Emigre Life Not As It Is Pictured (Final Draft)

we were meant to hide in Cezanne

the planes of light the leaf scarcely sketched

and there you have a house lemon yellow

of sorts the ghost of our speech

populated with its allusive fairy tales out of reach

the chimes of arvo part

this is emigre life not as it is pictured in the New York Times

more venerable, venerations over time

the chimes of arvo part

the infinities split disclosing the pearl archive;

the icon that is weeping that is weeping that is weeping

into the mirrors of God.

mary angela douglas 30 november 2019

Emigre Life Not As It Is Pictured

we were made to hide in Cezanne
the planes of light the leaf scarcely sketched
and there you have a house lemon yellow

of sorts the ghost of our speech
populated with its allusive fairy tales out of reach
the chimes of arvo part

this is emigre life not as it is pictured in the New York Times
more venerable venerations over time
the chimes of arvo part

the infinitives split disclosing the pearl
the icon that is weeping that is weeping that is weeping
into the mirrors of God.

mary angela douglas 29 november 2019

A Christmas Card For My Sister

more even more from the distance, childhood,
the red rose white rose storybook cries
shall we pay attention

and turn the page at the angelic chime renewed
we shall
with every clearing sky still note

the blue green fir trees
and the Christmas surprise
that everything we dreamed

was dreamed for us before
in God's surmise.
oh let us colour in the Star

above the mild manger
the startled shepherds
and the songs of gold

the harps touched in the soul
we thought had died
or been covered up

with the latter snows.
let us plant the flag of no retreat
and let the tiny silver trumpets blow

with hollied wreath and mistletoe

around the saddened the sidereal worlds
all these images more beautiful hurled through Time
above the insistent, the wondering night on hold

here we will pray before the closing
of earth's small day.
among the oranges and the peppermints

with all our hearts
and on the toy pianos plink again
the symphonies of our natal joy.

mary angela douglas 24 november 2019

Sunday Dinners

when we were on earth
our dreams weren't weighted
so that we needed always

furniture
to keep them from flying off
into the clouds

some people said child
your head in a book
is like a cloud too

we will diagnose
your cloudiness.
then God in his mercy

caused it to snow
and only you knew it
was snowing dreams

empathetically

but in a way
the doctors could not tell;
it backed them up

into cul de sacs
where they had to shovel it away
till they forgot who we were

never having known themselves,

those who still bore a starry mark
on our brows who somehow managed
to work for a living 

because we didnt want to let down
the ones who had raised us.
who had their hearts torn down

like old billboards

for the sake of history
that horrible racket
in the background

that kept interrupting our sunday dinners.

mary angela douglas 25 november 2019

You Would Wear Pale Yellow

for Sharon, my sister

you would wear pale yellow
and all would be silk
and we would always 

drink our milk
and listen for chimes
for bells that rhyme

going up and down the scales.
for ice cream sales
for the gold stars showered

on the page we learned.
life could be that way
the drawing of the rose drapes

in the afternoon
because the studio light
is infinitely bright

and Grandmother plays the piano
on more than St. Cecilia's day
when Mama comes to stay

and white clover is thick all over the backyard.
how could Heaven not be this
grandfather under the lamplight

reading his newspaper
and we are all home.
I think of this sometimes now

whenever I'm alone how 
love, once lived, cannot disappear
except into God.

mary angela douglas 23 november 2019

Mercurial, Rattled By The Winds

silver nitrate flakes off the sun
and in the end it's antiphonal
in your autumnal dream

the leaves are rust only
we speak of amber
and are not convinced

putting up fences from
fallen stars, the remnants of meteors
we are

the wind is sound not space

not letting you know, not a day too early
nor too late
who are you now

did you slip the gates
how have all images run

quicksilver from
the hurricane force that yesterday
removed all houses

from the landscape
of Time.
and rendered the maps to ash.

mary angela douglas 22 november 2019

You're Going To Have To Know Some Things

you're going to have to know some things
they all forgot to tell you
or maybe they didn't know themselves;

then how will you know the difference?
following the moss on the northern sides of trees
was that it

the native american signs of spring
the ruby red ring around the moon
is it noon yet in China

opals have fallen out of the skies
some people tell lies

always carry a compass.
be on the lookout for wild mushrooms.
hide in the tall grasses

with the scent of wild onions

and dream the lion's dream.
carry the storybook somehow
the one with strawberries and cream.

when you get hungry,
look at the lllustration.

mary angela douglas 18 November 2019

At Times He Is The Weeping Borealis

At times He is the weeping borealis
where all the colours reign orange, rose
and the mystical violet, the equation of lemon

the crimson and the candy cane
we listen, the elves of ourselves
and we know

his footsteps chime
He is the design blue white in frost
delicate latticing the dreaming

window panes and blowing the whistle of
the silver winds to summon it all
while we remain:

only the entranced,
His children.

mary angela douglas 18 november 2019

The Sky Is On My Heart As Crystal Etched

the sky is on my heart as crystal etched
december's not that far away
the clouds hold rumors of the snowfall

