Alicean

they will spin you round in a teacup frenzy
as if they knew you from way back when
and sift you off into the categories

but you don't fit in.
in your pale blue with the ruffled lace
they think you're really out of place

and wont even let you pour the tea
much less drink it.
ah misery. thy name is dreams gone awry.

and being made to say goodbye
to those who managed to make you cry
in the guise of lessons you never asked for anyway.

but you're not one to go sighing about the riverbanks
in the pale quotidians, the aftermath of song.
the picnic falling apart off the seams

except for the cream puff pastries you redeemed
knowing there must be something good in it
if it happened to you at all.

mary angela douglas 28 february 2020

FOR RAY BRADBURY IN HIS IMMEMORIAL CENTENNIAL YEAR

in the centennial year of your fire balloon, Life!, over an

horizon invisible drifting

in the year of the twining of green leaves over the avenues

still o Waukegan:

the census of shadows librarian-hushed

the dawns of summers made more heavenly on earth

by your prescient absence, Ray we remember

not only the stories but that they came from you

infused with eternal sunniness even in dungeons or up on

treeless Mars where we must be if we be at all the green

mornings ourselves or in many storied Araby or,

or carnival crowned, enamoured of

the baked bread aromas of home or the zig zag electric

loveliness, that Feeling: young or old, Chaplinesque, a trifle

whimsical after the manner of Pickwick or

with Icarus enthroned far from the green-blue, the troubling

seas

to be the first one up

to see the stars and street light diminishments.

there is no diminishment though you can't count time by

dandelions anymore by the vintage year stored.

but we can

when we read you still. and when,

treading on the mystical lawns.

we dream on.

mary angela douglas 28 february 2020

Legend

I dream of a Lady all blue and gold
she carries a crystal jar up to Heaven
containing the tears of small children

it never stops over

the children would gather field flowers for her
if they could, the gold tasseled ones and the cornflowers blue;
but they live in a hole

and cry themselves to sleep.

mary angela douglas 27 february 2020

THE BEAUTIFUL SORROWFUL

the beautiful sorrowful has come to rest in a world ice cold.
imperceptibly the glaciers will melt.
flooding the Spring.

mary angela douglas 26 february 2020

Perhaps They Think Us Scattered

perhaps they think us scattered
but light itself is scattered like a veil of opals
by God Himself through so many prismed raindrops

all the time perhaps you think one thought does not connect
to another in a reasonable blueprint in our minds   
but then we're not making blueprints, but song

and in the multiplicity of notes, the veering back
to childhood themes and variations on a star
we come to no decisive point but dissolve into dreams.

and thus, we are happy in a world beyond our means.

you in your scheming to deride us propose
we are silly and will never attain the pinnacles
while we admire the blue lights over the hills

cast by twilights we can never cease warbling about
you think from your armchair in your study the cigar smoke curling around
your head in ordered hieroglyphics much to be admired.

but I know the roses twine in me and in old stories of the antique kind
there are so many primrose bordered paths that do not betray.
what is so inconstant as woman grand operas say

to the point of tedium. yet in our wandering, wondering souls
God does at times make his abode and finds relief from schoolroom lectures
in our infinite, our charmed and chattering gardens.

mary angela douglas 26 february 2020

Clarion

who wanted to live on a wrap around porch with a sea green awning
yawning always waking from dreams to the honeycomb on the toast
spread liberally

could understand how it felt when the roses chimed exquisitely
in the garden beyond all memories
and the sun in egg yolk splendor rose  to the occasion

behind the nations of pine we called our own or

making a tearose splash in the heavens, another backdrop formed;
who is painting the scenes backstage we know cherishing
the children remember the scent of grass when their grandfather

cut the lawn and telstar roved behind  violet clouds

we were told to study hard and that all things tend toward delight
when you are truly learning and we were
such boarders on the pages ourselves full of the red rose

random meteors

and the speculative of clouds going over.like so many color forms
soon without knowing anything of shadows anymore
we know this may emerge out of a silk screened sky

and cirrus lovely from

the corner of the eye that is glad that
we may see the traffic of angels on a sudden ladder suspended
our flight trails cancelled on an endless tack deferred

done with the faltering of old bridges on earth. oh then

may we arise in Easter colours dyed our imaginations still holy
in an arriving music invincible
over the brief world with love with love
looking, looking back.

mary angela douglas 25 february 2020

The Interim

somewhere there is a golden tree
that silver birds anoint with song
a mist that opens on a stage

an infinite gilding of the day
and starbright children still at play
and I want to go there

winged with all wishes and I want to know
there that God meant time for happiness
and nothing else

and then I will read all the books on the shelf
so that all colours rise from the pages mingled
the sounds of flutes and trumpets, acutely bright

the sound of the piano in its autumn sonatas played

while the morning glories on the fence are trumpeting too
the glory glories and we inherit all the stories
where wrongs are righted where love is plighted

and lives on
where nothing and no one is missing from the feast
and then we'll know the soul's release.

