I cant tell you what it means
in crystal balls when numbers gleam
I never want to know the facts
and seal them up in sealing wax
I only want to catch the breeze
and pray to God for what I need
and what I need is very small
to have a place with roof and walls
and quiet quieter than leaves
asleep in moonlight on the eaves.
mary angela douglas 31 august 2019
Saturday, August 31, 2019
At The Agency Again
the simulation of manners breaks the heart
the kiss on the cheek by torchlight and
there you are. the last one on the list
and isnt it just bliss
to get acknowledged by a machine
that has a wish to be seen helping the poor, even
winning awards for it
how are you, they ask your category
whatever its name is; homeless, deranged,
an aging pop in the population
never a friend, someone they'd invite in for tea.
someone they'd call a colleague
someone less than me, they think.
and they don't even blink when you talk
about what happened to you. really.
and you feel a curious fade
and know they've ended their working day
and they want you to leave
buh bye you representative of homelessness,the
disadvantaged, over bandaged wounded
walking whatever you say
they look away bored or glazed you feel worse than ignored
even when they look straight at you
later they'll laugh at you with their friends
at the sidewalk cafe and talk about leaving their job
to get away from the scurvy mob.
here's what we owe you they confide
in a personable manner killing your chatter
thin as a candy coating on a chocolate
leftover from last Christmas no one would want/
you pay their bills with all your ills and they get their fill
while you eat scraps, and get a gloved pat on the back
because they're so sure you must have the plague
when all you really wanted was a real conversation
with anyone from the nation
but you get a nod and a wink
while they're thinking how brilliant they are
when dealing with folks subpar
they dont care what you feel
to them you're just not real
to them you aren't even you
you're just part of the zoo
they curate
too late on scene
to be anything
they take your name
and file the claim
and make the file
and then they smile
but they don't really see you.
their cell phone rings
from someone they really want to talk to.
and you dont mean a thing to them.
mary angela douglas 31 august 2019
the kiss on the cheek by torchlight and
there you are. the last one on the list
and isnt it just bliss
to get acknowledged by a machine
that has a wish to be seen helping the poor, even
winning awards for it
how are you, they ask your category
whatever its name is; homeless, deranged,
an aging pop in the population
never a friend, someone they'd invite in for tea.
someone they'd call a colleague
someone less than me, they think.
and they don't even blink when you talk
about what happened to you. really.
and you feel a curious fade
and know they've ended their working day
and they want you to leave
buh bye you representative of homelessness,the
disadvantaged, over bandaged wounded
walking whatever you say
they look away bored or glazed you feel worse than ignored
even when they look straight at you
later they'll laugh at you with their friends
at the sidewalk cafe and talk about leaving their job
to get away from the scurvy mob.
here's what we owe you they confide
in a personable manner killing your chatter
thin as a candy coating on a chocolate
leftover from last Christmas no one would want/
you pay their bills with all your ills and they get their fill
while you eat scraps, and get a gloved pat on the back
because they're so sure you must have the plague
when all you really wanted was a real conversation
with anyone from the nation
but you get a nod and a wink
while they're thinking how brilliant they are
when dealing with folks subpar
they dont care what you feel
to them you're just not real
to them you aren't even you
you're just part of the zoo
they curate
too late on scene
to be anything
they take your name
and file the claim
and make the file
and then they smile
but they don't really see you.
their cell phone rings
from someone they really want to talk to.
and you dont mean a thing to them.
mary angela douglas 31 august 2019
Friday, August 30, 2019
Miss Havisham
for Charles Dickens...
it's the way the dress has folded into dust
as it hangs there that makes you feel
all time is rust
even the air you barely breathe there
where the seed pearls have gone grey
grey as the seas that washed up then
the dubious fortunes of men, their proclivites...
as before on forlorn shores made ever more desolate
Miss Havisham whisper the ghosts
and the whisper of it winters everything
though outside in the gardens it is early spring
all inside belies it.
you want to pick fresh bouquets in the melancholy
sunshine of her shipwrecked days
of myrtle, the kind of roses shown
in ancient valentines, with the clasping of hands
the coat of arms
but the wind whispers chivalry is dead
and the tinny music turns in a music box instead
with broken amethysts in the sky, rely on God
You try to say to her.
dreary is the way Miss Havisham
and this is where the sodden road lies
after long interminable rains.
oh take your cloak the one once lined with violet blue
see no visitors today in the oistritch feathered hat
all weddings now have melted into that
decrepit cake and the feast in cobweb ruin.
only the lilies remain. Miss Havisham
the yellowed pearls the tintype of a girl
whose dream was shed without a summer murmur
in the long ago that glacial snows revered.
dressed in mulberry you'll go out again some year
and drift between one sphere and another
whose ash had burnt out, no doubt
Miss Havisham. you'll still search out
the infinity surrounding pointless souvenirs.
debris of all the years.
of all the years.
mary angela douglas 30 august 2019
it's the way the dress has folded into dust
as it hangs there that makes you feel
all time is rust
even the air you barely breathe there
where the seed pearls have gone grey
grey as the seas that washed up then
the dubious fortunes of men, their proclivites...
