On Signs That Point The Way, Or Signing The Unsigned

I watch the signs from year to year
the semaphores that make it clear, sometimes,
when there's little fog and some peace;

"deer crossing""
or in sundry yards:
"beware the dog."

and I have taken the driving tests and passed
at least the ones that test your theoretical knowledge.
so that I recognize the colours and the shapes.

from state to state.

yes looking back across the tracks
I did not cross, and with good reason,
thank God for that in every season, still-

it seems to me a little has been lost
not only in translation,
in making all signs clear.

some of you know the feeling
when they are reeling you in
you know, job interviews that

appear, then disappear , or friends
or you are crossing a room that has no end
finding out the unwritten laws you can't assume

the way a blind person makes their way
through an unaccustomed day with
its sharp edged furnishings

and "watching" the faces change or the atmospheres

or reading your poem aloud from an indifferent stage
and seeing some brows cloud over
with not a little rage

you recognize my God
it's not all clover. red rover, red rover, send...
who can you ask then, to point the way

already you know there's some kind of undertow here
but who can say if you're drowning or save you
or fill you in what's on the menu

is it safe to continue?

perhaps no one human can break the spell.
that's when you ask God when it goes pell mell
if he's still holding up the sod underneath your feet

and he says, Yes. You go right ahead.
don't even lose your place in what you previously said.
greenlight greenlight thunders from the throne

so quietly no one else could have known or discerned it at all.
but you feel small:
if you go on you feel they will throw you out.

from off of the earth's highest cliff
what if, what if
but your least angel says, paraphrasing

if you go on you'll only land in a better place
and keep your standing in the human race.
"don't be afraid of their faces"

the Good Book says
"though their looks be as scorpions";

though all the signs be rooted up in hell
they'll still be pointing Upwards.

mary angela douglas 24 july 2019