as we know only now the tinsel in dreams
partly in the shade part light our names turned inward, questioning
preparing for flight.

mary angela douglas 25 february 2020

Choir

we dressed our dolls the best we could
in our enchanted neighborhood
and carried them both fro and to

in doll carriages of pink and blue
(we wished) or in
the same red wagon we both knew.

something in the sidewalks near our house
glinted like gold or mica in the sun
late summer days we stayed inside

and drank cool drinks and dressed the bride
for weddings that would never come
but still she was the favored one

and carried firmly her bouquet
on every single solitary day
the most persistent of them all

we always took her to the ball
where she danced solo to applause.
and all the other dolls agreed

in 15 part harmonies if you can imagine that.

mary angela douglas  29 february 2020

Still, The Watcher

all the words I've ever read
all the music that I've heard
lodges in my soul forever

blue jay feather mocking bird.
small steps taken in the sunlight
by the guardian trees at home

I still keep though home has vanished
I am my own Rosetta stone.
rings of trees, light caught in amber

remnants of the honeycombed
stowed inside in winter weather
kept my failing heart, alone.

snow that fell in flower cups
frost that fell before their time
blossom still like starlight in me

gold and silver in my rhyme.
asking nothing fame nor fortune
just to walk beneath the stars

still I watch and still the Watcher
watches over me and mine.

mary angela douglas 19 february 2020

I Ate Words

I ate words.
you use what you have.
under the bitter the lemon coloured moon.

I ate words. or wove them on a loom

to make fine cloth
though not of gold but golden
illuminated, like icons.

sometimes I put them in a salad.
then I was the princess along a reedy bank
gathering sweet grasses for soup. or wild onions.

spoken to almost by little birds

soupcons of light.
I was led
to drink water

from fair streams
and in the end I dreamed of home.
feeling less alone.

mary angela douglas 18 february 2020

A Parable

some people fell into a hole
as big as the grand canyon
only the cliffs were made of glass.

people came by occasionally
to count how many people were in the hole.
oh there you still are some of them said

they had really nice clip boards.
sometimes they threw blankets down
ones made of recyclable material the color of dung

stay warm they said.
months went by, years
sometimes the canyon flooded

some people came by with cans of mixed vegetables.
as the hole people went under.
or yelled down,

anybody need a bag of toiletries.
how bout some socks? one packet of oatmeal?

when they drowned God sent a shining ladder.
angel escorts.
they floated out.

mary angela douglas 18 february 2020

Rising and Falling

no one says falling into wealth
as they say falling into poverty
wealth is rising wealth is enterprising

wealth is better than God
face it God doesnt know any better
he loves the rich and poor just the same

what's wrong with Him
maybe He needs help with His mental health issues
maybe somebody needs to show Him how to make a budget

Wealth is rising
Jesus was on the cross and then he rose
oh that's different

It sure is.

mary angela douglas 18 february 2020

Ah How It Feels

ah how it feels to be moved about the board as if you
were a game piece in someone else's war
and they want you somewhere else

so as not to spoil the view
and ah the greatest sorrow is
they dont see you as you

but a thousand categories all aligned
and not a single star that shines 
shines down, on you

according to statistics and their expert
point of view.
ah.

God in His heaven preserve us still
from those who move us by their will
to be surrounded by the very rich

and not by those who dream in a ditch.

mary angela douglas 17 february 2020
Crystal Towers Public Housing
Winston Salem, NC

MAIS QUE NADA (FINAL DRAFT)

there's a nihilistic feeling in the samba

perhaps the moon is too near

the pane of glass will break

old crystal too will disappear

you'll keep on singing

even if you dont want to

like the girl in red shoes

whirls to the cathedral and past it

there's a nihilistic feeling in the samba

and notes like glittering beads

a melody thats circuitous

and a cross that bleeds.

a carnival with angular faces

all this rain blowing over

I heard the music on the way over

at the mournful harbor I was coming to

that part in the song in the city of song;

weeping trumpets too.

mists over piers

the years and years

its made of black stars whoever you are

its crossed with amber but not with gold

its so old slander pretending to be new

lace fans deployed on the avenue

it goes on and on

that samba song.

mary angela douglas 16 februay 2020

Mais Que Nada

there's a nihilistic feeling in the samba

perhaps the moon is too near

the pane of glass will break

old crystal too will disappear 

you'll keep on dancing

even if you dont want to

like the girl in red shoes

whirls to the cathedral and past it

there's a nihilistic feeling in the samba

a holiday with no meaning

and glittering beads

a carnival with angular faces

all this rain blowing over

a cross that bleeds.