as before on forlorn shores made ever more desolate
Miss Havisham whisper the ghosts
and the whisper of it winters everything
though outside in the gardens it is early spring
all inside belies it.
you want to pick fresh bouquets in the melancholy
sunshine of her shipwrecked days
of myrtle, the kind of roses shown
in ancient valentines, with the clasping of hands
the coat of arms
but the wind whispers chivalry is dead
and the tinny music turns in a music box instead
with broken amethysts in the sky, rely on God
You try to say to her.
dreary is the way Miss Havisham
and this is where the sodden road lies
after long interminable rains.
oh take your cloak the one once lined with violet blue
see no visitors today in the oistritch feathered hat
all weddings now have melted into that
decrepit cake and the feast in cobweb ruin.
only the lilies remain. Miss Havisham
the yellowed pearls the tintype of a girl
whose dream was shed without a summer murmur
in the long ago that glacial snows revered.
dressed in mulberry you'll go out again some year
and drift between one sphere and another
whose ash had burnt out, no doubt
Miss Havisham. you'll still search out
the infinity surrounding pointless souvenirs.
debris of all the years.
of all the years.
mary angela douglas 30 august 2019
Those Who Identify Diamonds
there are those who identify diamonds
inspecting them under a spectral light
so that they may more freely
crush them into diamond dust.
should we go quietly
summoned under moonlight
or should we pray
all night on our knees about the new Gethsemanes
that we may be delivered
from such as these
should we leave overnight
the unbaked bread
the droning words they gave us to recite instead
of the ones that well from our own hearts
should we allow and allow and allow
the kingdoms of the dark.
how can I know
when my own crushed soul
is bleeding continually
God save us from the unseen petty tyrannies
from those who slaughter and yet
we are still alive.
my God how long all saints have cried have cried
under His crystal throne
sometimes I think the world is on the brink
and Jesus will come to see it all
hidden behind office walls
in the schoolroom, in the hall
everywhere the wolves devouring the sheep.
everywhere beleaguered people
failing to fall asleep for dread of the next work day
while those with invisible truncheons
wield their power
every bloody second of every hour.
mary angela douglas 30 august 2019
f
inspecting them under a spectral light
so that they may more freely
crush them into diamond dust.
should we go quietly
summoned under moonlight
or should we pray
all night on our knees about the new Gethsemanes
that we may be delivered
from such as these
should we leave overnight
the unbaked bread
the droning words they gave us to recite instead
of the ones that well from our own hearts
should we allow and allow and allow
the kingdoms of the dark.
how can I know
when my own crushed soul
is bleeding continually
God save us from the unseen petty tyrannies
from those who slaughter and yet
we are still alive.
my God how long all saints have cried have cried
under His crystal throne
sometimes I think the world is on the brink
and Jesus will come to see it all
hidden behind office walls
in the schoolroom, in the hall
everywhere the wolves devouring the sheep.
everywhere beleaguered people
failing to fall asleep for dread of the next work day
while those with invisible truncheons
wield their power
every bloody second of every hour.
mary angela douglas 30 august 2019
f
Wednesday, August 28, 2019
I Dreamed Of Colossus (Final Version)
(This is not a political poem. this is against the political throttling of the individual, individuated beauty of each human soul; imago dei, for those who think they were born to engineer it, on both sides of the aisle. who lie and lie and lie...
It is, in fact, a nightmare and not a dream though as for Alice in the horrid wonderland, the key is on the glass table, if you only look for it; and the Door to the beautiful garden as I do not believe in leaving the reader stranded)
-----------------------------------------------------------
I dreamed of colossus and a marble stair
where I looked out on everywhere from the last landing
on the same blank scene
and I woke up and I said I will mean
more than the vastness of snow over the empires
of no soul. those selling even the moonlight for profit and
control
and the view from the empyrean
that outranks God.
all these greek names.
what they reign over now.
sadness the myth of sadness
I can see, all its golden apples
rolling down the hill. the Princess, in name only.
distress and the case for myrrh
and the crystal devastations
of the king's will; Cassandra and Antigone
perhaps for a little while I'll be
but never never the chorus
for the song is not good
that hammers fate, determinism home
like a nail through the heart
to rule in God's stead.
Only Christ is free.
let it be understood.
there's a tyranny in dreams
that lord it over others.
their sisters and their brothers.
though I am a glass harp
and not the timpani.
still, I dreamed of colossus.
and I wish I never had.
mary angela douglas 28 august 2019
I Dreamed Of Colossus (Earlier Version)
(This is not a political poem. this is for the political throttling of the individual, individuated beauty of each human soul; imago dei
for those who think they were born to engineer it, on both sides of the aisle. who lie and lie and lie)
I dreamed of colossus and a marble stair
where I looked out on everywhere from the last landing
on the same blank scene
and I woke up and I said I will mean
more than the vastness of snow over the empires
of no soul. those selling the moon for profit and control
and the view from the empyrean
that outranks God.
all these greek names.
what they reign over now.
sadness the myth of sadness
I believe in, all its golden apples
rolling down the hill. the Princess, in name only.
