(After Aesop)
Be careful when one wolf is warning you about another wolf
behind the bush in the picture book story
and the warning wolf has a halo in the picture book
so that it is a reformed wolf or not a wolf at all,
oh! you say to yourself
(having been taught well at school):
an evolved species!!
a tame one and now you're besties.
besties with the beastie.and can lead him around
on a leash of rose petals, yes you can.
while he offers his paw, shyly to strangers.
and you eat custard together in the wintertime
at some little cafe and strawberries (turn the page)
and are convinced by the splashing tears at the corners of his tear ducts
and the water stains they make on his refined suede and
blood red vest and he
is softly bleating, putting your fears to rest
and as soothing as your mother, at her best on the days
she made apple pies
and so concerned about you or I that you will be safe
from the bush wolf who is really, by comparison,
only a cartoon.
remember, although childish logic may tell you earnestly
that the warning wolf is your rescuer and that the proof
of that is how kind he is to warn you about the other one
malingering...
that:
it is possible for one wolf who is even more ravenous
to solicitously and with his fur combed quite down
and extensive dental work having been done on his fangs
to whisper sentimentally to you and with blue blue violets
with fresh honey from the hive
about the dastardly one who is so dangerous and then
eat you alive
before he swallows down and picking delicately at the bones
the bushie wolf too.
mary angela douglas 30 may 2020
Sunday, May 31, 2020
Saturday, May 30, 2020
Like Endless Words In Flight
I love branching conversations
and when the birds in vast migrations
come to settle there
there is jeweled singing.
I sing there too in emerald enumerations
or float with clouds
over the brimming oceans and, as they recede
and in backward motion back in Time
elliptical and dreamed by God'
I still want
I want to be that kind of flowering
they will say you are off topic as if I were in a business
meeting.
I think it is strange to be that stationary
when we could be all rivers rushing down to the sea
if we chose to be or
holding on to the golden thread through the labyrinth
and that is poetry the way it feels to me
under the Pearl and watchful Eye of God
the way it always turned like an opal in my imagination
or the moon set like a jewel, glinting
on the rim of night; or like endless words in flight.
mary angela douglas 30 may 2020
and when the birds in vast migrations
come to settle there
there is jeweled singing.
I sing there too in emerald enumerations
or float with clouds
over the brimming oceans and, as they recede
and in backward motion back in Time
elliptical and dreamed by God'
I still want
I want to be that kind of flowering
they will say you are off topic as if I were in a business
meeting.
I think it is strange to be that stationary
when we could be all rivers rushing down to the sea
if we chose to be or
holding on to the golden thread through the labyrinth
and that is poetry the way it feels to me
under the Pearl and watchful Eye of God
the way it always turned like an opal in my imagination
or the moon set like a jewel, glinting
on the rim of night; or like endless words in flight.
mary angela douglas 30 may 2020
Recurring Lifelong Dream
you're in that dream again.
the tsunami's coming
you're the only one who knows.
or at least a major flood
of historical proportions. you have mere seconds to warn
them, all the shell gatherers;the children in their school
clothes
you go down on the beach or downtown
the tsunami's coming
you're the only one who knows.
or at least a major flood
of historical proportions. you have mere seconds to warn
them, all the shell gatherers;the children in their school
clothes
you go down on the beach or downtown
to the glass buildings
to tell them all. that there's a squall
and all the bridges will wash out this time.
but just like in the sundial day
no one registers what you say
or pays you any mind
because you're not a major player
in anyone's flow chart,
come what may.
still you persist in a dreamlike way
it will be like this, you say:
by the grey and ominous coasts
while the wind gathers speed and the Holy Ghost
or on the pavements and trying not to bleed
when you've done all you can to plead;
is there another way to phrase it?.
so they will understand. you beat your head
you can see the tip of the wave descend
and inevitability
is written in streaked sorrow across the clouds
and the lemon lighted window panes.
to tell them all. that there's a squall
and all the bridges will wash out this time.
but just like in the sundial day
no one registers what you say
or pays you any mind
because you're not a major player
in anyone's flow chart,
come what may.
still you persist in a dreamlike way
it will be like this, you say:
laying the blueprint out in full detail.
but they are intractable
and doze deep in their own waves
and brush you away not even like a fly
certainly not like one of the emerald ones
or the blue bottles of etymological fame.
there you are. a ghost not a meteor
but they are intractable
and doze deep in their own waves
and brush you away not even like a fly
certainly not like one of the emerald ones
or the blue bottles of etymological fame.
there you are. a ghost not a meteor
lighting up no sky.
swinging a lantern, bye and bye
swinging a lantern, bye and bye
by the grey and ominous coasts
while the wind gathers speed and the Holy Ghost
or on the pavements and trying not to bleed
when you've done all you can to plead;
is there another way to phrase it?.
so they will understand. you beat your head
against the stone of words all in a tone deaf land
and know you're not even barely heard
against the gusts and all the protocols and the musts.
it's happening again.
you can see the tip of the wave descend
and inevitability
is written in streaked sorrow across the clouds
and the lemon lighted window panes.
the doors flapping open...
you scramble to safety up the dunes
and wake up in your room a small Noah after the rainbows.
a wilted Cassandra bloom
and burst into tears that no one listened again
even when their lives hinged on it.
mary angela douglas 30 may 2020
you scramble to safety up the dunes
and wake up in your room a small Noah after the rainbows.
a wilted Cassandra bloom
and burst into tears that no one listened again
even when their lives hinged on it.
mary angela douglas 30 may 2020
AFTER THE MANNER OF ILYA KABAKOV
this is the glass and the frame around it.
shatter the glass.
rescue the dream people.
carry them out on the green grass
near the fountains.
let there be singing.
mary angela douglas 30 may 2020
shatter the glass.
rescue the dream people.
carry them out on the green grass
near the fountains.
let there be singing.
