a small star fell out of the sky,
a secret star.
it climbed through convenient meadows
where it turned into Saint-Exupéry's rose.
a small sheep came to find it
the sheep of small returns
the story will start again at midnight
we will listen to the record
all the way through
where the heroes will move
through in soft carillon motions
and all of the dolls
and the clock bells will
ring out all day
from rhe dream cathedrale
starting Time all over.
mary angela douglas 31 december 2022
pluck from one string a song falling out of the air
pluck from the soul a last shred of despair
let days flow by and the nights ascend
listen at once and at the end
the stories are brighter than you supposed
and even in sorrow there is repose.
mary angela douglas 30 december 2022
Dear Lord it does console
that you see beyond walls
in secret annexes and cells
little apartments
and behind the smiles
the requisite villains
hide so well
an enormity of suffering
about to uncoil
but how to explain
to people living in sunlight
how it feels to live in shade
to people on land, the colour of nearly drowning
to say to someone in a brightly lit office
I almost froze to death in this building
in the last four days of the holiday
and that person looks up with a smile and says
(profesionally speaking, or as at the close of the
working day)
as if she heard faint music with no eardrums at all
the trumpeting of the mute swan
oh Really
mary angela douglas 30 december 2022
I went to dig a small hole in the ground, hole in the ground, hole in the ground
with a silver spoon, a hole in the ground
because it felt like fun.
inspector came to the hole in the ground, hole in the ground
he scrutinized the hole in the ground
said no that cant be done.
earth mover came to the hole in the ground
the hole in the ground the hole in the ground
small tractor came to my hole in the ground
and filled it back up with mud.
I said to the God of the hole in the ground
hole in the ground, hole in the ground
I know you made the ground and the ground
for miles around for miles around
you loved my little hole in the ground
hole in the ground hole in the ground
someday we'll make another one
another one another one
cuz you were here when it all begun
the rain and the sun
all begun and nothing's done
without You.
mary angela douglas 30 december 2022
leaning toward the side of mercy
we clomp on with a smileless tribe
seeking only retribution
no place left for us to hide
what's the point of vindication
will it ease the broken heart
let God do true reclamation
let your light shine in the dark.
mary angela douglas 30 december 2022
it isn't fair the words you say
to take my happy hopes away
to mock and scorn and ridicule
to indicate I am a fool
to think my small wish could come true
but who on earth, I think, are you
to tell me what my God can do.
has done before, will do again;
you did not save me from my sin.
mary angela douglas 30 december 2022
I spoke perfect Spanish in my dream
the one line in the play that lifted the skies
how heavy the stars were
when they came down
washing the world with silver the sudden
angel on the tree.
mary angela douglas 30 december 2022
toasty heat toasty heat
coming out of the vents
so steamingly sweet
what can be better for a late Christmas treat
than toasty heat.
soft blue is the chimney smoke
and red the blazing fire
silver bright the winter sun
when the winds blow cold and dire
many things in winter I love and celebrate
but truly nothing better for a blue ribbon plate
is the state of toasty heat after certain disaster
filling up my tiny home with gusts of laughter.
mary angela douglas 29 december 2022
we all need rest.
the earth needs rest from spinning.
who will give the earth rest.
the stars need rest from shining
who will give the stars rest.
this winter's laboured breathing
still the sharp wind cannot distress
God holds it all in His unending rest
rest now. everyone. oh rest.
mary angela douglas 28 december 2022
on the way to the possible,
impossibly I found
everything I wished for planted underground
planted without light or shade
in the darkest earth
waiting for the warmth to come
and uncertain birth
oh dear Father of my hopes
you who guard the sun
grant that I your child may be
not so quite undone
as to give up dreaming
even at the end, that
all the hopes I planted,
all, will live again.
mary angela douglas 28 december 2022
tree of my heart when will you rise
into the farther, infinite skies
rooted on earth yet meant to be
branching somehow into liberty
green as the mist on earth's first day
leafed into branching anyway
what storms there were, have been, will be
live o green in the mysteries.
tree of my heart that you may be
the tree of my life though wordlessly.
mary angela douglas 28 december 2022
the hidden things
with secret wings
have taken refuge
in a small way, with me
so that I float when they do
or appear to
barely visible in the photograph
of a wright brothers' early experiment
or sigh, sprightly arise
when they arise
one pouf of a rose petal
on a frost grided sky;
or berry stained.
how will you make your money
how will you spend your time
the earth is always turning
on such an ephemeral dime.