distress
and the crystal manifestations
of the king's will Cassandra and Antigone
perhaps for a little while I'll be
but never never the chorus
for the song is not good
that hammers fate, determinism home
like a nail through the heart
to rule in God's stead.
not good. let it be understood.
there's a tyranny in dreams
that lord it over others.
their sisters and their brothers.
though I am a glass harp
and not the timpani.
still, I dreamed of colossus.
and I wish I never had.
mary angela douglas 28 august 2019
for those who think they were born to engineer it, on both sides of the aisle. who lie and lie and lie)
I dreamed of colossus and a marble stair
where I looked out on everywhere from the last landing
on the same blank scene
and I woke up and I said I will mean
more than the vastness of snow over the empires
of no soul. those selling the moon for profit and control
and the view from the empyrean
that outranks God.
all these greek names.
what they reign over now.
sadness the myth of sadness
I believe in, all its golden apples
rolling down the hill. the Princess, in name only.
distress
and the crystal manifestations
of the king's will Cassandra and Antigone
perhaps for a little while I'll be
but never never the chorus
for the song is not good
that hammers fate, determinism home
like a nail through the heart
to rule in God's stead.
not good. let it be understood.
there's a tyranny in dreams
that lord it over others.
their sisters and their brothers.
though I am a glass harp
and not the timpani.
still, I dreamed of colossus.
and I wish I never had.
mary angela douglas 28 august 2019
I Can Hang On Like The Leaves
an artist afraid of failing painted the dawn.
it was a faint rose.
it seemed to be growing closer.
he was cheered up by this.
he began painting mist, just a little, around the edges
like frost on the window as it encroaches.
now it was December. he painted bells.
it was a faint music.
he knew that well
but they were silver ones. with scarlet bows.
and children loved them.
scared of him dying they painted small green leaves
because of a story from O. Henry
whose story was really: Death and the Maiden reprised
where the one dying, or who thinks she is
thinks I can hang on
because the leaves do.
mary angela douglas 28 august 2019
it was a faint rose.
it seemed to be growing closer.
he was cheered up by this.
he began painting mist, just a little, around the edges
like frost on the window as it encroaches.
now it was December. he painted bells.
it was a faint music.
he knew that well
but they were silver ones. with scarlet bows.
and children loved them.
scared of him dying they painted small green leaves
because of a story from O. Henry
whose story was really: Death and the Maiden reprised
where the one dying, or who thinks she is
thinks I can hang on
because the leaves do.
mary angela douglas 28 august 2019
Tuesday, August 27, 2019
The Elephant Man Recalled
(for Joseph Carey Merrick and after the film by David Lynch)
it seemed to him that he should be
the same as others
that he should lay down his head
at Bethel and see the heavens open
the angels descend on ladders
filaments of the stars.
how hard his pillow why would it matter
if he could dream God was not far
oh from the mocked misunderstood
the misshapen vessel that he was
lumbering amid the tiaraed.
flocked to by the tittering crowds.
feted and lovely the center of all praise
he knew he knew he would never be but leprous-
lonely in his days beyond all human anguish to withstand
and in his carnival life abandoned
so ridiculed the elephant man I see him
at the end on a silken pillow sink
as if to say, just once let me be like them
with a dreamlike visage, brokenness
the final snap of the knotted thread he almost sped
into the arms of the crucified Lord.
mary angela douglas 27 august 2019
Monday, August 26, 2019
The Ghost Of My Ghost
I might as well be the ghost of my own ghost
as to reside here sometimes in the snow
I feel I will vanish utterly and be incorporated
in a far away painting of snow, much lauded, and from the
painting I will speak in invisible clouds of words
indistinguishable from snow, painted or otherwise
that add
a something enhanced to the painting
the art critics can never quite put their finger on
glissando, then,
what is it to be born with a gift of words
but
it gets cold coding in this language
speaking in words of glass splintered from the
ice storms. opaline, colder than can be described
to those on the outside of it though I am gladder than
glad they ARE on the outside of it
in warmer climates, greeting their neighbors
decorating their homes
knowing nothing of the nomadic frame of mind
all throughout time
far less, the unrecorded histories of it.
mary angela douglas 26 august 2019
as to reside here sometimes in the snow
I feel I will vanish utterly and be incorporated
in a far away painting of snow, much lauded, and from the
painting I will speak in invisible clouds of words
indistinguishable from snow, painted or otherwise
that add
a something enhanced to the painting
the art critics can never quite put their finger on
glissando, then,
what is it to be born with a gift of words
but
it gets cold coding in this language
speaking in words of glass splintered from the
ice storms. opaline, colder than can be described
to those on the outside of it though I am gladder than
glad they ARE on the outside of it
in warmer climates, greeting their neighbors
decorating their homes
knowing nothing of the nomadic frame of mind
all throughout time
far less, the unrecorded histories of it.
mary angela douglas 26 august 2019
Threadbare, Ah...
threadbare, ah, Cinderella
in your threadbare shoes
you could dance as well
as anyone could
not only under the circumstances
what is circumstance to dance,
to you?