mary angela douglas 30 may 2020
Friday, May 29, 2020
The Radiant Bicycles On The Moon
(for Ray Bradbury)
the radiant bicycles on the moon
have interrupted my sleep three times this week already
when I wonder who is riding them and where
jostled awake by the dream pantomimes
I can't answer for there
we could be mystified by the green and blue hula hoops
in their orbits
and is the moon the substance of ice cream double scooped
without the Hershey syrup?
oh golden vanilla; blueberry stars, are there bicycle bells in
tandem with the ice cream bars the way it was once on earth
I dreamed of typewriter ampersands in gold and the quick brown fox
when we could choose from among the frozen treats
with Grandfather's dimes or when seated
in the green hosed gardens
we could be helping ourselves to desserts like Floating Island
Or Cherries Jubilee at least in the magazines.
maybe I won't sleep through the night again the child
in the sundress
but stay awake in the matinees assessing the avenues of the
moon, oh shades of the orangeade! where there are no
mutinies except for Beauty's sake, or the toy trains running through
the platted town on either side of the rails
the pedestrians there in parabolic colours...
the seersuckers in pastels. forgive me when
i drift off at the closing bell
forgive me if I sleep past noon skipping the malteds,
the crispy BLTs (that's bacon, lettuce and tomato
on buttered toast points)
and wander about the lunar surfaces in my sleep or wonder(
if the citizens miss the turning of leaves in an emerald wind
and won't they come home soon, because of that.
mary angela douglas 29 may 2020
the radiant bicycles on the moon
have interrupted my sleep three times this week already
when I wonder who is riding them and where
jostled awake by the dream pantomimes
I can't answer for there
we could be mystified by the green and blue hula hoops
in their orbits
and is the moon the substance of ice cream double scooped
without the Hershey syrup?
oh golden vanilla; blueberry stars, are there bicycle bells in
tandem with the ice cream bars the way it was once on earth
I dreamed of typewriter ampersands in gold and the quick brown fox
when we could choose from among the frozen treats
with Grandfather's dimes or when seated
in the green hosed gardens
we could be helping ourselves to desserts like Floating Island
Or Cherries Jubilee at least in the magazines.
maybe I won't sleep through the night again the child
in the sundress
but stay awake in the matinees assessing the avenues of the
moon, oh shades of the orangeade! where there are no
mutinies except for Beauty's sake, or the toy trains running through
the platted town on either side of the rails
the pedestrians there in parabolic colours...
the seersuckers in pastels. forgive me when
i drift off at the closing bell
forgive me if I sleep past noon skipping the malteds,
the crispy BLTs (that's bacon, lettuce and tomato
on buttered toast points)
and wander about the lunar surfaces in my sleep or wonder(
if the citizens miss the turning of leaves in an emerald wind
and won't they come home soon, because of that.
mary angela douglas 29 may 2020
Wednesday, May 27, 2020
Second Sight
I have seen angels hidden in the room
quell interrogations with their sudden snows
and fasten the stars back into the broken skies.
the medallions on the ceilings.
I have seen nations lie and private nations too and reeling,
and cul de sacs where despair was cultivated by many
and force fed to the few.
.
I have seen it like a film that does not end
I have seen it like a film that does not end
a film I've never been in, not with my soul.
I have seen shadow boxes of fragrant gardens made
and wanted to live there myself apart from the census takers
but I could not make myself small again like Alice
I have seen the sky fallen into crystal pieces and
this was my heart caving in though it was termed an ice storm
on the weather radio and you will say now
my words don't make sense but I know I am mapping the
truth of how things felt back then
following the careers of the prisoners of conscience;
and I know, metaphorically speaking.
I am accurate.
mary angela douglas 27 may 2020
Imagination Is A High Tower
imagination is a high tower we do not ask to be rescued from
we will live on there safe from harm
where small birds come to the windows and eat from our hand
the honeyed crumbs and the bread so delicate. and fairy fed
the nectars bloom and fill the room unexpectedly on the
slightest breeze, mischance turned to dancing:
while the moon sings on, in ivory.
whether the astronauts return or not.
imagination is our dower let skeptics pass by who think that
money made the hour;who think it folly to fly on one
embroidered wing above all drudgery.
let them trudge on believing in the merely possible
beyond the ambrosial door, the roseate stair.
our whole life long
we will repair to Thee
most high most beautiful mystery.
and also by decree perhaps the most opulent
refuge God provides
to those who ride with Him.
mary angela douglas 26 may 2020
we will live on there safe from harm
where small birds come to the windows and eat from our hand
the honeyed crumbs and the bread so delicate. and fairy fed
the nectars bloom and fill the room unexpectedly on the
slightest breeze, mischance turned to dancing:
while the moon sings on, in ivory.
whether the astronauts return or not.
imagination is our dower let skeptics pass by who think that
money made the hour;who think it folly to fly on one
embroidered wing above all drudgery.
let them trudge on believing in the merely possible
beyond the ambrosial door, the roseate stair.
our whole life long
we will repair to Thee
most high most beautiful mystery.
and also by decree perhaps the most opulent
refuge God provides
to those who ride with Him.
mary angela douglas 26 may 2020
Tuesday, May 26, 2020
God In Our Infancy
who else could write in purple ink on clouds of gold
when we were only barely four or five years old
or send our shadows sideways in the past
when we were playing tag on dew drenched grass.
or singing carols in a stained glass light
or hearing angel lullabies so faintly
late at night.
without theology, or saying our prayers right.
we did our best to bless the trees and sky
and pray for all who loved us by and by
we drifted in our dreams. and watched the rain
pour silver into streams and down the sleep filled lanes
and felt the kingdom radiant of His shadow ease
small childhood pains
from our cribs; the creche and manger comfort
that was His
when gazing out the window at the stars
and feeling sure he couldn't be that far
we knew Him early; still his moonlit wayward
children oh we are.