I fill out the dream queries
never minding the lack of replies
only God in his mysteries
crackles the new found spells
while I make dollish masterpieces
from gilded acorn shells.
mary angela douglas 28 december 2022;rev. 2 february 2023
the ice blue angels pass in revue
the snowy exits shine
we're in the dream of winter now
and of the glacial pine.
I cannot mend the fleeting snow
I cannot reason why
the snowy alphabets will go
the light birds as they fly
gone is the Spring we thought we knew
immortal and unafraid
cling to the branch like blossoms do
the last of their peach parade.
mary angela douglas 28 december 2022;2 february 2023
lightly as the snow
we will turn again
our old hearts to win
from the persistent slough
anyway, anyhow
make a Springtime vow
in the biting wind
never to pretend
hope cant bloom again
Christ was sent to show
in the deepest woe
we can turn again
we can turn again
under a sky of Light!
in the bitter night
lightly as the snow
leaving all we know
welcoming Him in.
everything to mend!
mary angela douglas 25 december 2022
I stood where silence flowed away
into a farther mystic bay
and thought again of loss and time
of history's sorrow and of mine
it seemed to me naught could I say
about the first and shining Day
God planned it all another way
and all that happened after that
and all the lean years and the fat
would could I add to chronicle
a bright way through
the rise and fall the rise and fall
so many people under thrall
and though we sense the current tone
and keep up with the current scene
life still continues nightmare, dream
while the generations stream.
all I know or can confess
without our God we have no rest
we have no reason and no rhyme
we have no hearts
no me and mine
all at the Alpha seems the race
we see Omega in our face
each to each, then leaf by leaf
sometimes summer, sometimes grief
still not collective , star by star
only God knows who we are.
mary angela douglas 21 december 2022
peppermint mocha in a cup
it's whipped cream, so fluff it up.
ginger cake with anise seed
crackled with sugar
powdered, please.
one flake two flake
through the window blew
o achoo.
baby King await him still
manger, baby what you will
bright my house of books will stand
seeking shepherds, wisemen, lambs
there, he's sleeping manger clear
tiptoe in
it's Christmas, dears.
mary angela douglas 20 december 2022
I looked beyond the little grille
that covered all the starlight still
and in my dream I turned the key
to set myself at liberty
for God is brightest out of doors
beyond old fortresses and more
I sang unto the grasses tall
and little flowers one and all
oh God in Heaven from me please take
the shadows all these prisons make
that I may breathe the starlit air
and find no reasons for despair.
mary angela douglas 18 december 2022
(A Psalm of David.) The LORD is my shepherd; I shall not want.
2He maketh me to lie down in green pastures: he leadeth me beside the still waters.
3He restoreth my soul: he leadeth me in the paths of righteousness for his name's sake.
if God is not a grace note but the whole symphony
why should I whittle my candle down to no kindling at all
it's weary I am of mincing the matter
just to be given a hearing and then to be thought
clownish and unsubtle
a curiosity, countrified side show
then call me out freakish
I know who made me
how would I barter Him away
sweet Donne did not they say
accounting all metaphors Him
and even then so far below the mark
of comparison men would be blinded
in love by one stray spark
from His burning
not to offend the careful the candid affable
shall I be loathe to name
the one who calls all names
into Being
far from me Lord, my Door
I am no mime
to call thee timidly as if Thee were
such a wisp of a ghost
and I the embarrassment to all modernity
then let the universe be numb
I will have none of it if not Thee
my soul, and I accounted dumb
the fool of fools
you rule my language sun by sun
or else
I have none.
mary angela douglas 17 december 2022
should caroling birds now suffer wrong
because they own no licensed song
but winterbourne sing till the last of leaves
some through the winter till they freeze
though crowds follow not
nor with laurel are they crowned
thus sang the birds of Eden.