I know I am not here to stay.
I know with every breathing of the pines
frost tipped and sealing themselves away

in every murmur that the leaves must make
that I must go away.
I must go away as others have

and leave the earth to orbit on
and I must close out all the beautiful accounts
before too long.

words I have loved weep softly in pale green
poems I have sought as Magi sought the Star
wanting to arrive through purple distance

to sing with my departed ones,
the crossing of the bar.
such few pearled seconds as remain

or years will ever feel the same
time isn't enough to say
what mystery has driven us here

and kept us on our way-
but we will say it still-
believing in the music of His will.

mary angela douglas 17 november 2019

On The Alternative The Quantum Universe My Neglected Homeworks

of all alternative "universi"
which are you or
which am I

some billion billion
paths to find
out of space

or out of time
like maypole ribbons
round the poles

split decisions
whose are those
the you of yesterday's surmise

the me of multiple sweet sunrise
algebra was hard enough
God knows Ill never get this stuff.

mary angela douglas 16 november 2019

Rhapsody in Pink (For My Sister Who Wished She Had Been Called The Rose Of Sharon...

if we rehearsed our childhood once again
my sister could be playing her rhapsody in rose
she loved the colour pink so much

almost as much as she loved Gershwin
and this is an attempt to make up for
all the times at Christmas we received

from near and far, from dear ones so adored
identical presents but in different colours
and unfairly, I got the lion's share of the pink

so here it is I hope, I think this solves that dilemma
long past now I wish for you in every shade of rose
the hidden gifts there are in any day

pink miracles as well
all the graces in the painting of the primaveras;
pink gauzed the moon, outside your room

and lest I forget, the toe shoes too
we sighed for back then
in palest pink, the sheen of all sheens

and criss cross, tied just so
pink satin ribbons too
and plies by the score

for you, Sharon Douglas
I'm sure by now (it must be true)
quite sick of blue.

mary angela douglas 16 november 2019

If An Angel Came

for Harold Bloom

if an angel came
came to the door and wept
keening the disappearing
of the lovely bequeathed

with a look less blazing
and in a haze of sorrow
why wouldnt it be believed

what we have seen, I have seen
the poets relegated to the ash heap
who might as well have been the ones

to invent the lyre;
to such an extent
the heart is misrepresented now

and their date is expired
it is generally understood.
by those lost deeper into Dante's wood

but in my heart a rebel notion rises
I am not loth to express

and you can take the rest
of the dystopian martyrs the ones
who stress less is more when it is only less

because perhaps I am sorry to say
they are just not up to the task themselves


yet still I will bless Shakespeare
Keats, Yeats, Rilke  and all the rest I learned
in green years past;

that is the Heaven I would live in
unsurpassed where words strike sparks
and there is life enobled, unbidden

to defend itself established in the Living Word

unwilling to leave Paradise even if the herd requires it
refusing to go, preparing in all I know  to stand forever so,
forever toward Eden gazing.

mary angela douglas 15 november 2019

Milk Bottles

I remember them but I don't know where
milk bottles cold on the outside stair
the one we played on in the afternoons

even when it was gloomy.

but in the morning they had blue shadows
even the milk had a cast of blue
if I were a painter i would paint them there

milk bottles frozen on the stair
and the dawn is so cold
and you stand by the vents

and you almost see the neighbor's fence
or you think you do
icicles dripping over the snowball bushes

but it cant be summer yet.
milk bottles and a clanking sound
and no one else is ever around

stars of aluminum foil
shine in the pageant and it's only you
singing of the holly berries

maybe it's the angels out making their deliveries
who clinked the bottles and shut the gate
in the pale world like a dream state

two week till Christmas
we can hardly wait.
we go out in our warm snoods

our cherry coats.
and we are good.
and we dream of cream

still barely awake

of evergreen
ice breaking off
of the roof of the world.

mary angela douglas 9 november 2019

Soliciting Information From The State

For Sharon F. Douglas


they will bring you information back in a thimble
that maybe was true two years ago.
you will scrape the bottom of the well

of wishes. but there will be no residue.
you will write and there will be no reply.
or there will be a reply as transparent as glass

taking wing into the Invisible

and meaningless in any language.
we are free scream the posters
scream the candidates on tv

or whisper to themselves at odd moments
happy with their salaries.
that their favorite restaurant in a chic spot

is always glad to seat them..
we are free I cry myself to sleep.

free to be told nothing
as if our heart had disappeared
our soul skipped town.

mary angela douglas 6 november 2019

The Sum Of What You Are

the voice you hear
from long ago
could be the voice
of all the snows
could be the light of all the stars
of all the feelings near or far
you felt just when
the world was new
until the sorrows
ransacked you
until the mornings cold and drear
deprived you of the voice you hear
at this late age of all the snows
of all the stars and meteor glows
of all the feelings near or far
you feel again
the door ajar
to take you from the sorrow here
that cut your heart from year to year
and lead you then through all the snows
away from all of hardship's blows
away from what you felt of fear
to One who loved you oh so dear
who made the snows who made the stars
who made the sum of what you are.

