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.
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