let the creek rise
let the flies die slowly
on the ceiling fans
when there's no more summer music
to recommend
ah, then in your dreams of gold arise
and spring from the net of sorrow to surprise
the enemies of joy,
of threadbare enterprise
floating over the barricades of
the merely worldly wise
and stentorian.
mary angela douglas 26 august 2019
in your threadbare shoes
you could dance as well
as anyone could
not only under the circumstances
what is circumstance to dance,
to you?
let the creek rise
let the flies die slowly
on the ceiling fans
when there's no more summer music
to recommend
ah, then in your dreams of gold arise
and spring from the net of sorrow to surprise
the enemies of joy,
of threadbare enterprise
floating over the barricades of
the merely worldly wise
and stentorian.
mary angela douglas 26 august 2019
Saturday, August 24, 2019
Faces
everyone has a face that floats before them
some have many.
flower on a stem
it always seems that way
till when the face goes away.
so many reasons for going
then you might wonder
do they show the same face
to the others they may meet
is it street light glowing
on the street or going from there to here
some faces I fear.
their loss, petal by petal
some because they seem of metal
made;betraying nothing.
if they speak there is no clank of armour
no beauty in defeat, the wary faces
the wicked the ragged wolves
waiting their turn
or the ones who never emerged
no depths shadowing.
pumpkin head from a scary fable
and then the pumpkin falls off.
i know enough now of faces to know
sometimes you can tell very little from them.
though the madrigal proclaims the brow
arched like a swallow.
they may well be made of rain or snow.
sometimes faces are a continual weeping
you want the sun to shine on them again
and as we age what can we say then
sometimes our faces melt
though they are made of clay.
they seem almost to be sick
and you think a little humorously
maybe they can just stay home for the day, the faces
and get better poor balloon face, puffy face
loosing its elastic
and I'll show up at work like a coat rack stick
or a ladder. what does it matter.
some faces alter and are transposed
they have music in them
even in repose.
those faces I love.
my own face I do not know.
if my heart telegrams it what
to show to those ahead. or
to shut down like a lily instead.
some faces I cannot leave
and yet I must
as we go dust to dust
the dust of roses, stars some say
with so much to convey
blown now through the interstellar winds
of His enfolding grace or deep cellar rooted
like tulips...maybe by Easter to be
kaleidoscope flowers no longer in hours where
dear, beyond recall
there are no surfaces left at all.
o face like a crumpled rose
will they recognize you in Heaven's garden.
mary angela douglas august 24 2019
some have many.
flower on a stem
it always seems that way
till when the face goes away.
so many reasons for going
then you might wonder
do they show the same face
to the others they may meet
is it street light glowing
on the street or going from there to here
some faces I fear.
their loss, petal by petal
some because they seem of metal
made;betraying nothing.
if they speak there is no clank of armour
no beauty in defeat, the wary faces
the wicked the ragged wolves
waiting their turn
or the ones who never emerged
no depths shadowing.
pumpkin head from a scary fable
and then the pumpkin falls off.
i know enough now of faces to know
sometimes you can tell very little from them.
though the madrigal proclaims the brow
arched like a swallow.
they may well be made of rain or snow.
sometimes faces are a continual weeping
you want the sun to shine on them again
and as we age what can we say then
sometimes our faces melt
though they are made of clay.
they seem almost to be sick
and you think a little humorously
maybe they can just stay home for the day, the faces
and get better poor balloon face, puffy face
loosing its elastic
and I'll show up at work like a coat rack stick
or a ladder. what does it matter.
some faces alter and are transposed
they have music in them
even in repose.
those faces I love.
my own face I do not know.
if my heart telegrams it what
to show to those ahead. or
to shut down like a lily instead.
some faces I cannot leave
and yet I must
as we go dust to dust
the dust of roses, stars some say
with so much to convey
blown now through the interstellar winds
of His enfolding grace or deep cellar rooted
like tulips...maybe by Easter to be
kaleidoscope flowers no longer in hours where
dear, beyond recall
there are no surfaces left at all.
o face like a crumpled rose
will they recognize you in Heaven's garden.
mary angela douglas august 24 2019
I Could Not Tell You
what can we build with our small hands
I asked the dolls at my command
of this architecture of sighs
we had accumulated by and by
or would along with all the other toys
but they with their outstretched arms
could not answer me
so that I dreamed it all for them
seeing the Snow Queen glide outside
our bartered windows
and the puzzle still unsolved.
it is love now or then as we remembered it
and now it laps the room and stills the whispering
inside of us, of doom and home in vines no longer
accessible.
apple trees in their time with their exorbitant shade
I made for us again the requisite swing that
floated us as clouds, as extra clouds on a movie scene
or we are painted over a thin transluscent shade of time
in many layers, compressed and that we could unfold
as paper snowflakes cut of old, or chains of valentines
in the paper doll folds remaindered
this we tried to do
one time.
truly I could not tell you-
When.
mary angela douglas 24 august 2019
I asked the dolls at my command
of this architecture of sighs
we had accumulated by and by
or would along with all the other toys
but they with their outstretched arms
could not answer me
so that I dreamed it all for them
seeing the Snow Queen glide outside
our bartered windows
and the puzzle still unsolved.