mary angela douglas 5 november 2019

The Russian Poets Under Certain Conditions Unspecified

were we made of clouds, that suddenly we could not be found
or of the mist that rises from the bitter ground
were we visited by angels only

or stowed in a painting all blues and greens
by Rublev or

hard as stone in the quarry of
an unremitting cold.

who is there to respond.
to speak to us in amber
or to take on the case.

were we members of the human race.
who could spell our story.
we were poets residing in the visionary

beyond contempt.
and so, they hated us
consigning us to quarters.

we never could have imagined
were we mist were we the rains
evaporated entirely the last train out

or something else, regained
something kin to the soul
that outlasts everything.

mary angela douglas 4 november 2019

IN MEMORIAM VLADIMIR KONSTANTINOVICH BUKOVSKY d. october 27, 2019

The knight Bukovsky has died.
what are we to make of his departure.
he who inhabited a castle of his own making

in hell.
oh we wish him well, God speed.
all those benedictions that can be said

or wept soundlessly.
oh live in Eternal Freedom now
in a small voice I said

bowing my head

having met him once in the Spring
at a conference very briefly and I said in a small note extended
I hope to live in such a castle too.

Thank You.
knight invincible barely comprehensible
except to the few

who live that way too.

mary angela douglas 14 november 2019

How Hard It Is To Look The Fool

how hard it is to look the Fool
when you live by the Golden Rule
(or try to)

and people think you have no clue
or just deny you

and dont know what to do with you
except to laugh and then to say
what's to expect from her anyway

what's to gain and what's to lose
oh friends once friends I cry to you
I'd rather die than live a lie.

or slink away
from what's to pay
when love is true

and counting on you.
and nothing gained
another way

will leave you anything 
left to say
though you held millions

in your sway.

mary angela douglas 4 november 2019

All Prayers Under The Sun Came Down To This One

sometimes the heart drifts crosswise against the sun
in a dream in which there's nothing to be done
sometimes the heart.

is still and thinks it has died
when desolate news comes to it,
before Eastertide

and life is not alive oh then
the heart could fall from great distances
never to be revived

foundering on the cliffs with none to see.
oh God please rescue me Who alone
know all that can be done

to wreck the heart before the dawn had come.

mary angela douglas 4 november 2019

Game Shows

must we dance only for prizes
must we sing only for fame
must our lullabies and our crises

be a ticket into the Game.
I would rather be obscure
living on without a name

then to schill in those dead gardens;
out promoting summer rains.

mary angela douglas 3 november 2019

Droves

I love the worlds You meant to make
the ones that we would not forsake
the spinning tops, the starry motions
and all the laughter of the oceans.
the passageways into a dream
you left behind, a silver key
to turn the lock on misery
and there the pastured flock believed
and felt the budding of the leaves
and stared into your wishing wells
and loved to break the evil spells
and lift the winds of balmy cloves
and drive the colours into droves
of clouds above the dreaming west
and each to each and blessed to bless.

mary angela douglas 3 november 2019

The World At Its Best

when God keeps juggling His coloured glass globes
to keep from thinking why don't they see Me at all
I fall into his tattered lovely pocket 

and rest. and then I dream of the world at its best
newly spangled the circus arriving at midnight
with Ray Bradbury

strawberries in the morning with lemon cream
the world as scene or mise en scene in the books I love
and everything green.

I pick Him flowers and He smiles
even though He made them
as if they were something he'd never seen

and in the evenings I ask how did You choose
the fragrances, the gardenia's cream.
I wish the way I used to long ago

so many wishes I have to put them in storage
and turn and turn in the ballets all our own
the ones where we wear pink

and pretend we were roses.

mary angela douglas 3 november 2019

Existing This Way

it doesn't exist this way in the world

I said to You last evening

the way you think it would be

the way I have always thought it was.

and maybe You, before me. surely.

You who Are love purely

Love I mean.

why can't it just be shining.

sitting still. chiming.

thinking of what you will do

when you grow wings. remembering everything.

it seems to have become a turmoil.

why not let it be flowers. 

or being alone for hours.

the way a star seems.

why cant I be

only this. well, You smile, well, you are

like a lily dreaming Easter dreams

a country stream.

it feels this way to me.

it always has.

just to be glad

to even be here on an earth with stars up there.

is more than enough for me to care about.

waking to see the shade of leaves.

only needing, these.

not grabbing life.

tying it up with strings to say

this or that one is mine.

I want to be birdsong.

to be clear like quartz.

the moon ;yellow as cream.

I know that I am.what I dream.

the glaze on snow.

why doesnt anyone know 

it could be only the whisper of new grass rising.

simple and surmising.

kind of surprising no wanting to win.

only like a measure of music, wanting to begin.

mary angela douglas 17 november 2019