Great Distances, Abstracted, Influenced By Kabakov

to understand the founding of the sun
the enigma of clouds in their various 
dispositions of rose

there arose one
who had within himself
the reality of sunflowers

who burst upon the page
in saffron
who faded as the day fades.

as the day fades,
I think on my porch
my invisible wrap around porch

of him, while drinking my tea with mint;
not him exactly,
but the way that he saw clouds, 

the cloudiness in his work and in his stars
if, indeed, that may be called his;
maybe, for a little while, on loan

that comes and goes
that flows out windows
through the poplars

and into the green Beyond
into the green beyond
where the railing is
and its description.

mary angela douglas 25 may 2019

Esse quam videri

sometimes truly in a desultory mood
I wonder how is it possible that
so many seem to be seeming to

actually be doing something
so that it all rolls on
when in fact, it is nothing, or

worse than nothing
something to cause more pain
for those out in the rain

and for this nothing they are

praised, paid highly, even promoted
feted even and there is so much paperwork
old file cabinets even overflowing

to be gone through to be filed
on a daily basis
with intemperate notes in the margins

about those who've failed in life
so they say, talking among themselves
at the awards banquets

"but we've made progress."
oh they
as if they solved the great equations, parade,

solve nothing at all
and gaze at a person
as if, at a wall, inscrutably

thinking what's for lunch
I have a hunch;
meanwhile, those affected by the outcomes

suffer even more
because they are judged on top of judged
like a judgement layer cake

by those who don't admit
their own mistakes ever
and perhaps these people

the wall people
haven't even made mistakes
but have just been kicked unmercifully

or are something  to be stepped over
even when not stepped on

or else are not seen or heard
except by those who collect brownie
points for listening;

or more and more data, extrapolating
from those
who are regarded herd

a diseased herd at that,
so let's fix them.

and it is everywhere this way.
how long can this go on

I wonder as if trapped in some Aliceian dream or
as if some people would be relieved today
if an asteroid hit the earth or is on its way

right now

where the deck is not only stacked
it comes to life and flies in your face
and calls you when you're wounded, a disgrace

the face somehow they can't erase,

in the face of everything real, everything you feel
it's just
children trying to tie their shoes

while other children trip them up

or cases
in which there is no appeal
and everyone knows this but you

even when there are tons on the dockets
for those with empty pockets

for there are judges
pretending to judge
to be ruling on something

all the time
that make a miserable person
even more miserable

call out to God

because, truly

He is the only one
on some days who will NOT "start the conversation up"

keep the thread going, as they say

who actually does something instead
for those still alive from a thousand cuts

not giving socks to those on the street for instance
when what they really need, isn't it obvious
is a roof, four walls and a door that shuts.

a little sleeping in, not driven from the fold
where rain and judgement
can't seep in.

beyond the games of "let's pretend.'
we are charitable.

mary angela douglas 24 may 2019

Dispensations

in the eternal moment in your teardrop dispensation

suspended we survive

though we don't how we are still alive

waiting out the storms.

a crystalline peace descends

the wind picks up

loaded with fragrances

though we don't know

where the next dollar is

coming from

or who will come beating an old drum

and take our loved ones away.

the axe seems at the root

in the middle of the day and yet

it could happen this way

that angels will stand guard

at our decrepit doorsteps

freezing the axe stroke,

the bureaucratic stroke of the pen.

we are golden

who cannot turn the Ikon to the wall.

we are in your high tower.

the moment flowers between us oh Lord

and your deliverance is sure.


mary angela douglas 22 may 2019

The Rising (Final Draft)

beginning again on the green leafed path

with the dew on the grasses, our diamonds,

or the overhang of orchid clouds

amazed at our looming shadows on the ground

the alphabet,

all the colours!

and telling time out loud;

telling time by what He said:

“I will make all things new.”

he said this I think, I feel,

in golden letters.

in the tick of the fairy tale clock,

and I play nocturnes again

on my Grandmother’s Steinway piano

observe the irises

take comfort in the demitasse

the way my Grandmother pronounces it,

of hand painted roses, or violets;

on a background of cream. the late strawberries.

the view from the screen door

the sound of near bells

I implore you oh Heavens

for the calendar towel of linen in any year

with the old mill stream;

the songs my mother taught me

in a dream;

the songs without words.

the same cherished pines.

more time to remember

the way that we have come

the rising,

not the setting,

Son.

mary angela douglas 19 may 2019

The Rising

beginning again on the green leafed path
with the dew on the grasses, our diamonds,
or the overhang of orchid clouds

the alphabet,
all the colours!
and telling time out loud;

telling time by what He said:
"I will make all things new."
he said this I think, I feel,

in golden letters.
in the tick of the fairy tale clock,

and I play nocturnes again
on my Grandmother's Steinway piano
observe the irises

take comfort in the demitasse

of hand painted roses, or violets
on a background of cream, the late strawberries.
the view from the screen door.