mary angela douglas 27 may 2020;rev. 1 june 2020
when we were only barely four or five years old
or send our shadows sideways in the past
when we were playing tag on dew drenched grass.
or singing carols in a stained glass light
or hearing angel lullabies so faintly
late at night.
without theology, or saying our prayers right.
we did our best to bless the trees and sky
and pray for all who loved us by and by
we drifted in our dreams. and watched the rain
pour silver into streams and down the sleep filled lanes
and felt the kingdom radiant of His shadow ease
small childhood pains
from our cribs; the creche and manger comfort
that was His
when gazing out the window at the stars
and feeling sure he couldn't be that far
we knew Him early; still his moonlit wayward
children oh we are.
mary angela douglas 27 may 2020;rev. 1 june 2020
I Remember Everything
there could be another life than this if you would just turn
like the teacher said back to the beginning of the book
when Orange Crush soda matched perfectly
the orange nasturtiums on the lawn and our Grandfather called them
surprise flowers because we were always surprised to see them
whether in orange, deep pink or perfect purple.
it took a long time to pronounce them correctly
but the flowers never seemed to mind.
and I remember how I felt when the wind blew softly then.
through the pines
angels are fanning your face I wanted to say to everyone in Space
or just
in our house that was made of rose brick and holidays and picture windows
and clocks that ticked exactly like Emily said in the play Our Town.
oh morning has got her maple red gown on too the children's poetry book sighed
and seemed to tell us the secret music of everything
or else my Grandmother did. her hands moving over the keys
to Liszt's eternal dreams of love or else she was Scherezade
and we the happy spectators.
you will say because you love to say the things that are not
that this is not true. that valentines were not made and crayoned in
for the deserving few.when storm clouds rolled in like licorice.
but I witnessed them.
and I remember everything.
I do.
mary angela douglas 26 may 2020
like the teacher said back to the beginning of the book
when Orange Crush soda matched perfectly
the orange nasturtiums on the lawn and our Grandfather called them
surprise flowers because we were always surprised to see them
whether in orange, deep pink or perfect purple.
it took a long time to pronounce them correctly
but the flowers never seemed to mind.
and I remember how I felt when the wind blew softly then.
through the pines
angels are fanning your face I wanted to say to everyone in Space
or just
in our house that was made of rose brick and holidays and picture windows
and clocks that ticked exactly like Emily said in the play Our Town.
oh morning has got her maple red gown on too the children's poetry book sighed
and seemed to tell us the secret music of everything
or else my Grandmother did. her hands moving over the keys
to Liszt's eternal dreams of love or else she was Scherezade
and we the happy spectators.
you will say because you love to say the things that are not
that this is not true. that valentines were not made and crayoned in
for the deserving few.when storm clouds rolled in like licorice.
but I witnessed them.
and I remember everything.
I do.
mary angela douglas 26 may 2020
Learning Our Letters Or Dreaming That We Did
we wanted the alphabet written in rosebuds
like icing on a cake
like sparklers at noon
out dazzling the sun
or caked in sand with a ruffle of wave.
it's hard to say in sounds you may believe
what learning the letters meant to us back then.
but I still feel that way.
let them spell out the birthday of the beautiful
in pale green candles lit
or be the flickering of the shadow of leaves
on a garden wall.
let them bloom with the violets
under the sudden snows. the least birdsong you heard.
and ever after, let it be the Christmas of Words.
mary angela douglas 26 may 2020
like icing on a cake
like sparklers at noon
out dazzling the sun
or caked in sand with a ruffle of wave.
it's hard to say in sounds you may believe
what learning the letters meant to us back then.
but I still feel that way.
let them spell out the birthday of the beautiful
in pale green candles lit
or be the flickering of the shadow of leaves
on a garden wall.
let them bloom with the violets
under the sudden snows. the least birdsong you heard.
and ever after, let it be the Christmas of Words.
mary angela douglas 26 may 2020
Monday, May 25, 2020
Pity, Isosceles, You Are No Greek Play
pity, isoceles you are no Greek play
only an angle on a page I cannot fathom
as easily as I fathom clouds
the sound of my grandfather mowing our lawn
and leaving the clover alone
the mint in the garden
the rose as still the rose.
pity that I cannot understand
the need for theorems
when music is at hand
the blue jay or the mocking birds
heard from our back porch
the tack of silver winds
near summer drone of bees
the soda pop poured, the ease of new magazines
and more than these
the bubble up of Time
when textbooks won't be needed
and all my reading will be the books I choose
and all these angles a mere interlude.
mary angela douglas 25 may 2020
only an angle on a page I cannot fathom
as easily as I fathom clouds
the sound of my grandfather mowing our lawn
and leaving the clover alone
the mint in the garden
the rose as still the rose.
pity that I cannot understand
the need for theorems
when music is at hand
the blue jay or the mocking birds
heard from our back porch
the tack of silver winds
near summer drone of bees
the soda pop poured, the ease of new magazines
and more than these
the bubble up of Time
when textbooks won't be needed
and all my reading will be the books I choose
and all these angles a mere interlude.
mary angela douglas 25 may 2020
Sunday, May 24, 2020
Chemistry 101 And The Resultant Daydreams
the truth in precipitate out of any solution I have long sought
or a pink titration or an amethyst one
or the mortar and pestle of the sun
a fairy tale meditation upon
the endless radical perfection of the periodic table
pulled down suddenly on a Wednesday a fantastical
visual aid that changed my life that day.
all that I was able to absorb in Chemistry class I did
as it became crystalline, latticed, with the electrons whirling
around a center of pearl it was to me that dazzling and allusive
though I couldn't balance the equations or be trusted with the
Bunsen burner or so I was told. who cares,
or a pink titration or an amethyst one
or the mortar and pestle of the sun
a fairy tale meditation upon
the endless radical perfection of the periodic table
pulled down suddenly on a Wednesday a fantastical
visual aid that changed my life that day.
