The Heart Folded Under

once we had roots of gold, dreams of gold, light,

peach light, the light of long ago stars 

the clouds in magenta, the sudden flare of meteors, 

autumns, the berries in cream 

the heart folded under the dovelike quilts of childhood.

once we had windows into the panoramic Easter eggs

one rose guarded by one swan and Grandmother played the

record of Peter and the Wolf as a lullaby to somehow let us know

that golden days are few and must be guarded

that the oboe warns

and the wolves are gathering.

I know that she was right in her rose taffeta dress playing Liebestraum

love's dream as if she were dreaming it up right there at her piano

for my  Grandfather listening in the living room

I wonder did this happen, were we really there

what golden age can compare with the least moment the moon sailed slowly

over our brick house. or Telstar, or when the pine trees rained down their pine cones

or gum trees the sweet gum balls

so that we might spray them gold and silver to adorn the Christmas tree

I am woven on the loom of the past not quite Alice through the looking glass

I wander in the world of trains that cannot leave the station

I know that memory is real and fairy tales.

it is the news that is made up now.

mary angela douglas 3 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

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

Still Life, Come To Life! (With Blue Birds)

they are that shade of blue that made you happy as a child

like turquoise mixed with the milk of pearls and they

could fly and you could follow them then to

no bitter kingdoms but now they stay in groves

of pink clouded trees the winds won't stir but

if they did you would stand under the delicate branches

delicate as you were

holding your breath and showered in pink flowers

of course you could be but now the branches

blend

into a light that cannot rise or set and you feel restless

and you are here wishing with all your might

the birds in the iridescent hedges of the night

would come to life and the kingdom the kingdom

painted in fine colours on the flowing air

why

you would suddenly just

be there

mary angela douglas 18 february 2015

Waiting For The Light To Change

waiting for the light to change small things occur to you

and the bees of drizzle gather under your umbrella

walk, flickers the ivoried, don't cross yells the sign in

poinsettia red yes you feel Christmasy instead

of what seems to be the mood of those

waiting for the years in review

but you're just in love with the color guards

with all the traffic green and red punctuation

and the bees of drizzle fly away just

as the light turns to amber;

and the sun comes out in your soul on a winter day

where the blue birds gather their little prisms

from the long ago

and painters gather on the Seine

for one lost lingering impression

perhaps before the hives of gold have hatched

for them

haloed, the honey of their tears

mary angela douglas 3 february 2015