I implore you oh Heavens

for the calendar towel of linen in any year
with the old mill stream;
the songs my mother taught me

in a dream;
the songs without words.
the same cherished pines.

more time to remember
the way that we have come

the rising,
not the setting,
Son.

mary angela douglas 19 may 2019

On Coming Upon The Phrase "Rosa Mystica"

to my Grandfather, Milton B. Young
and Grandmother, his Lucy

rosa mystica.
in my garden.
why, that was all of them,

all the rose bushes
my Grandfather ever planted
in one corner of our backyard

and how we regarded them,
my sister and I, being young
drinking them in

mystified they were ours
as much as for him.
and he wanted it that way.

and also, bouquets
for Grandmother.
for Mama.

each one our blossom
we wanted to save
and almost wept to see

rose petals.
the roses
weeping their lives away.

so we collected them
the unfortunate rose petals,
wrapped them in plastic wrap

hoping to make
rose perfume
that would stay

and we did feel
with glad hearts
when we stuck them inside

Grandmother's linen closet,
we had rescued them.

later on
they came to mouldering light
what is this?

Grandmother said.
so we took them back out to the garden
and laid them to rest

among their youngest sisters
still in bloom.
and felt a little gloomy

at our failed experiment.
so now I think
perversely, not looking up

the Latin, over catholicized,
bound to be definitions of
the phrase Rosa Mystica

this is what it means to me,

that delicate phrase...
God raised our petals up on that day
each one

a rosa mystica,
while we played
Mother, May I?

so say I.
This May.

mary angela douglas 16 may 2019

Knowing Better Doesn't Solve It

what is more divinely opulent than the red
of a maple leaf as it skitters before you
on the path

or on the pavement
on the way home from school
with that cider tang blue chill

in the air feeling as if
there were too much sparkling in God
and he had to reveal it

whether he felt within him to do so
in that moment or not
and I am the child or I was, I have not forgot,

the one caught in that instant
as I reach down in my plaid dress
to gather it in

to keep that colour alas
was always a something
not meant to come to pass

why then do I still feel
the need to collect each leaf
dancing to the ground,

each Ophelian leaf 
incapable of its own distress
as Shakespeare wrote of his heroine.

Shakespeare wrote in gold
though he wasn't sure of that
a something imperishable

and somehow, it has become imperishable
all that he wrote though he thought
his thought would be melting monuments.

the rich red leaf is even more finely composed
yet vanishes each to each.
why then do I feel

no matter how many autumns old
this compulsion to save it, them,
as if it could be so.

no matter how much I know
to the contrary
of what is possible.

here on earth.

mary angela douglas 16 may 2019

Today My Boat Had Golden Sails

today my boat had golden sails
pop up from the storybook
I read the mail

and paint the cottage
in lollipop swirling colours
and am not afraid

cornbread and honey;
just enough money.

this is the day that He has made
with a little help from me.
in a gown that's pure cherry.

I live under perpetually
a raspberry tinted sky,
the one of legend

with preserves put by.
with clover as far as the eye can see;
a June and glittering wind

that brings it all back to me.

mary angela douglas 15 may 2019

Something

even in a closed system, God can breathe on the pane
out of the ash a sudden ember
though the eye remains

shuttered.
there, on the border of dreams
one may not remember in the morning

something stirs the curtains
in a heralding way.
who can say what it is for sure.

was it the wind
the child awaking early wondered
something else, that gold let in

why pretend if not to know
something glows;it isn't us.
something

in search of what was when:
Eden, and the rusted gates.

mary angela douglas 14 may 2019

The Blind Artist

he thought he invented angels, clouds
the colour green at rest;
the face of God

in a clouded nest;
Orion in a forest pool.
numbered among the holy fools

as if he were the only one
he painted the eclipse...
from great museums one by one

his paintings disappeared
from startling year to year
all retrospectives

honored, as in a mist
and when I think of this I cried
while watercolours all subside

dissolved on film
and in the archives
bright as snows.