it is love now or then as we remembered it
and now it laps the room and stills the whispering
inside of us, of doom and home in vines no longer
accessible.
apple trees in their time with their exorbitant shade
I made for us again the requisite swing that
floated us as clouds, as extra clouds on a movie scene
or we are painted over a thin transluscent shade of time
in many layers, compressed and that we could unfold
as paper snowflakes cut of old, or chains of valentines
in the paper doll folds remaindered
this we tried to do
one time.
truly I could not tell you-
When.
mary angela douglas 24 august 2019
The Secret Happiness
sometimes though I dont know why
there is a secret happiness inside
welling up under all blue moons
suddenly, while you are at a window
absentmindedly twining your hair
the least strands of gold filter through
surprising you so that you say
what is this, is there something that I missed
some beauty rare has left its shadow on the stair
or just as I round the corner walking home
I find that I am not alone where small pools turn to
momentary brooks after the rain, gurgling
over the pavements
as if Im a child again
and know that Christmas is up ahead
even though I cant tell time yet.
mary angela douglas 24 august 2019
there is a secret happiness inside
welling up under all blue moons
suddenly, while you are at a window
absentmindedly twining your hair
the least strands of gold filter through
surprising you so that you say
what is this, is there something that I missed
some beauty rare has left its shadow on the stair
or just as I round the corner walking home
I find that I am not alone where small pools turn to
momentary brooks after the rain, gurgling
over the pavements
as if Im a child again
and know that Christmas is up ahead
even though I cant tell time yet.
mary angela douglas 24 august 2019
Bad River You Will Not
sometimes I feel there is a bad river in me
that longs to form at the mouth of so many tiny griefs
that wants to overwhelm me when they converge
so that I am at flood tide.
looking at me you wouldnt think so.
and I dont understand myself
where all these dark waters came from
rising from the mud and from the creeks
that were benign for so long.
bad river you will not take me away
though I am dismayed beyond expression.
or suck me under in your swamp like
vortexes. at any moment I fail, or seem to
I know God will prevail, prevail in me
though I am one small person
looking out to sea
waiting for the beautiful ships to come.
mary angela douglas 24 august 2019
that longs to form at the mouth of so many tiny griefs
that wants to overwhelm me when they converge
so that I am at flood tide.
looking at me you wouldnt think so.
and I dont understand myself
where all these dark waters came from
rising from the mud and from the creeks
that were benign for so long.
bad river you will not take me away
though I am dismayed beyond expression.
or suck me under in your swamp like
vortexes. at any moment I fail, or seem to
I know God will prevail, prevail in me
though I am one small person
looking out to sea
waiting for the beautiful ships to come.
mary angela douglas 24 august 2019
Friday, August 23, 2019
The Wendy Bird Down
for J.M. Barrie
it's sure they want to shoot the Wendy bird down
she murmured half dazed falling through the sapphire clouds
the haze over the lagoon
it's always this way not another
small hearts banded cut out from a valentine
seemed suddenly sifting down her
in the blue gauze of the dress and the day
half wounded bird am I am I
the mermaids almost heard her cry
I think of her that way.
and of the devilish fairy not at all.
we of the bluebird tribe are small
our thoughts are golden
shot from the high towers
wounded in mid song.
mary angela douglas 23 august 2019
it's sure they want to shoot the Wendy bird down
she murmured half dazed falling through the sapphire clouds
the haze over the lagoon
it's always this way not another
small hearts banded cut out from a valentine
seemed suddenly sifting down her
in the blue gauze of the dress and the day
half wounded bird am I am I
the mermaids almost heard her cry
I think of her that way.
and of the devilish fairy not at all.
we of the bluebird tribe are small
our thoughts are golden
shot from the high towers
wounded in mid song.
mary angela douglas 23 august 2019
Was I
I like towns in dreams.
they seem so familiar
but you can't put your finger on little things there
like where do I live in this town
can someone please take me there
but I cant tell you where it is
but you let me hop on the bus anywhere
though my coins seem a strange denomination
I feel happy in the dream towns.
its summer melting into the school year pleasantly.
there dont seem to be any bills
or even any mail
i go into book shops happily
and find the rarities
but when they ring me up
the details arent that clear
what is happening here
it's the dream town way
troubles in life have no part to play here
a life with troubles isnt even a reference point
and landscapes linger
there's no feeling that you traveled too far
or that your legs won't hold out.
somehow you just exist there
as if you should with no requirements
always be that person going back there
being there with no shadows on the lawn
but amusing problems get solved
everyone's happy when they do
so that you think on awakening
was I in a precinct of Heaven?
mary angela douglas 23 august 2019
they seem so familiar
but you can't put your finger on little things there
like where do I live in this town
can someone please take me there
but I cant tell you where it is
but you let me hop on the bus anywhere
though my coins seem a strange denomination
I feel happy in the dream towns.
its summer melting into the school year pleasantly.
there dont seem to be any bills
or even any mail
i go into book shops happily
and find the rarities
but when they ring me up
the details arent that clear
what is happening here
it's the dream town way
troubles in life have no part to play here
a life with troubles isnt even a reference point
and landscapes linger
there's no feeling that you traveled too far
or that your legs won't hold out.