all that I was able to absorb in Chemistry class I did
as it became crystalline, latticed, with the electrons whirling
around a center of pearl it was to me that dazzling and allusive
though I couldn't balance the equations or be trusted with the
Bunsen burner or so I was told. who cares,
let mold GROW on the Petri dish.
it's all alchemy I thought;
everything's turning to gold.
mary angela douglas 24 may 2020
it's all alchemy I thought;
everything's turning to gold.
mary angela douglas 24 may 2020
To Modern Psyhology: Keep Off The Jeweled Grass
I wonder how it is oh most inexact and contradictory science
you could ever imagine to map the routes
Almighty God has taken through my mind
my soul, which you barely acknowledge at any time
the unexplained detours the inexplicable dazzling of the
pavements of diamond
the dizzying swaying bridge over my own
particular Amazon with its hibiscus groves
its foreign birds weeping in multicolours
and the scarlet ibis flown.
the sudden ravines, the abandoned houses
with the windows broken in where the crabapple blooms
have gotten in; where the sweet honeysuckle twines
by the playground swings. so many things you'll never
find the codes to and this sign says KEEP OUT.
do you think you can trace the circuit of the sun
before human history had begun or answer the parables put to Job
and do YOU know the storehouses of the snow
and where He keeps his springs which bubble up in me
continually and are anything but aberrant.
take your unjeweled periscopes home your clinical
all assuming stares
and leave me alone in the lemon groves with my Father of Lights
you cannot even begin to know the way we have taken
through prophetic nights and the Magi did not listen to you either
whoever you think you are blind bat or mole ferreting it all out
or if they had, they would have missed the Star.
mary angela douglas 24 may 2020
with the single exception of the wonderful Carl Jung.
you could ever imagine to map the routes
Almighty God has taken through my mind
my soul, which you barely acknowledge at any time
the unexplained detours the inexplicable dazzling of the
pavements of diamond
the dizzying swaying bridge over my own
particular Amazon with its hibiscus groves
its foreign birds weeping in multicolours
and the scarlet ibis flown.
the sudden ravines, the abandoned houses
with the windows broken in where the crabapple blooms
have gotten in; where the sweet honeysuckle twines
by the playground swings. so many things you'll never
find the codes to and this sign says KEEP OUT.
do you think you can trace the circuit of the sun
before human history had begun or answer the parables put to Job
and do YOU know the storehouses of the snow
and where He keeps his springs which bubble up in me
continually and are anything but aberrant.
take your unjeweled periscopes home your clinical
all assuming stares
and leave me alone in the lemon groves with my Father of Lights
you cannot even begin to know the way we have taken
through prophetic nights and the Magi did not listen to you either
whoever you think you are blind bat or mole ferreting it all out
or if they had, they would have missed the Star.
mary angela douglas 24 may 2020
with the single exception of the wonderful Carl Jung.
Turning A Magic Key In A Stubborn Lock (Final Draft)
turning a magic key in a stubborn lock I whispered
God is free and it unlocked; God is everywhere and
suddenly I was in a land where the sun shone
gold at His command incomparably
and the fields were glittering. and the birds chirped
why do you labor at your books when you can so easily fall into them
as into drifts of snow or flowers where everything you know or thought you did
suddenly comes unbidden. stars in showers; illuminations over the castles
and you, the castle keep.
turning a magic key that day that hour that infinity
I learned to say it all belongs to God: whisper His name with love like a child who tugs at a Sleeve to see
all the vast kingdoms
and you will see: He is the magic the magic key
you only have to ask for surpassing beauty.
mary angela douglas 24 may 2020
Friday, May 22, 2020
Not In Plenary Praise Of The Gossips Oh, Lord, No
protect us from eternal gossips Lord
who seem to appear in every scene of the play
and speak in code amongst each other
in front of our faces in the train stations
in the grocery aisle where we just smile
and wish good day to those who watch us
on our way ready for another foray
into the ridiculed life they imagine for us.
spare us those who secretly deplore us.
surely you muse. rage they always take center stage
somehow loitering in the golden rays of evening's
lapsing suns
oh every ONE of you. cant you just stop snickering long enough
to watch the moon rise.
over your sidelong, sidereal eyes.
mary angela douglas 22 may 2020
who seem to appear in every scene of the play
and speak in code amongst each other
in front of our faces in the train stations
in the grocery aisle where we just smile
and wish good day to those who watch us
on our way ready for another foray
into the ridiculed life they imagine for us.
spare us those who secretly deplore us.
surely you muse. rage they always take center stage
somehow loitering in the golden rays of evening's
lapsing suns
oh every ONE of you. cant you just stop snickering long enough
to watch the moon rise.
over your sidelong, sidereal eyes.
mary angela douglas 22 may 2020
Thursday, May 21, 2020
The Legend Of The Beautiful And What Was Said
Beautiful said: Forever we must be
to the riven moonlight coating the evening seas
bearing the lighthouse beams.
Beautiful said: oh always, to the rose
bloom in the depth of Spring and as Summer goes.
and the roses wept their petals
and the evening froze.
Beautiful cried then we'll become the snows
and blanket all the earth and all her woes
and calm the city streets and the moon still glowed
above it all and the darkness filled with peace.
ask God. Who knows.
mary angela douglas 21 may 2020
to the riven moonlight coating the evening seas
bearing the lighthouse beams.
Beautiful said: oh always, to the rose
bloom in the depth of Spring and as Summer goes.
and the roses wept their petals
and the evening froze.
