We Woud Not Be

I am my own puppet defiantly we say on any given day

not realizing how ludicrous we may appear to God;

any small animals watching.

what is freedom if we stray from you:

small clouds that will lose ourselves in rain

not ever immune to pain where can we flee

you would not be

for we would not be

without You.

mary angela douglas 5 may 2021

Invisible Threads

 INVISIBLE THREADS

invisible threads have bound me to the moon

it's the fairy spinners I assume as Shakespeare did

though I'm not supposed to think that anymore

say the deplorers the ones who would rather the

poem be about political radishes, or how mold grows given time on

Uncle Ray's birthday cake

or slime or who won who or what this time

oh run and see the endless litany of prizes

but I'm immune

invisible threads have tied me to the moon, the trees, a foundling

innocent among the sweet sweet greenery. leaves, occasional blooms

so that I believe I am emerald too, like Daphne becoming

roots and bark of necessity and forgotten birds of lore

will come and nest in me, the nightingale for sure

the Firebird, Phoenix still as starlight

beyond the grinding mills of language minced for common use, abuse

where words are serfs and I despair ;only I hear a distant interstellar

music, everywhere could it be Eternity there at the pearl gate of listening

and Poetry itself the Word so vastly pure

the enduring Word

if God so will, shuttering the Dead.

signaling the return of the language heard by Angels

the Beautiful in flight

when there was Light. when it was spoken into Being.

mary angela douglas 2 may 2021

God Is Not A Franchise

God is not a franchise, that men should own Him;

batten down His hatches or tie His shoelaces for Him

out of the impromptu dust

He has fashioned all of us

from an unremitting Heart

when we order Him about

when we think of Him with doubt

when we think that we know best

how can we put Him to the test

who died for us and rose again

who had mended all our sin

into radiance within

surely He is the king over us

and not our slave.

we who are housed or unhoused

the breath of an hour without Him.

mary angela douglas 15 march 2021

Notes On Gliding

as if the sky were a lilac corsage you fastened to the diminishing 

night

with the scant and lingering moon

I have seen dawn that way

and birds glide silent as snow on the upturned wind

I have seen the sails coming in at morning

masts of the dream clouds, the rains like beaded curtains shift

over a prismed field.

I will see again though I have aged

spelling it with my eyes closed yes, the vagrant wind

the gipsy wind from the childhood poems my Grandmother

gave me and know that You have made the soul so free

as to glide effortlessly

even while,

imprisoned here.

oh Beautiful sagacity.

mary angela douglas 23 january 2021

The Philosophers And I Cannot Agree

they plough through forests of words and don't look back

relentlessly and the works banked up appear almost as snow

if only they were that alive and the wolfish words follow them

they are on the track the circular, ocular trails that lead them back now

to mountains of words when will it be enough and I want to say

though I dont know their language Lord God. in the stillness

where the stars are achingly silver 

I just want to see the flower called snowdrop holding one thawed

drop of rain. You don't have to explain anything to me.

mary angela douglas 18 january 2021

I Used To Write Poems To You For The Constellations

I used to write poems to You for the constellations

and speak to You through the Psalms in shades of blue and green

and thank you profusely for making the skies turn cranberry

in drear and drizzling January.

I have lost count of all the things that have made my heart glad.

And certainly I know I am not your only child.

such as I am I thank you Lord God for every breath.

for all the sunsets I have left.

and for the myriad things so numerous, winged and lovely

(the music I have heard)

I cannot put them into words.

mary angela douglas 2 january 2020

Workbook

in this workbook you will learn
how to tell apples from oranges
how to slice the pie among five

friends without offending any
and still have pie leftover for breakfast.
how to tell time

and the names of clouds as they dissolve
and costume jewelry from the real thing
and how to make anything happy

out of play doh. and small talk, small change
while wearing complementary colours.
how to address a valentine correctly

even if the red envelope comes back.
to act in school plays
in a sequined costume

as though you were the Princess for real
gold flecks in your hair, the confetti of the kingdom,
disappearing into a final sleep

you, who've just recently learned
how to tie your shoelaces so they won't come undone
and how to make biscuits

that won't fall apart.