somehow you just exist there
as if you should with no requirements
always be that person going back there
being there with no shadows on the lawn
but amusing problems get solved
everyone's happy when they do
so that you think on awakening
was I in a precinct of Heaven?
mary angela douglas 23 august 2019
Thursday, August 22, 2019
Angelabra
we'll leave our imprint on some other realm
when all the pages have turned to snow
so that we won't be read here anymore
on earth where moonlight comes and goes
or slides behind clouds
because it cant find its soul
when there's no more auroras
on the printed page.
how many candles are in the sun
the birthday child had every one blown out
before she reached the nursery stairs
and somewhere, in Heaven the household bells have rung
and someone small is at the door of pearl.
we were the whirl in autumn leaves the red and gold
the stories too late to be told
presumptive happy endings.
you will dip your hand in rosewater
tracing the frost just so on the only window
where the ghosts of roses blow
in forgotten gardens.
and out on the lawn my Grandmother cries,
missing us so;
because of lies, they took us from her
in a year that could have been a century.
mary angela douglas 22 august 2019
when all the pages have turned to snow
so that we won't be read here anymore
on earth where moonlight comes and goes
or slides behind clouds
because it cant find its soul
when there's no more auroras
on the printed page.
how many candles are in the sun
the birthday child had every one blown out
before she reached the nursery stairs
and somewhere, in Heaven the household bells have rung
and someone small is at the door of pearl.
we were the whirl in autumn leaves the red and gold
the stories too late to be told
presumptive happy endings.
you will dip your hand in rosewater
tracing the frost just so on the only window
where the ghosts of roses blow
in forgotten gardens.
and out on the lawn my Grandmother cries,
missing us so;
because of lies, they took us from her
in a year that could have been a century.
mary angela douglas 22 august 2019
Some Remarks at the Observatory, On The Eternal Feminine
like a planet forever generating its own miasma
the miasma of the dreams it has
when it sleeps in silver light
or lilac or when certain trees scratch the
windows at night of the houses below it
and it thinks, at least, the world has become
beautiful, even if I have not. it does not know
the world as it is can play the mirror well
reflecting back to it as signals from afar
its own solitary beauty
so that it says to the indifferent waters
ah you understand
you have come to a corner of my soul
so unexpectedly and if planets could sigh
then it does.
until the mirror floats away or dries up
under the unrelenting sun.
then the planet despairs
its temperature cannot sustain life
it feels as though a knife
has cut from it
its own particular soul.
and Christ must console it now.
mary angela douglas 22 august 2019
the miasma of the dreams it has
when it sleeps in silver light
or lilac or when certain trees scratch the
windows at night of the houses below it
and it thinks, at least, the world has become
beautiful, even if I have not. it does not know
the world as it is can play the mirror well
reflecting back to it as signals from afar
its own solitary beauty
so that it says to the indifferent waters
ah you understand
you have come to a corner of my soul
so unexpectedly and if planets could sigh
then it does.
until the mirror floats away or dries up
under the unrelenting sun.
then the planet despairs
its temperature cannot sustain life
it feels as though a knife
has cut from it
its own particular soul.
and Christ must console it now.
mary angela douglas 22 august 2019
Wednesday, August 21, 2019
How Clouds Formed Over The City
how clouds formed over the city
first there were rose red flares
and then green zig zags from
the county fair, starting early; a lost meteor shower
a dappling of stars
and you forget where you are
you could be anywhere outside this kingdom
and in the light you think you are
this dazzlement is so bizarre so unaccustomed
in the folkways, the bars, the pop up cafes
you're still at work when it happens in a daze
a maze of files and floor on floor
and not supposed to notice but ignore
still leashed in the working day
as you trundle on towards payday
any occurrence in the outside world
but you know anyway,
because you're prescient.
mary angela douglas 21 august 2019
first there were rose red flares
and then green zig zags from
the county fair, starting early; a lost meteor shower
a dappling of stars
and you forget where you are
you could be anywhere outside this kingdom
and in the light you think you are
this dazzlement is so bizarre so unaccustomed
in the folkways, the bars, the pop up cafes
you're still at work when it happens in a daze
a maze of files and floor on floor
and not supposed to notice but ignore
still leashed in the working day
as you trundle on towards payday
any occurrence in the outside world
but you know anyway,
because you're prescient.
mary angela douglas 21 august 2019
Tuesday, August 20, 2019
Still Singing
dear Christ I do not ask superfluous mansions
or the gifts of State
I will wait for you in hovels
or even at the gate, with no roof ever.
only do not sever the heart I kept for You.
what can I do knowing the longitude and latitude
of all ships as they drift.
for me the midnight shift
the candle at its wick
You alone are Light.
