O We Write Poetry

(to my Grandmother, widowed young}

in the room where the wedding gifts mourn

on the table that was festive, adorned with flowers

because the wedding has been called off

we still linger waiting for someone to say

let us be merry as at the Capulets and fetch

our unreeled feelings from the day before

wrapped in the sateen, the brocade appropriate

to the occasion or with little seed pearls

so life seems sometimes for the early widows

who cannot put the blue back in the skies the cerulean

as it was before, the treble of birdsong in the selfsame tree

what do we do with happiness derailed when the honey on

our tongue freezes mid speech oh we write poetry lavish

with the orange blossoms, the myrtle, the tiny rosebuds of

pure cream, and recover almost

everything.

mary angela douglas 4 may 2021

Homage To The Brothers Limoges

[on learning to read...]

on fine papers perhaps,tiny rosebuds of gold foil

in the borderlands beyond the words-

(we call them margins rapped the teachers,

impatiently illuminating.)

and you, turning the pages, aren't you?

dressed in lavender blue and quite alone.

is there a light from Heaven?

there is.

and a rose spotlight when you rise from your chair to recite

oh this is light this is light I am reading

and not the alphabets, at all

mary angela douglas 6 february 2015