mary angela douglas 25 january 2016

N.D.E.s And The Immortal Book At Hand

(I was) near death, they say
and all their tunnels glowing;
the silver overpasses of the angels...

and now, no longer do they fear death:
a moment's spume washed up on the
deck of eternities; back to their home making

with alacrity; no longer that commited to
washing the car every Saturday.

but I am still here not having made that journey
where a commanding angel commands, go back,
you have something left to do-

trembling over a multitude of old books
discarded from contemporary libraries
having the scent of gold apples procured

from far regions

or childhood's delicious, snowy bindings.
and I want to know I want to live
without categories

or catalogues or testimonies...
deeper and deeper to live
beyond mere life, near life

within these majestical phrases
that have been tossed out like so much rubble
into a modern alley.

or book sale-bake-sale salad
with the proceeds going to the astonishing
other things libraries are known for now.

while language is crowned with ever novel
diminishments, so as to be, also near death.
except that, how can I tell you this, that

God breathes on the vintage pages
as I read.
and He did then, as well

when they were writ-envoys to us their latter friends
so how in this case does death, near death
even enter into it?

mary angela douglas 9 novemer 2015

Red Carnival Glass: Sunburst, Pin Wheel

through rainwater pools of red carnival glass

I splashed through sunsets where nothing smashed

nothing was shattered

only a watercolour blur

only a whispered word

and iridescence spills into the poems

I write and I can't help it cried

the princess weeping pearls as she fled

this is what happens when you're

enchanted;

whenever God calls after you

mary angela douglas 24 march 2015

Our Ramparts Of Roses Fall Apart

to my sister, Sharon

STREW on her roses, roses,
And never a spray of yew. Matthew Arnold, Requiescat

our ramparts of roses fall apart;
loose stitching holds the petals

though it was of gold

when we were new

entirely of gold

that we played in the afternoons

that our Kingdom was roses, roses
watered by the green garden hose

by our Grandfather's kindness and

we were his roses, roses

our Grandmother's cherished, few-

and soon we will fall apart too

though I hope a long time from now

and only when the moon is

the shade of roses roses

and God plays His own hidden tune

in His own Time illuminating

our stories' forever and evers

in a Heaven of roses.

mary angela douglas 23 march 2015

We Wrote In Coloured Chalks Formulas With No Solutions

we wrote in coloured chalks formulas with no solutions.

this was not allowed.

or scratched the moon's surface with a

lollipop swirling agate;

our marbles were confliscated.

also: jump ropes

dolls past their prime

the Bear with one eye left.

shoe button inventories

we were denied.

colouring books half done.

where will we find the Time
(to finish them) was said

once time's bright cherry boughs are stricken

and shaken by unseen winds?

but God- sympathizing with our plight

wrote to His heart's delight in

succulent cherry brushstrokes in the skies

and we were comforted.

mary angela douglas 23 march 2015

The Party Favors In The Offering Plate Seem Out Of Place

the party favors in the offering plate seem out of place

I am out of place I hear God sigh and the stained glass

shines in a different way

I'll meet you outside I say to Him as I go in

and then I do and Sunday begins.

the bacon and eggs afterwards the

grape jelly like a jewel on the plate

broken up into smaller jewels

spread on the buttered toast

garnets I thought after I learned that word.

and now in the tiny rose garden Outside

no petals fall and it is afternoon and

now there is no school my favorite dream,

only the roses

mary angela douglas 19 february 2015

They Would Not Send The Angels To Help Us

they would not send the angels to help us

through a sea of tears and the door is locked 

on alice into the garden floats the little key

lost, lost without her

they would not send the angels to help us

or stay the executions even one more day.

one more day on your bright earth the

one you intended the one you gift-wrapped for us with

starlight brighter than tinsel tenderly

with your little leaves just coming out on

the vines of our houses 

they burned it all down who would not send the

angels to help us

tho chained the angels each to each

and mocked their brilliance.

but you put the rainbow in their wings

in their wings that flew over the seas of ink

the poets died for

dying to say we loved your light Jehovah

they would not send the angels to help us

so You came yourself

mary angela douglas 14 january 2014