Beautiful cried then we'll become the snows
and blanket all the earth and all her woes
and calm the city streets and the moon still glowed
above it all and the darkness filled with peace.
ask God. Who knows.
mary angela douglas 21 may 2020
Wednesday, May 20, 2020
Art Project
when the ink has dried on the sky
He may write across it in stars
and there's your house
the one made out of color forms
or etched into scratch art
with colors layer on layer
so that you want to make
if your mother will let you
a color layer cake
using all the crayons at once
oh then you want to finger paint the sun
with more light than anyone has ever used before
except God of course in the beginning
with all His meteors.
mary angela douglas 20 may 2020
He may write across it in stars
and there's your house
the one made out of color forms
or etched into scratch art
with colors layer on layer
so that you want to make
if your mother will let you
a color layer cake
using all the crayons at once
oh then you want to finger paint the sun
with more light than anyone has ever used before
except God of course in the beginning
with all His meteors.
mary angela douglas 20 may 2020
So God Can See Us From All The Way Up There
we'll make semaphores in the snow, lost angels
so God can see us from all the way up there
and swoop down, vast Eagle that He is.
we'll rig something up with the dolls and the bears
the celluloid pink plastic mirrors of our childhood
reflecting the solar flares
or Mardi Gras beads brought back to us from New Orleans
by a favorite favorite teacher.
or we'll divert the streams
into the mossy hinterlands
where He casts his green green shadow
among the trees and longs for His own shade
and drops his golden apples when He may
and keeps on demonstrating Gravity
as if Newton lived again or he missed him.
or maybe He's just a friend to us
children playing tag in the apple orchards
or waiting for summer rain lagging in this heat
and thirsty for lemonade
we wish we could pour out
for Him and the Baby Jesus.
mary angela douglas 20 may 2020
so God can see us from all the way up there
and swoop down, vast Eagle that He is.
we'll rig something up with the dolls and the bears
the celluloid pink plastic mirrors of our childhood
reflecting the solar flares
or Mardi Gras beads brought back to us from New Orleans
by a favorite favorite teacher.
or we'll divert the streams
into the mossy hinterlands
where He casts his green green shadow
among the trees and longs for His own shade
and drops his golden apples when He may
and keeps on demonstrating Gravity
as if Newton lived again or he missed him.
or maybe He's just a friend to us
children playing tag in the apple orchards
or waiting for summer rain lagging in this heat
and thirsty for lemonade
we wish we could pour out
for Him and the Baby Jesus.
mary angela douglas 20 may 2020
The Last Blue Watercolour
my soul imprinted in the Book of Snow
cannot seem to cast its glow
here on earth
though I am the glass where frost writes its summer chronicles
icing the strawberries overnight the mystical orange groves
and keep myself clear as moonlight
to be so
to be so without detection unless by God
to speak in waterfall speech casting over its pearls
at the end of the end of the world fresco al fresco lavish with
stars
cannot seem to cast its glow
here on earth
though I am the glass where frost writes its summer chronicles
icing the strawberries overnight the mystical orange groves
and keep myself clear as moonlight
to be so
to be so without detection unless by God
to speak in waterfall speech casting over its pearls
at the end of the end of the world fresco al fresco lavish with
stars
o like Giotto or como las fresas heladas in the Spanish mode
the charm of that chiming, of those tones
to be the poem and lo shine within it while we are both melting
imperceptibly and
as I say diamond as they say parameter
o but I am not a business model manager template
temporary non essential being laid off or
fired at random
the charm of that chiming, of those tones
to be the poem and lo shine within it while we are both melting
imperceptibly and
as I say diamond as they say parameter
o but I am not a business model manager template
temporary non essential being laid off or
fired at random
I am the book of snow itself and carry the imprint
of rare ferns of the forgotten lanes
of the deluge when it came
the dropped stitches in amber
the rings on trees forecasting it all in evergreen;
the enameled bell recast o my soul
the crafting of the last blue watercolour wave
and the primrose starlings, silk screened.
and you said you said! I was not winged.
mary angela douglas 20 may 2020
NOTE ON THE POEM:
This is part of a series of poems I am writing as a kind of myth of the artist at the end of the world who keeps creating until their last breath.Which many artists, in every genre have done throughout human history.And in the worst of circumstances. For whom I have eternal admiration.
of rare ferns of the forgotten lanes
of the deluge when it came
the dropped stitches in amber
the rings on trees forecasting it all in evergreen;
the enameled bell recast o my soul
the crafting of the last blue watercolour wave
and the primrose starlings, silk screened.
and you said you said! I was not winged.
mary angela douglas 20 may 2020
NOTE ON THE POEM:
This is part of a series of poems I am writing as a kind of myth of the artist at the end of the world who keeps creating until their last breath.Which many artists, in every genre have done throughout human history.And in the worst of circumstances. For whom I have eternal admiration.
Monday, May 18, 2020
Bailing Out
perhaps in our souls sometimes we are bailing out all day
from strange aircraft
with tiny milkweed parachutes
for a soft landing in some blue grass perfumed dream meadow
we used to understand.
the soul has its own life and is capable of this.
and sometimes, it is necessary
to be in other realms
when the shattering news comes.
the telephone call you didn't expect.
a door slammed recklessly.
then the soul retreats with lilies in its hands
and quotes Shakespeare
or the 23rd Psalm
and finds the green rivers where the sheep are banked
and soft as clouds in their woolly slumber.
down deep there lives the dearest freshness Hopkins sang.
therefore in our wilderness we will find the pear cactus
and drink deep
removing the spines.
watching the clouds turn from azure
to magenta. this time.
mary angela douglas 18 may 2020
from strange aircraft
with tiny milkweed parachutes
for a soft landing in some blue grass perfumed dream meadow
we used to understand.
the soul has its own life and is capable of this.
and sometimes, it is necessary
to be in other realms
when the shattering news comes.
the telephone call you didn't expect.
a door slammed recklessly.
then the soul retreats with lilies in its hands
and quotes Shakespeare
or the 23rd Psalm
and finds the green rivers where the sheep are banked
and soft as clouds in their woolly slumber.
down deep there lives the dearest freshness Hopkins sang.
therefore in our wilderness we will find the pear cactus
and drink deep
removing the spines.
watching the clouds turn from azure
to magenta. this time.
mary angela douglas 18 may 2020
Saturday, May 16, 2020
Don't Be Telling The Story Straight
if you tell the story straight it will be over in two seconds.
we want the story to last the way some kids make candy last
the whole day
sucking on lemon drops as they play.
oh let the story be such an unwinding tale
it could go on for years; with cherry danish up to Here
put everything in it please.
the maraschinos and the cheese.
the mouse not caught and running off
with the moment's feast.
or if it's a Christmas mouse
don't leave the sugarplums out.