I heard the music drifting across the water

at the mournful harbor I was ooming to

that part in the song in the city of song;

lost trumpets too.

its made of black stars whoever you are

its crossed with silver but not with gold

its so old pretending to be new

lace fans deployed on the avenue

it goes on and on

that samba song.

mary angela douglas 16 februay 2020

Colours

I listen to colours to the sound of leaves
wind brambled and remember walking through brief
meadows up the hill

to shattering traffic the feeling of mechanical wheels
yet still when it thundered the color was rose
i have passed all the vast equations strewn on the green boards

and understood not even fractions but I know it is certain good
to listen to colours to the sound of leaves wind brambled
to walk through meadows and the cherry trees up ahead the

pink through the fence glimpsed to return home
with your skirt full of brambles and the thorns of small plants
having no other defense than this

to recount to no one listening but with such happiness
I have walked in the beautiful places
and I have not been ashamed.

mary angela douglas 18 february 2020

What I Knew Before And Remember Now

it's a glorious rarity: the time to be still.
ro give up the will entirely.
to require nothing.

a view with soft clouds.even if only inferred
and nothing loud.
not even a seashell's  roar

of far off  tiny waves.
no rave reviews.
no chosen few.

the pearl of quiet.
even the leafy boughs with no wind.
gone are the ragged edges caused by

eternally fending for oneself
fending off enemies the real and the perceived.
the need for comment on every single thing.

there at the core behind your own door closed
no one could know even if you were still on earth.
then you are like a stone enduring what you endured

not feeling it.

alternately stone or star Rainier Maria Rilke said.
you listen to him though the printed word
which is most certainly music in his case at least.

you listen until you understand.time can cease without your being dead.
you can be on the other side and this is peace;
that being still is what you wanted to do anyway.

through this, beauty comes. unbidden.

and if it rains you dont close the windows
so that the evening can come through.

mary angela douglas 15 february 2020

Reporting Back

I can report on how it feels
to barely miss the Giant's heel
to sit for hours in reverie

observing the clouds

observing me
to love the slipshod river run
under the melting summer sun

to float on words a kind of sea
to ransom stricken liberty
to dream that I will always be

at home with only poetry
to catch like a mirror the silver hour
to bow before no earthly power

to keep the fairy tales alive
for which so many saints have died.
to know that happy endings still

were ever only God's true will.

This Is My Valentine

maybe I may be falling through the grid
while pastel houses on pale wheels subside
and the sun no longer a gold medallion

in my collection
maybe I will be living without pay
still living

is living
and blue skies with their attendant bluebirds
I pay attention to today I always will

and singing is singing still
even when you can't stay put
in the box they made

just for you.
I see coloured streamers on the wind as if it is Earth's own party
I know a million games of let's pretend

that the world is better than it is
each time, we always win.

I know its not a sin to think like this
with Eden in my mind green beyond all greens
and the Snake's hiss gone.

I dream I dreamed

the gates were unlocked Forever
and in the worst of weather
the bells all chimed.

to all my friends this is my endeavor.
this Is my Valentine.

mary angela douglas 14 february 2020

I Have Photographs

there will be scattered shot
a pause like the one in music but delayed
frayed consciousness

while under pink clouds men weep openly.
you made this up I heard someone say.
but this happened in a dream or in someone's newsreel

early in a century. I have photographs.

mary angela douglas 13 february 2020

This Is

the arc of the story is like a crystal bridge
you would go over if you could
though forlorn angels

tell you gently no.it's no good; sugared over 
but it tastes like poison.
this is not it though it shine like Christmas

this is not the door leading to

another door painted in gold.
this is laid with mines.
this is blueness in the afternoon

the hives in frost.

appearing after rhe long rains,
clouds in their blooming a certain
translucence of the heart

the ozone hint of storms to come
in the coda at last the scent of violets by

the dubious shelter
trees crumpling into the distance

this is I cannot say in words
what happened.
not even to myself.

mary angela douglas 13 february 2020

What If We Weren't Meant To Be That Perfect

what if we werent meant to be that perfect
what if it is enough to be as perfect as a star
knowing your place

giving off light because it's what you are
it's what you do in Space then
becoming a nova or a firefly in a jar

or whatever transposition He deems necessary.

how perfect is it can it be
that we are of this world a handful of dust
yet not meant to stay

clay that can talk and move about
be filled with doubt or with all the colours.

you can explain it all away if you want to.
I just can't.
we are dust that dreams.

explain that.

mary angela douglas 13 february 2020

For Those Who Wrote The Poetry Of Rain

for those who wrote the poetry of rain
as if they mingled with it I write
each small refrain for those

who spoke in the language of clouds
I whisper this aloud
and with the wind to them I send

each's line's regal end

that is no ending.
for those who lived
the fragrance of the rose

the root the stem
the metamorphosis and then who
could who did dispose

with one phrase a world of woe
I dedicate my life as Rilke said
far beyond strife to live and

to go on knowing.
words, as the vessels of the Lord
contain all Beauty.