I do not need emergency supplies.
or to be overwise.
or to be assured You will endure.
only surprise me with Your green
in every april seen, Spring at the door
even if I through no window look.
or turn to see in indigent liberty
only one blossom left in a desolate field,
to be the one left
still I will honor You
in the falling of the dew
in the bird with one wing reft
still singing.
mary angela douglas 20 august 2019
or the gifts of State
I will wait for you in hovels
or even at the gate, with no roof ever.
only do not sever the heart I kept for You.
what can I do knowing the longitude and latitude
of all ships as they drift.
for me the midnight shift
the candle at its wick
You alone are Light.
I do not need emergency supplies.
or to be overwise.
or to be assured You will endure.
only surprise me with Your green
in every april seen, Spring at the door
even if I through no window look.
or turn to see in indigent liberty
only one blossom left in a desolate field,
to be the one left
still I will honor You
in the falling of the dew
in the bird with one wing reft
still singing.
mary angela douglas 20 august 2019
Monday, August 19, 2019
Carousel
To my Grandmother Lucy, my Mama "The Princess'
and to my sister Sharon on her birthday...
you can't live on the carousel forever
I could imagine her saying
when I was candy appled
with the stars nearby
and our yard at home
seemed to me more favorable
than any country yet born.
who knew then how ribbons would fend
or the small cologne we bought
at the drug store to be rose imbued.
at the cotillions.
or a small notebook, and a green pen
to write in green oh evergreen words again: oh
what is this round trip in time
with no ticket station
I would ask my nation
of dolls and there would be a pause
and they would say so many surprising things.
gather our gemstone rings of glass
from the gum machines at last we know what Song is for
and we won't be dissuaded from picking up
blue jay feathers from the ground
and the Arkansas milky quartz I found, I felt was like pearl
when I was a little girl wearing velvet.
and like the littlest angel from a tale at Christmas told
we'll keep it in our pockets so we won't grow old
these souvenirs from earth
so when the sheep are folded in the emerald fields
and the last tinted sunset peals
we won't feel that alone.
mary angela douglas 19 august 2019
Sunday, August 18, 2019
Sentences
the beautiful sentence.
the beautiful sentence, alone.
the lillypad sentence
floating
the suspended sentence pale green in its estuaries.
on the wily paper drawn in thick pencil!
I want to write in the largest cursive writing ever
spirographing in cuneiform on flaming poster board
with a Magic Marker
and each succesessive sentence even larger
because it is the way I feel
when beauty is reeling me in;
but the teacher marks me down for this.
like it's a sin
in the Sixth Grade, on my report about Jane Eyre
on Unruled Paper.
it has taken decades for me to understand
why this seemed tyrannous;and why I fumed on the orange
school bus home.
If you do this again...she said, not unkindly.
It is Spring. trellised with lilies, small violets;
the cream bright rose. and we learn madrigals.
a sentence for posies my
Grandmother says and she should know
Shakespeare writ large in sepia
in vast memorials echoing still;
my mother sings of Marble Halls
I will too, despite you all
whoever you may be who imagine
you are in charge of me sentencing me
for sentences ah
my bailiffs, cuffing me
for the way they weave in and out of traffic
or how they appear in dreams;so scintillating,
the way they behave in public company
or pirate like, at sea, brandishing adjectives.
the way they distinguish themselves in opal suddenly
above lost centuries skywriting
on cloudy evenings perilous and clear
showing the way to the King
beyond the wistful the inarticulate heart,
clanging and clanging
the one and invincible Star.
the sentence of where You are.
mary angela douglas 18 august 2019
the beautiful sentence, alone.
the lillypad sentence
floating
the suspended sentence pale green in its estuaries.
on the wily paper drawn in thick pencil!
I want to write in the largest cursive writing ever
spirographing in cuneiform on flaming poster board
with a Magic Marker
and each succesessive sentence even larger
because it is the way I feel
when beauty is reeling me in;
but the teacher marks me down for this.
like it's a sin
in the Sixth Grade, on my report about Jane Eyre
on Unruled Paper.
it has taken decades for me to understand
why this seemed tyrannous;and why I fumed on the orange
school bus home.
If you do this again...she said, not unkindly.
It is Spring. trellised with lilies, small violets;
the cream bright rose. and we learn madrigals.
a sentence for posies my
Grandmother says and she should know
Shakespeare writ large in sepia
in vast memorials echoing still;
my mother sings of Marble Halls
I will too, despite you all
whoever you may be who imagine
you are in charge of me sentencing me
for sentences ah
my bailiffs, cuffing me
for the way they weave in and out of traffic
or how they appear in dreams;so scintillating,
the way they behave in public company
or pirate like, at sea, brandishing adjectives.
the way they distinguish themselves in opal suddenly
above lost centuries skywriting
on cloudy evenings perilous and clear
showing the way to the King
beyond the wistful the inarticulate heart,
clanging and clanging
the one and invincible Star.
the sentence of where You are.
mary angela douglas 18 august 2019
Saturday, August 17, 2019
I Read Of A Book On The History Of Glass (Final Draft)
I read of a book on the history of glass
in the National Museum of Ireland
and I thought on a cloud drifting day
with the rains not that far away in Carolina,
I thought, all that has passed
my thinking on the destiny of glass
and high Irish song.