You know what to do.
put in a castle or two.
make mine pink and make yours
blue
and then we'll switch.
and speak of swans
sailing mirrored on a crystal pond.
we'll put in all the toys
they'll want to hear it too
if you were a toy wouldn't you want that too
put in some teacups and Cinderella's dress
the one you made yourself in sewing class
in dreams all of a pink voille, and in between, a lavender sheen.
put in a jeweled Alas! for the goose girl as she quails past
we want the story to last the way some kids make candy last
the whole day
sucking on lemon drops as they play.
oh let the story be such an unwinding tale
it could go on for years; with cherry danish up to Here
put everything in it please.
the maraschinos and the cheese.
the mouse not caught and running off
with the moment's feast.
or if it's a Christmas mouse
don't leave the sugarplums out.
You know what to do.
put in a castle or two.
make mine pink and make yours
blue
and then we'll switch.
and speak of swans
sailing mirrored on a crystal pond.
we'll put in all the toys
they'll want to hear it too
if you were a toy wouldn't you want that too
put in some teacups and Cinderella's dress
the one you made yourself in sewing class
in dreams all of a pink voille, and in between, a lavender sheen.
put in a jeweled Alas! for the goose girl as she quails past
and put in a vintage song and before too long
put in three bears and make them walk till four
so Goldilocks can get out the door
and off the lawn without a yawn
and speaking of that you better go along.
it's a school night now
put in three bears and make them walk till four
so Goldilocks can get out the door
and off the lawn without a yawn
and speaking of that you better go along.
it's a school night now
much too late for the purple cow
you know where you belong.
though there's time for one more song
to banish worry
scurry scurry
Click off the light.
good night good night.
mary angela douglas 18 april 2020;rev. 16 may 2020
you know where you belong.
though there's time for one more song
to banish worry
scurry scurry
Click off the light.
good night good night.
mary angela douglas 18 april 2020;rev. 16 may 2020
Friday, May 15, 2020
Snow Maps By NASA And Their Inversions
can such a thing be seen that to me is too
delicate to measure, the migrations of snow
oh but on whose wings the ruby glinting of
a stray particle of light,
the quality of the glazing I want to follow the snow map
in my dream but it keeps on melting singing of other things
than following
surging from the unexpected clouds stray angels in the picture
upside down
in perhaps a Midwestern air stream, little town or over French valleys
by now, coating the silver Loire.
making mischief in Moscow over Cyrillic domes
the many coloured
is it that far from home. or are snow maps
what children made in the ice barely crusted
what we made on winter saturdays powdered sugar dusted
only just now coming into view
and do those kingdoms show a propulsion toward Spring
the return of birds and birdsong the return of everything
we thought we had lost
before there were snow maps and the silver treasure
everywhere confounding us.
the sun warming, the rose leaves. the gardens
frozen in Time.
mary angela douglas 15 may 2020
The title of this poem is: "SNOW MAPS BY NASA AND THEIR INVERSIONS." it is a poem of pure imagination, not a scientific treatise. And if you think that science was developed without a poetic imagination you may know how to think, but you don't know how to dream. Yet you still could find out how to by coincidence or synchronicity or by sometimes, not listening to your teachers at all. Or to the voice in your head that tells you what other people expect you to say next in the conversation. Beautiful intrusions from other realms should be welcome I think , like the angels in scripture that we may entertain, as the Good Book Says: "unaware". This is a comment I wrote at the end of this poem I posted on a FB entry by NASA in reply to many people who didnt understand WHY I was talking poetically on a scientific page. ON MAY 15 2020.
delicate to measure, the migrations of snow
oh but on whose wings the ruby glinting of
a stray particle of light,
the quality of the glazing I want to follow the snow map
in my dream but it keeps on melting singing of other things
than following
surging from the unexpected clouds stray angels in the picture
upside down
in perhaps a Midwestern air stream, little town or over French valleys
by now, coating the silver Loire.
making mischief in Moscow over Cyrillic domes
the many coloured
is it that far from home. or are snow maps
what children made in the ice barely crusted
what we made on winter saturdays powdered sugar dusted
only just now coming into view
and do those kingdoms show a propulsion toward Spring
the return of birds and birdsong the return of everything
we thought we had lost
before there were snow maps and the silver treasure
everywhere confounding us.
the sun warming, the rose leaves. the gardens
frozen in Time.
mary angela douglas 15 may 2020
The title of this poem is: "SNOW MAPS BY NASA AND THEIR INVERSIONS." it is a poem of pure imagination, not a scientific treatise. And if you think that science was developed without a poetic imagination you may know how to think, but you don't know how to dream. Yet you still could find out how to by coincidence or synchronicity or by sometimes, not listening to your teachers at all. Or to the voice in your head that tells you what other people expect you to say next in the conversation. Beautiful intrusions from other realms should be welcome I think , like the angels in scripture that we may entertain, as the Good Book Says: "unaware". This is a comment I wrote at the end of this poem I posted on a FB entry by NASA in reply to many people who didnt understand WHY I was talking poetically on a scientific page. ON MAY 15 2020.
Thursday, May 14, 2020
Quixote And The Knight Of The Mirrors
quixote facing the knight of the mirrors...