and enduring love.

mary angela douglas 8 february 2020

I DON'T DREAM IN POLITICS

I don't dream in politics
in the dead letter post office words
the messages for the consumers

the bought and paid for birds.
forever turning the dial on no living colors.
bear with me awhile if you want to

I dream in poetry
in what it was before the cawing doves took over
and exploited it for slogan gold

fools gold I cried with Bradbury by my side
and the Holy Ghost too. the reft Imagination
ever and ever shining through and presiding, still

there are worlds on worlds where there are no elections

and no government too.
where the soul rules with God above it.
where beauty rules with no crown

but virtue.
where at the heart of things
I sing with multitudes rainbow shriven for the King of Kings.

mary angela douglas 8 february 2020

To Virginia Woolf, Again

"her hands moving beautifully through the teacups"
I read this line in a book by Virginia Woolf. it was her first one.
well; who could drown that line.

or others, cathedral lit.
the colorist, sublime.
did you ever read her really

I bite my tongue not to ask
her critics first and last
and I'm still wondering

about all of that.
I dont think you heard a word I said
I seem to hear her delicately peal and laugh

watching the inward rose bloom outward
far from Time at tea, with Lytton.

dressed in blue as the Heavens are blue
and in a bright mood ever.
her hands moving beautifully through

another page of wonder.
snow on snow.

mary angela douglas 8 february 2020

We Wept Jewels

flying over oz we could see the patchwork fields
they shone like jewels
we wept jewels too.

now in the afternoon the bleak clouds scud
the children play in the mud and have no memories.
to me it seems a dream or less than;  one in fragments.

figments.

somewhere in the world there may be evidence.
a rose shard or a lemon one from the kaleidoscope
we hardly turned

a photograph, a wisp of emerald petticoat shining through.
a tip toe shoe.

I leave it up to the collectors and I sigh that

the riddle remains itself.
I put that book up on the shelf
and watch the evening

petal of the moon unfold
though everything else has grown too old
and tatters greet us bought and sold

the best remains unproved
that we wept jewels.
I know is true.

and by myself, without a doubt
living the mystery out

mary angela douglas 8 february 2020

The Next Moon Is The Snow Moon

the next moon is the snow moon the subheading read
and I feel sublunar to the chilling wind is all I said
not caring so much about adding to my store of knowledge.

the next moon is the snow moon the next song you hear
written by ice cold angels in the stratosphere
I want to hear the music of the snow

to see the moon in a halo of frost, rainbow painted
and know the saints are nearby
I do not want to cry when the next moon flies

I will be stoical when the snow moon lingers on
the length of a crystal song
and when the snow moon

and the lilac branching cloud it rests upon
are ghosting ghosting gone.
whistling me down the wind o
I am not your falcon.

mary angela douglas 6 february 2020

Drifts

though I am lost as though I never learned directions

as if the weather vanes had taken flight

off the main trail with no illumination

losing all bearings overnight.

gone are the tracks before me others made

clear in the snow each imprint bright as bright

gone are the traces now that cheered me

gone are all landmarks out of sight.

how will I know where fences were or houses

how will I recognize the sound of wolves

everything fades from the familiar highways

everything vanished into the tangled woods.

still is the night and yet it is not Christmas.

stars behind clouds have locked themselves away.

when everything beautiful I cherished

was made and unmade within a single day.

why is it now your presence feels like drifting

cryptic the chords I can no longer arrange

yet I strike the flint of dreams past grieving when

sometimes your shadow shines like the blaze of day.

mary angela douglas 6 february 2020

mary angela douglas 6 february 2020

To Virginia Woolf On The Voyage Out

the distance between the words is the way you had come
the way you had been led thinking that you had time
that time was a kind of ocean that you were on

and so you floated there or were dashed by waves
or you went under only to emerge once more to the air
in a hidden mermaid music beyond despair and published

and the sunlight no longer filtering

through dark green waters
then you made ripples ripples that disappeared
and other things disappeared too, with you

leaving their imprint on your mind your heart like a spare
consciousness or on ours or on mine
your floating fleeting heart known only to God

the hidden mast who asked oh daughter of the wave
what brought you here

rippling and rippling
out of time at last.
and crowned with the flowering of language.


mary angela douglas 3 february 2020

Wish Come True;Please Do

a pistachio house
with a bon bon pink roof
I would like to live in

wont you take a look
at all the classifieds
far and near

next door to the library
without peer.
and in this house so many rooms

to fill with books
from night to noon
books with pictures

for winter glooms
scholarly books for
the summa cums.

quaint books too
and heraldic lore.
stories fantastic to the core.

and rent so low
for more books you know
tied up with a bow.
and quiet as snow.
rose tree rooted
(utilities included)
.

mary angela douglas 2 february 2020