the ladders to the skies.
braille, of the secret rose.

mary angela douglas 14 may 2019

We Live On

we live on in the nursery of the world
despite unfinished grocery lists,
keys that plunge to the bottom

of any bag.
what's to be had now what's to give away
though Aurora's rosy fingers

still can tinge the day
at its earliest.
are we on our way

to somewhere we can't name.
I don't know.
but in my dreams

sometimes I'm in unknown towns
with familiar scenes.
in old factories

looking for the exit to the right street
the one to take me home.
but home is a ghost ship too

waiting its turn
at the stoplight
gazing ironically at the old trees.

when they sigh I remember
the poet Rilke almost said at times
who sighs anywhere in the world now

sighs for me.

mary angela douglas 10 may 2019

Who Are We That You Should Squander

who are we that You should squander on us
so many stars, illuminations over the castles
so bright so bright

we forget where we are
in the summer grass
with the fire balloons ascending

the sprinklers in a purple blue dusk.

there it is, the perennial grace note
in my poem from Ray Bradbury
torchlight for the gazebo

thank you, Ray.
thank you God who in your green shade
have furnished for us

so many songs.
early and late.
on the piano, the pianola.

oh let the gate, wide open, survive

let all the singers arise
in a silvery stream
beyond sunrise

beyond our qualms
there, with the children making mudpies
where the gardens sing too full of gardenias

and the perfumes of forever
wafting us on.

mary angela douglas 9 may 2019

This And The Thimbles Scattered (Final Version)

this, and the thimbles scattered

the ones of gold

with the Princess seamstress gone gathering

small mushrooms after the rains

I remember;

we marveled at her marble cake

the bakery made

could she return?

where the traffic stilled

the raspberry sun

upon our childish once upons.

now the moon has gathered

her ivory flowers in:

our Grandmother’s folded fans

will I recognize your shadow in Heaven

so that I do not sln,

missing the cue of “Rumplestiltskin;”

slipping

on polished stairs in a fine gown;

short of the railing

strawberries, cream in an opal dish

oh I wish, I wished, closing my eyes

splashing the angelic.

no one wanted to ruin The Play

to be the one at fault in The Ballet

drawing the curtains;

out of tune with the day, with singing Everywhere.

my thought is a spindle in the wind

it has that quality unwinding

this again and the thimbles scattered

no more patchwork

no more pincushion moon;

valentine saints with the arrows through

she just Was

no more the brightness of thread

which to choose

the where to begin in the musical measure

which riddle to shine

embroidered in time

she never said

when spooning the honeycomb

on our bread.

just God is the Flower that does not fade;

be good, not clever.

in any weather.

you aren’t sugar;you won’t melt.

mary angela douglas 4 may 2019

This And The Thimbles Scattered

this, and the thimbles scattered
the ones of gold
with the Princess seamstress gone gathering

small mushrooms after the rains
I remember;
we marveled at her marble cake.

could she return?
where the traffic stilled.

the raspberry sun

upon our childish once upons.
now the moon has gathered
her ivory flowers in:

our Grandmother's folded fans
will I recognize your shadow in Heaven
so that I do not sln,

missing the cue of Rumplestilskin;

slipping

on polished stairs in a fine gown;
short of the railing
strawberries, cream in an opal dish

oh I wish, I wished, closing my eyes
splashing the angelic.

no one wanted to ruin The Play
to be the one at fault in The Ballet

drawing the curtains;

out of tune with the day, with singing Everywhere.
my thought is a spindle in the wind

it has that quality unwinding

this again and the thimbles scattered
no more patchwork
no more pincushion moon;

valentine saints with the arrows through
she just Was

no more the brightness of thread

which to choose
the where to begin in the musical measure
which riddle to shine

embroidered in time
she never said
when spooning the honey

on our bread.
just God is the flower that does not fade;
be good, not clever.

in any weather.
you aren't sugar;you won't melt.