I dreamed of him last night and the cover of the book
was midnight blue;the spine in lilies stamped..
the horizon was midnight
the way it kept raining forever
the way there could be no rest
the clouds were so opaque
even the Isles of the Blessed
even with the Spanish lanterns.
the lure of the towers;
the sweet valedictory hours.
ever the advance guard
Quixote cried so hard.
his tears were gold, como los siglos del oro
and molten, so that his skin cried out
I am the clown of nothing and they
have buried the sun.
his hands falling into petals
the petals falling away.
all that butterfly armour, drifting.
ya no sé como luchar;
how can I live this way
with every socket bruised
myself a bruise on the sky
and the sky, fallen into clay.
the heart like a mantle spread
his fractured shining shadow over the earth.
mary angela douglas 20 april 2020;rev. 14 may 2020
trans. siglos de oro: the centuries of gold, the golden ages;
ya no se como luchar (I don't know how to fight anymore).
I dreamed of him last night and the cover of the book
was midnight blue;the spine in lilies stamped..
the horizon was midnight
the way it kept raining forever
the way there could be no rest
the clouds were so opaque
even the Isles of the Blessed
even with the Spanish lanterns.
the lure of the towers;
the sweet valedictory hours.
ever the advance guard
Quixote cried so hard.
his tears were gold, como los siglos del oro
and molten, so that his skin cried out
I am the clown of nothing and they
have buried the sun.
his hands falling into petals
the petals falling away.
all that butterfly armour, drifting.
ya no sé como luchar;
how can I live this way
with every socket bruised
myself a bruise on the sky
and the sky, fallen into clay.
the heart like a mantle spread
his fractured shining shadow over the earth.
mary angela douglas 20 april 2020;rev. 14 may 2020
trans. siglos de oro: the centuries of gold, the golden ages;
ya no se como luchar (I don't know how to fight anymore).
In The Light From Far Away
these things have floated down to the children
pearl birds with paper wings
ancient riddles tied with string
rose petals. and the ships they came on
the lilac's whisper the pale green moody song
one opal tear
the moment wrapped in origami gold
pin wheels in beach ball colours
one apple orchard, ordered in miniature
with a small Queen
a silver slide among the blue white stars
the memory of who you are in the green hushed summer
crooning to them a weeping lullaby
in the middle of the day;
pink macaroons;and striped curtains.
the wish that it could always be
that way
like Christmas opening up
its own dear Present
in the Light from far away.
mary angela douglas 14 may 2020
pearl birds with paper wings
ancient riddles tied with string
rose petals. and the ships they came on
the lilac's whisper the pale green moody song
one opal tear
the moment wrapped in origami gold
pin wheels in beach ball colours
one apple orchard, ordered in miniature
with a small Queen
a silver slide among the blue white stars
the memory of who you are in the green hushed summer
crooning to them a weeping lullaby
in the middle of the day;
pink macaroons;and striped curtains.
the wish that it could always be
that way
like Christmas opening up
its own dear Present
in the Light from far away.
mary angela douglas 14 may 2020
Sunday, May 10, 2020
When You Were Awake
even in dreams now I'm not always free
being scolded by people I don't know
standing in my own living room
who are these dream scolders
how did i let them in
how can I get them to leave
I wake up and feel that I've done wrong
but I haven't done a thing
but sleep an interrupted sleep
were there loud noises
did the world end while I was sleeping
is it the next day
or the one I was still in
when I dozed off.
some times in life
you lose your place in the scheme of things
you don't recognize faces
-how can you-
you never met
when you were awake.
mary angela douglas 10 may 2020
being scolded by people I don't know
standing in my own living room
who are these dream scolders
how did i let them in
how can I get them to leave
I wake up and feel that I've done wrong
but I haven't done a thing
but sleep an interrupted sleep
were there loud noises
did the world end while I was sleeping
is it the next day
or the one I was still in
when I dozed off.
some times in life
you lose your place in the scheme of things
you don't recognize faces
-how can you-
you never met
when you were awake.
mary angela douglas 10 may 2020
Saturday, May 09, 2020
Rejoinder
you're not grieving fast enough
you havent heard the last of us
you're spinning out your wheels
you shouldnt wear low heels
or roses from the fields
entwined into your hair
-(I think I need some air)=,
we''ll tell you what to read
and everything you need
we just dropped in to see
if your front room is clean
dont bother make a fuss
dont you ever dust
we'll skip the cake today
too many pounds that way
we only came to say
you havent any sense
you havent saved a pence
we'd better come at three
your looking pale to me.
oh, that's all right she said
Im standing on my head.
mary angela douglas 9 may 2020
you havent heard the last of us
you're spinning out your wheels
you shouldnt wear low heels
or roses from the fields
entwined into your hair
-(I think I need some air)=,
we''ll tell you what to read
and everything you need
we just dropped in to see
if your front room is clean
dont bother make a fuss
dont you ever dust
we'll skip the cake today
too many pounds that way
we only came to say
you havent any sense
you havent saved a pence
we'd better come at three
your looking pale to me.
oh, that's all right she said
Im standing on my head.
mary angela douglas 9 may 2020
On Katharine Hepburn's Performance In Mary Of Scotland (1936) A Tribute
perhaps she was Duse, even then
budding into the role of a young queen or trying to
who would have noticed then a few from the Old School
when everything relied on the tit for the tat
witticisms in the back rooms.. so young to be crowned...
and then, to lose..
so waiting in the wings, she dreams she is Mary
and the dreaming seems to compensate for anything
irregular or like a bird half caught in the net of a scene
she knows the role what it could mean if she could branch farther
and she does so tremulously the camera almost weeps
but this is a clip joint hollywood that doesnt like the sentimental
waiting at the stage door calla lily face; they want: ready for it's
undermining the fourth wall
and swivels a hip (while Katharine is rapt)
impatient to make this show biz not the antique
curtain call where people rise from theatre seats transformed
for Katharine wanting it all to be so beautiful
as if Bernhardt rose
budding into the role of a young queen or trying to
who would have noticed then a few from the Old School
when everything relied on the tit for the tat
witticisms in the back rooms.. so young to be crowned...