some plain of plumage, in music abounding
ever should they now be rounding
but man must figure by acclaim
and mix and match
the quality of sound and scratch
and crowd each other at the till
and barter soul for the circus thrill, the shrill parade
of who will fade and who's the star
and who's on trend to win to win
becomes the only tune of the mechanical nightingales.
yet for the birds in evergreenS
they sing oh blessed Lord and heart brimmed song
we sing we sing without a fee
to Thee! to Thee!
obscurely.
not publishing but to the crystal air
that men should hope and not despair.
because of Thee because of Thee.
sweet revelry! well armed for the jeweled Day.
mary angela douglas 16 december 2022
I'll keep the looking glass I found
that way of seeing underground
the lake blue dress I wore instead
of my favorite one.
the particoloured gyroscope of words
tumbling in my head like chirping birds
but after years won't seem so sad
it's living topside makes me glad
a little in the shade, and not the sun.
and at no tea party made of sand.
and I am thankful for the way I've come,
I really am.
mary angela douglas 11 december 2022
I'll be so free in Spring I said
to wander where my fancy led
to find all tenses, rose slipped time
all that music intertwined
away with the topical
deep astray
at least that's what they always say
when I slip out of the wan soup day to memorize old lines.
somehow not to be understood
matters so little in search of good
and I will undertake again
without the proof men hold too dear
of what is topical and near
I'll memorize old lines.
I will catch the notes caught out
fluted on the flower fused air
footfall upon a crystal stair
the mist as durable as a rock
and the rock dissolved
tarry not there no angels say
there is no God
the earth is made
of pixels and of all that spin
distracting from the worlds within
Ill pack the gold of lines that fed
the living still among the dead
and cast my lot with Christ who knows
beauty lives and scorn must go
and learn again what we still know
who memorized old lines.
mary angela douglas 10 december 2022
wash your face in the greens and blues
of Spring in the distance and you are you
the ice melt flows and the brook reflection
knows you, the birds trilling excessively,
the second april is now that tread upon
the ghost of the first
and streams upon the strand
close your eyes and dream of the trees farther inland
only a little, the willows of mercy and no exiles
and in a while you will remember your first steps
as a child wobbly and happy
your first innocence and the surprise of music in
your mother's words I am in the roundtower of His grace
this is not memory beyond memory,only what cannot be erased
this is the created, coming to consciousness again.
the holy golden winding of fresh days.
fresh birthdays, fresh new once upons
the dove, new sprung
from the living page.
mary angela douglas 9 december 2022;rev. 6 february 2023
things known, assumed known from the beginning
one day may shift into some other sphere
as if the earth had opened
and swallowed all the gardens, the roses the lilies
yes even the lilacs, the shining evenings.
my obsidian twilights, drifting by.
they may murmur we have heard all this before
and we are bored.
you don't know
how the key fit in the lock of snow
and can no more
you don't know
how it felt on an unsuspecting shore
on the sundial, the shadows obscuring everything
bearing it all away
the heart stops beating but you are still here
a ghost in your own time, but no funeral;
where once there were bluebirds weaving
their sapphire songs, nothing but sky
all flocks have migrated to a far country
the clouds no longer stand still
and the murmurations inveigh
the green hills, the green hills
have vanished away
I dont know how to say it
or barely describe
when something you cherished
falls away, inside.
and the Dove cries out in pale thunder
confirming what you had denied
could ever happen.
mary angela douglas 5 december 2022;6 february
sometimes I feel in reading old poetry
I marvel that language could become
flowers falling from the trees of once upon
heaped up before us on the sidewalks
or translated into chimes
the nightingale's persistence through Time
melodious
in a tidebourne wonderment
colours in breathtaking subtleties
music that when played again
finds no present glorified magnified echo
than what we whisper inside
because beauty now like some badly bartered bride
had been utterly revised, disguised
traded in for utility and self acclaim.
for the new new wave
that drowns us with the mermaids;
for the minimal, for the diminished Rose to rose
or who knows. leveraged to never say the rosenames again
or be laughed off the stage by insipid rage
for Poetry turned into prose has become the game
drawing a bead on the headlines
leaving all harps behind
to weep alone and bear their harmonic sympathies
to be
rife with disgraced lyricism and the sentimental
tone on tone irreplaceable. yet here we are
our wandering stars wandering farther away because
beauty loved for its own sake tramples now
they say the forward thinking buzzards
on the social laws, cold justice.
