The Problem As Alice Saw It Later

in her least favorite dream

it wasnt the things she had said that

bothered her

it was always the things she was asked

she knew she could solve things above ground

after all, she always did well in school,

regardless of the task

but here in the one blue dress the only one she seemed to have 

brought with her

all questions had no answers

or else, they had the wrong ones

and the Doormouse KNEW it.

so she outgrew the houses, one by one

till all tea parties were done

then only the trial remained

for which there was no clue

no matter how hard she studied

her head was filled with rue.

nothing nothing filled the teacups.

the only solution

was to wake up

mary angela douglas 27 february 2021

Yellow Organza

the toy on the table left behind

is that Time? the children asked

looking down at their blue shoes

invited in toward the end of the Party

when the grownups came

to take them off to sleep

to sleep in a drift of rose petals sweet

so that their mamas could not tell you

which is the flower and which is the child

I'll see you in a while I said to the shaft of moonlight

as I woke up in the present tense

thinking it was their ghosts 

I had just come from seeing

we were all back home

everyone there

even the old bears

the ones that came with their primrose ribbons

ages ago

when we thought they guarded the world

and sometimes the sun is pink on the wall

and we are told the story of the good little rabbits

who had blackberries for supper with cream

but I wept for Peter secretly

who had been in Mr. McGregor's garden

and was punished with no blackberries for dinner at all

and banished from the table.

if only banishment were only in stories

if I could look through the blinds and be

five years old again

and me and my sister in the room with the toy piano

we're dressed in yellow organza

like almost apricot twins

and it's the dawn of music

all over again.

mary angela douglas 12 february 2021

A Diary On The Underside Of Light

[for Andrei Tarkovsky]

a diary on the underside of light
the blizzards inside the ruined cathedral
of the soul

the balloon cut free
is crashing on the underside of light
of light of light

neither daylight nor is it the moon's shading;
in the gardens of the child is it a rose of light?
as if it flowed from Dante then was

interupted, almost musical, to the point of tears?
is it the curvature of angels broken apart
from great distances;

a light,
barely comprehended in a dream

from which you don't want to
you don't want to
Awake

mary angela douglas 12 november 2015

Reading The Poem All On Her Own In Her Grandfather's Chair

the cream cannot slosh in the strawberries

when you spoon them out.

the almonds on the trout are cut so fine

the rainbowed scales gleam through.

you take small bites. your dress is new

with a pale sash

a paler sheen.

all this is in a dream that you had yesterday

that you're still in

geographies are useless here.

contexts forbidden. pure meaning's hidden

or trellised like a rich vine

like light itself like the wind that blows

the next page forward

and the page after that is Christmas.

tissue guards in sunrise colours

and over the snows

the first intimations of

the Rose.

mary angela dougas 22 february 2015

As A Painter Would Paint The Winds

bluebonnets blow in the buffalo lands

and flowers whose names I never learned

I know their colours

as a painter would paint the winds through

the bluebonnets a paler shade of blue

and this is how the prairies roll on

without me

with me only imagining the skies

in spring must be the shade of prairie roses

and I gather them in my sleep

and I imagine their fragrance is better somehow

than the cultivated roses

I imagine this because I do not know

the names of the wildflowers and cannot

call the buffalo by name and I imagine the

blizzards and the buffalo turned to sugar cube sparkling

amazed in the drifts and the skies thoroughly filled

like a canvas I do not know I do not know I

do not know

mary angela douglas 21 february 2015

OOPS! I FELL DOWN THE RABBIT HOLE

OOPS! I FELL DOWN THE RABBIT HOLE

oops! I fell down the rabbit hole

in my poem

Hello Alice, lovely dress the

perfect shade of blue I

was sent to warn you

I wish I could have

warned myself

now we're plummeting

past the Rabbit's

bookshelves

stop! I want to

read the titles so

I can find them

when I wake up...

there's going to be

a tea party - you'll

be sitting at the

table in your party dress

but you won't feel invited

despite the pink cake

in the middle of the table;

you won't get a slice

no matter how nicely you pour tea;

you ask too many questions

and you won't have a moment

to yourself. even if you cry,

other people will utilize

your tears on the spot this is

that kind of dream: you

can't wake up when you want to,

dear.

but the door to the garden,

once you get through-

just stay: on the still point of

a turning world that makes no sense;

like a jewel-box ballerina when

the music ends

remaining you by barely breathing

so that at the last

you'll be

unperceived and bounce yourself out of

their false rose frieze

mary angela douglas february 2008