and then, to lose..
so waiting in the wings, she dreams she is Mary
and the dreaming seems to compensate for anything
irregular or like a bird half caught in the net of a scene
she knows the role what it could mean if she could branch farther
out on untried wings, brittle
imaginings
and she does so tremulously the camera almost weeps
the key light grieves in flickering cadences
but this is a clip joint hollywood that doesnt like the sentimental
anymore and pictures it fading
waiting at the stage door calla lily face; they want: ready for it's
big break certainly on the make what
wants to be modern pacing the city filled with asides
that will not see Katharine as the bride of time most rare
she envisions, she longs to be
nor Mary either though the images are there;the dear ghosts too
she longs to demonstrate her face can turn to snow to gestures
from so long ago
even if she could and even if she did
the audience wouldnt have understood
the directors would have been irritated
she is oblivious to that her face falters her eyes
and for a moment the two faces merge
both in the tower both tres sweet before dark doom
how visible how with so much pearl her soul is laden now
bent to the light and inexplicably radiant
perhaps there are lines unheard
rehearsed with angels;they certainly are cut
while the footlights are too jazzy
the raz mah taz in the next room taps its toe shoes underneath it
that will not see Katharine as the bride of time most rare
she envisions, she longs to be
nor Mary either though the images are there;the dear ghosts too
she longs to demonstrate her face can turn to snow to gestures
from so long ago
even if she could and even if she did
the audience wouldnt have understood
the directors would have been irritated
she is oblivious to that her face falters her eyes
and for a moment the two faces merge
both in the tower both tres sweet before dark doom
how visible how with so much pearl her soul is laden now
bent to the light and inexplicably radiant
perhaps there are lines unheard
rehearsed with angels;they certainly are cut
while the footlights are too jazzy
the raz mah taz in the next room taps its toe shoes underneath it
all bored and chewing gum
undermining the fourth wall
and swivels a hip (while Katharine is rapt)
impatient to make this show biz not the antique
curtain call where people rise from theatre seats transformed
for Katharine wanting it all to be so beautiful
as if Bernhardt rose
and rose again; or, Hepburn on her own
to the classic metier of the fate set out
set in stone with no more recourse oh Mary, Mary
to the classic metier of the fate set out
set in stone with no more recourse oh Mary, Mary
losing the throne and love and life and Spring
behind the film another scene is there pristine
of Katharine striving with the air.the tempo of the time
Katharine subsumed in Mary most tragically composed
Katharine Hepburn prescient and so beyond the role now
no critic will comprehend;such transfiguration was there
such -capacity
from the very start though the coda is played unevenly
because they despise such sublimity; such art;
they are jaded;
the heart torn to achieve such ends
even in a nascent form
behind the film another scene is there pristine
of Katharine striving with the air.the tempo of the time
Katharine subsumed in Mary most tragically composed
Katharine Hepburn prescient and so beyond the role now
no critic will comprehend;such transfiguration was there
such -capacity
from the very start though the coda is played unevenly
because they despise such sublimity; such art;
they are jaded;
the heart torn to achieve such ends
even in a nascent form
disgusts them.
mary angela douglas 9 may 2020a
mary angela douglas 9 may 2020a
Just The Moon When It Rises
what if there were poetry with no prizes
just the moon when it rises
no critical surmises
just the birds, singing
just the birds singing and the leaves drifting
just the stars shining far out on their own
just the breath and the sudden intake,
all your rowing,
going home.
just the word softly spoken
into a light no one can see
just the trip out on a limb
only the hidden mystery
just the song without imposing
just the play without it closing
fine embroidery out at sea
wave to wave
and free as free
just the feeling;
not the fee.
mary angela douglas 9 may 2020
just the moon when it rises
no critical surmises
just the birds, singing
just the birds singing and the leaves drifting
just the stars shining far out on their own
just the breath and the sudden intake,
all your rowing,
going home.
just the word softly spoken
into a light no one can see
just the trip out on a limb
only the hidden mystery
just the song without imposing
just the play without it closing
fine embroidery out at sea
wave to wave
and free as free
just the feeling;
not the fee.
mary angela douglas 9 may 2020
Friday, May 08, 2020
For Sidney Lanier
to Sidney Lanier for his poem The Marshes of Glynn
the rose refractions of this stained glass hour
fall about the grass in my tree cathedral
in the woods where in my mind
I always pray. in the midst of pines
in the later blue of the day
and with the twilight bells.
there in the long shadows of the moss green aisles
I lift my heart as once did Lanier in the Marshes of Glynn
and i seem to see him there
and his prayer is heavy with yellow stars
with yellow stars and the exaltations
of the marshes of glynn
and I in the scent of the pines remember everything
I ever heard have ever read of beauty.
beauty rarified in the stained glass hour
and now the stain of iris blue the purple of the evening hour
has hastened.
and I must haste too
though I dont know when from all these reveries
and the sound, the sounds of the marshes of glynn.
the birds arising.
mary angela douglas 8 may 2020
the rose refractions of this stained glass hour
fall about the grass in my tree cathedral
in the woods where in my mind
I always pray. in the midst of pines
in the later blue of the day
and with the twilight bells.
there in the long shadows of the moss green aisles
I lift my heart as once did Lanier in the Marshes of Glynn
and i seem to see him there
and his prayer is heavy with yellow stars
with yellow stars and the exaltations
of the marshes of glynn
and I in the scent of the pines remember everything
I ever heard have ever read of beauty.
beauty rarified in the stained glass hour
and now the stain of iris blue the purple of the evening hour
has hastened.
and I must haste too
though I dont know when from all these reveries
and the sound, the sounds of the marshes of glynn.
the birds arising.
mary angela douglas 8 may 2020
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