yet still from the aeons where I belonged
a faint stirring rises like the wind,
signaling a storm
the kind that clears the air for clear eyed speech
or shatters it all
and angels beseeching
the beautiful, the faltering airs behold them fallen where
I could not reach
and all was lost from each to each
in a thuderclap morning.
what matters now in the aftermirage
green island and fair where I never was yet wanted to be
I never went to the National Museum of Ireland.
but something in me seems a part of that
and I feel that this is so through the little else I know
through the door that has no key
they will come back to me, in the rounding of the hour
the wounds that have staying power-
and become the sea.
mary angela douglas 17 august 2019
I Read Of A Book On The History Of Glass
I read of a book on the history of glass
in the National Museum of Ireland
and I thought on a cloud drifting day
with the rains not that far away in Carolina,
I thought, all that has passed
my thinking on the destiny of glass
and high Irish song.
yet still from the aeons where I belonged
a faint stirring rises like the wind
signaling a storm
the kind that clears the air for clear eyed speech
or shatters it all
and angels beseeching
the beautiful, the faltering airs behold them fallen where
I could not reach
and all was lost from each to each
in a thuderclap morning.
what matters now in the aftermirage
green island and fair where I never was yet wanted to be
I never went to the National Museum of Ireland.
but something in me seems a part of that
and I feel this is so, that this is in my aoul
you know, the wounds that have staying power
and become the sea.
mary angela douglas 17 august 2019
in the National Museum of Ireland
and I thought on a cloud drifting day
with the rains not that far away in Carolina,
I thought, all that has passed
my thinking on the destiny of glass
and high Irish song.
yet still from the aeons where I belonged
a faint stirring rises like the wind
signaling a storm
the kind that clears the air for clear eyed speech
or shatters it all
and angels beseeching
the beautiful, the faltering airs behold them fallen where
I could not reach
and all was lost from each to each
in a thuderclap morning.
what matters now in the aftermirage
green island and fair where I never was yet wanted to be
I never went to the National Museum of Ireland.
but something in me seems a part of that
and I feel this is so, that this is in my aoul
you know, the wounds that have staying power
and become the sea.
mary angela douglas 17 august 2019
Why I Believe In Independent Learning (Final Draft)
"much have I traveled in the realms of gold.'
John Keats
we learned the things we didnt feel
and watched them run from reel to reel
and this is what they called free education
to sit in rows precise and neat
to be condemned for being sweet, quiet
introverted (though Carl Jung meant it as a complementary
state)
or for anything else they can magnify, berate with a shrug or a
sigh with a roll of the eyes toward the popular kids;
to take just a sliver from out of your pie.
they hate your precocity
so they label you a monstrosity
for you on their
microscopic slide have got to be identified
so that you can be controlled. restrained
from traveling in the realms of gold
all, all on your own
("not enough sense to come in from the rain")
ahead of the others.
they call this grading on the curve
and you're in trouble for using "big words"
too early
as they watch your every move, observe
you meticulously in order to
say or to infer in 25 words or less
behind the hush hush doors where you're no guest
that you're disturbed and a social mess
because really, what else can they do with you
who daydream about the universe instead of the pep squad,
when you're so small as to be absurd
and living without a lesson plan at all.
mary angela douglas 17 august 2019
P.S. I thank God for all the teachers that WEREN'T like this.
But who were happy to find children who could learn so much, on their own.
But who were happy to find children who could learn so much, on their own.
Why I Believe In Independent Learning
we learned the things we didnt feel
and watched them run from reel to reel
and this is what they called free education
to sit in rows precise and neat
to be condemned for being sweet, quiet
introverted though Carl Jung meant it as a complementary state
or for anything else they can magnify, berate with a shrug or sigh
a roll of the eyes toward the popular kids
to take just a sliver from out of your pie
they hate your precocity
so they label you a monstrosity
for you on their
microscopic slide have got to be identified
so that you can be controlled. restrained
from traveling in the realms of gold
all, all on your own
ahead of the others.
they call this grading on the curve
and you're in trouble for using "big words"
as they watch your every move, observe
you meticulously in order to
say or to infer in 25 words or less
behind the hush hush doors where you're no guest
that you're disturbed
because really, what else can they do with you
who daydream about the universe instead of the pep squad,
when you're so small as to be absurd
and living without the lesson plans at all.
mary angela douglas 17 august 2019
and watched them run from reel to reel
and this is what they called free education
to sit in rows precise and neat
to be condemned for being sweet, quiet
introverted though Carl Jung meant it as a complementary state
or for anything else they can magnify, berate with a shrug or sigh
a roll of the eyes toward the popular kids
to take just a sliver from out of your pie
they hate your precocity
so they label you a monstrosity
for you on their
microscopic slide have got to be identified
so that you can be controlled. restrained
from traveling in the realms of gold
all, all on your own
ahead of the others.
they call this grading on the curve
and you're in trouble for using "big words"
as they watch your every move, observe
you meticulously in order to
say or to infer in 25 words or less
behind the hush hush doors where you're no guest
that you're disturbed
because really, what else can they do with you
who daydream about the universe instead of the pep squad,
when you're so small as to be absurd
and living without the lesson plans at all.
mary angela douglas 17 august 2019
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