mary angela douglas 4 may 2019

In The Country

in the country, where one grows old
and the roses shadowing into their dusk
the moon held aloft, a pale green lantern

by whom are these things noted, gardenia soft;
the moon a wide ribbon woven through clouds
consumed for the Soul, that silver moth

it's the crescent of ending

I behold or you, as you were,
before the floods the candles'
drift on the snowy cakes

the present of it all
in star flecked tissue revealing

you,
on your small porch


looking out on your allotted ocean of time
and the foam of it aqua,

unto the stars, the swing's wide measure
on the playground dreamed
the dust rising from the shoe scuff of it

the blues and the greens in a whirl
on the carousel colored in; carillions counted,
blossoming pink to white;

the horses raving, frozen as they were

and turning into the Fair remembered
one was fire, singing the milkmaids
in a  dawn, the faun colored roses

the heart tuned to pearl
and the dew tinged hour

the freshness rose it was ever Easter
rising, sweets in the grass half hidden
the dime witched dial crumbling you thought

was diamond

the Disneyland beckoning,
reckoning,

of childhood tears behind 
dried, in the sullen a pinwheel wind
the music box wounding of it, forgo;

the purple rising,the iced tea clinking
of the glass you were drinking the purple of
what is past and that gleams

the gleams of it far behind now
the Star ahead
the may blossom falter of it;

the ones that loved you

when you were new,
the honeysuckle bright of it,
blazing up

renewed, it's Christmas;
the angels draw nigh;
Hans Andersen, in a sleigh

parting invisible snows.


mary angela douglas 4 may 2019

NOTE ON THE POEM:  would like to credit the phrase faun coloured rose (in the singular) to a poem I read a while ago written by a Catholic 20th century nun who died young and either she said faun coloured rose or faun coloured dawn but it was such a lovely image I wanted to use it too, so I did, in the plural also thinking of, in my reference, in childhood, that lovely piece by Debussy, The Afternoon of a Faun which I listened to over and over on a glass record belonging to my Grandmother.That is the only time I have ever used another poet's image unless you count occasional recognizeable allusions to famous works, and even then, I always credit it. I NEVER will steal from another poet. I respect them too much.

Missing Old Phone Booths, Pay Phones

I miss the presence of coin operated phones
in the laundromats, the shopping centers
anywhere, far from home.

way out on the curb of the red and blue

striped gas stations, convenience stores
or in banks almost elegant, on plush carpets
in fine hotel lobbies.

in movie theatres, too
near the concession stands.

I wonder why they were taken away
seemingly in the dead of night.
who carted them off.

what miscreant gave the order.
it's true, at times they were out of order,
missing the phone book.

yanked from its chain.

I loved hearing the chime of coins.
the feeling that push come to shove
if it got stormy

maybe I could even live there for a while
closing the hinged door firmly
till the weather cleared.

you survived year on year.
American perennial.
what went wrong?

it wasn't even in the news.
one day at the bus stop
I noticed you were gone.

old standby.

the one I counted on
in case the bus didn't come.
what crime did it commit

in rain or snow
steadfast.
sure, sometimes

it was jammed with centavos
through no one's fault.
it wanted to take the call

even then. it was sentimental
if not, ornamental.
what happened to them.

all those phone booths.dime fed phones
suddenly deemed expendable...

where are you?
gracing other planets?
no one knows.

not even on the antique shows.
maybe in The Twilight Zone.

mary angela douglas 2 may 2019

In Case (Final Draft)

I dreamed we passed through clouds without aeroplanes

and we were no one’s Project

but lived as we pleased, in the meadows,

understanding the field flowers,

or, when it rained,

under the broader leaves:

durations of the sunlit, the introspective hours

where the light floated through us

in gipsy coloured rays

as though we were prisms.

no census taken, night or day

we became stars and twinkled

in such profusion

they gave up counting us;

resigned from that illusion.

we became rich in ways

not easily boxed

making crowns of tinfoil,

crumpled candy wrappers

we crowned ourselves

and perched our green badged lean to’s

close to the wishing wells

in case the elusive armies

no prisoners taken

and the dogs of blizzards

dormant, should suddenly awaken.

mary angela douglas 2 may 2019

In Case

I dreamed we passed through clouds without aeroplanes
and we were no one's Project
but lived as we pleased, in the meadows,

understanding the field flowers,
or, when it rained,
under the broader leaves

through the sunlit hours
where the light soared through us
in undocumented ways

as though we were prisms.

no census taken.
we became stars and twinkled
in such profusion

they gave up counting us.
and resigned from that illusion.
we became rich in ways

not easily recognized
making crowns of tinfoil,
crumpled candy wrappers

we crowned ourselves

and built our lean to's
near wishing wells
in case the elusive armies

no prisoners taken

and the dogs of blizzards
dormant, should suddenly awaken.

mary angela douglas 2 may 2019