so I play the old scores
on my fretted Soul
knowing this alone is merciful
I murmur them upon departing winds
and feel such a yearning toward then
when poetry was holy and ever like a Grail
I think of the dear names of those who lived and failed for it
and I see in what was written flame on flame
a language forever elegiac
and stunning in its affect
embroidered with the sun
the solicitude of evenings
where the Soul could breathe
where God was not deserted by
some alien decree
and each poem rose and set
on its own impeccable axis
brimful with Grace we could not forget
now we the throwback vagrants
observe observe
the derelict ruins
the tit for tat
the incessant blowback
has damaged the fleeced skies
we once named the Heavens
now language from some bewildering ditch
like an evil witch thrives
turning the swans
into merely an ecosystem's tribe.
what hell we have made of that Eden
dulling even the bread and butter days
where the butter shone like gold
mary angela douglas 4 december 2022;6 february 2023
even as Jesu was accounted for in song
Lo, how a rose...
I see the Star so once upon
again, rising in the East
in a wilderness where many
worship the solstice instead;
concelebrate an empty feast
in the dark of their unknowing
then the Rose weeps
in quiescent, quintissential December.
dear God oh dear relief
above all battlefields
the Rose that was, that is
vivid again oh unfailing bloom of our hearts
rejoice say the angels though the worlds fall apart
again and again
the cherished refrain the
Maytime of our sleeting rains
rose oh rose of all our pain resolved
the Light sustaining us. the hidden well
because because he conquered hell and death
petal by petal and anguishing breath by breath
though the blasts of cryptic scorn
had bound us fast whenever we sang so
and caroled it's true
there is a flowering toward December
of a perfume bearing us homeward
despite what man can do
and blind himself to.
like the child I was. I am
I do grow restless
awaiting the Pearl of that dawn.
mary angela douglas 3 december 2022;7 february 2023
in my twenties I started quite often to see flashes of golden light
somehow I knew indicated the presence of angels
I did not need an eye test, it was no hallucination
no mirage
because simultaneously I felt I was surrounded
with a serenity I cannot really express in words
I would like to say also shortly after this I
found the book by William James called
The Varieties of Religious Experience
this was in the autumn initially
then in Spring I found the Paradiso
in the Ciardi translation.
nothing is an accident; sometimes the light
from other worlds breaks through into ours
how strange it is, how truly deranged
that often people who see such things
would be advised to consult medical attention
as if having the gift of seeing something
that cannot be explained
by the practical is an illness.
and I learned the hard way
keep your mouth shut
about the visionary.the illuminating.
but I still know what I saw.
I truly did see.
and you will not take it from me.
on this or any day.
construe it, how you may.
mary angela douglas 3 december 2022;7 february 2023
like colorforms the moon and the clouds
the rose tint on faces when the day is done
the birds in purple shadows in the evening
we thought of the world that way and loved it
we were so happy feeling this way
and lemon splashed was the sun on the easel
where we painted with wide brushes made
for small hands
I remember this, that we were happy.
then later I read in the writer's digest listings
please no more poems about the moon
and later, also no poems about trees
I dreamed a nightmare
no poems about the birds
its all so trite outworn said
the gatekeepers who knew how things should be
and I thought of the skies without kites
birds without singing or flight
larks suspended and the trees they lived in
all at the word of the coeditors
it would come to pass
each in its turn, the actual moon from the sky
our rose tinted faces would vanish
when the day is done
each bird purpureal
would disappear at their word
no more adjectives
with their banishing submission guidelines
no more alphabet I thought will be the next dictum
no more air to breathe
because without poems
embroidered with these
and without the trees bending in the wind
there will never be poetry again
no matter how many issues they print
and if these things are not allowed in
one by one they will secede
from dreams
from the paintings
banned from all art
stars blinking out in the skies
let go and from the universe
and where will we find them again
ourselves again.
if we side with the banishers.
who will we be then.
mary angela douglas 2 december 2022
