In Her Favorite Dream

the princess and the Pea moved out

the day before the Wedding

not wanting to make a lifetime

out of proving it over and over.

she got a small apartment-

you know the kind-

and adopted the Pea.

they lived on nana pudding

and poached tater tots.

on Sundays  she made it

patty cakes marked with a “P”

and it was happy

in the walk-in closet it lived in

where it barely breathed-

but you should have seen the bookshelves

in her favorite dream of the

same apartment, only larger-

and the rooms of hidden

marvels opening up, well past the

acorn furniture -  second-hand-

acquired at Christmas when the dolls moved out

lugging trunks in primary colors

with four costumes apiece

-across the permafrost…

“I didn’t know this was here”

invariably, she’d murmur in  silken dreamspeak-

turning the knob to another door

into private lobbies inlaid-

filled with Steinways, gladiola-  lots

of counter space-

and fountain Cokes;

Persian rose gardens of note with harps

that played invisibly-

and unexpected candy dishes;

pastel-pretty parasols

(the Pea was fond of these)

one for each time of day;

magnolia petals in a silver bowl…

world poetry of high degree and centuries full of moon and silvered branches…carefully catalogued

forgotten green perfume wafting

from two thousand Springs…

and in the breeze,

apricot curtains inset with saffron pears-

above a sink full of dishes

rainbow-bubbling clean

where she looked out to see

oh, everywhere=

a world where no one has

to prove who they really are

they just take your word for it=

mary angela douglas 11-12 march 2012

Note on the poem:  of course, this poem is based on Hans Anderson’s tale “The Princess and the Pea” where the Princess has to prove she’s real by not being able to fall asleep on a pea hidden under 20 or so feather mattresses.

The apartment dream is real in essence, if not entirely in detail; I’ve had it off and on for the last 20 years.  There is always in this dream a feeling of great happiness at finding unexpected space and a feeling of great peace and freedom.  Perhaps they are rooms of the spirit like the “many mansions” Jesus spoke of.  (in John 14).  ‘     “In my Father’s house there are many mansions…”

p.s. nana pudding is short for banana pudding made with bananas, milk , pudding mix and vanilla flavored thin cookies. Tater tots, as “fast-food” style tiny fried bits of potato, very small and appropriate fare for the small dwelling and the down-turned acorn dining-room table).

Berceuse Or What-You-Will

when you’re tracking the trackless birds of sweetest Sound

all music falls away, not wanting to be found;                                 shaded by shade trees of an inner

“hush!” – you’ll be at rest, raindrop-sequined,

creamy preludes at an end, for now-

held fast in the boughs of the

guilding hymns or the heralding ones or the rocking chair-

(my Grandmother sings so low)

you’ll fall asleep not knowing which is which;

wake up in incredible brightness.

paper over the vintage wallpaper and the snows

where little stars can get in;

I’ll be mending my violet dress

with the silver underskirts all day-

while the Cobblers mend the Unseen.

the mirrored doors spin shut

on a pale green sarabande

I used to play

on a toy piano with multi-colored keys;

which attic dissolved it?

I really can’t say

who bit the head off the Chocolate Rabbit

my sash is caught in the turnstile oh… crumply satin-

I can’t let go, in fifteen crinolines,

stiff-starched- Sunday’s best,

when everyone else “moves on”, please, “Wait!”-

brimming with secrets they shouldn't own and yet, they do-

all set to mine

the gold -flecked keyholes of  my own true lore.  stand fast;

God keeps His secrets, too

who dyed this morning’s sky so Easter-egg blue and

marked it with a lilac crayon-This is Mine

in invisible handwriting…

have tea, minus lemon pound cake-

it’s only the shortage of the Blessed

who can still imagine the Feast…and the baby tangerines.

the fried fish and honeycomb breakfast He dispensed to

crumpled friends, still weeping, with the sleep still

in their eyes…and this is Easter Day and He’s come back-

though not to stay…not yet…

cray-pas robins in the picture start to sing in my plaid satchel-

above two hills chalked green on manila paper

rosy chalked-in sun rising in-between - three spears of cold, gold grass-

that’s me there off to the side with my bunch of lilies-

as if to say, remember these?  I think you loved them,

Jesus…

wash the canvas with egg- white and start over-

throw handfuls of icicles everywhere there’s

not a tree - you can’t aim yet-but everything's sparkling-

I’ll light the confetti candlestick

with Hans Anderson’s last match…

later there’ll be the onyx sky

with its one important Star.

remember to follow it

down the sidewalk Outside - and when you come back home-

nodding like white clover ruby apples in your hands.

keep the milk-money in your pocket till it’s Time; don’t

swallow it.

I’ll fill the teacups with shredded pink saran,

spiced gum-drops…little place cards –

the wedding mints left over,

in assorted pastels - the criss-cross buns…

there must be one in here, somewhere-

-excuse me, while I rummage-

studded with currants or icing’s consolations.

what a lovely Pink Party, the best of its kind-

if only the Very Good Fairy would pop by

with a few grilled cheese…(wax-papered sigh)-

the fairytales, themselves, have fallen asleep

with none to wake them…

mary angela douglas 7-9 march 2012

notes on the poem:

*berceuse, French for lullaby also musical piece I mean, by Chopin as played by Rubenstein.

*Sarabande, stately Spanish court dance.

*saran (I mean the (trademark)Saran Wrap –clear plastic wrap I could never manage, used to wrap food in.

Small Song To God, My Father

empty the pockets of the sky

for the key to open His heart of gold-

for the strawberry wind that's forgotten to sing:

Light can't ever forget to shine

from the dandelion spokes of neglected stars

even if poets stop speaking of it-

mary angela douglas 6 march 2012

On A Childhood

grass green were the words

you left behind;

the blue silk purling of the skies.

small pink flowers in the grass

how I loved you then

and now

when the pure pink dahlia

of the sun

is blossoming, still-

how I think of you, again.

when will it be time to find

the wayward homeward stars,

no rhinestones of the inevitable-

(soft syllables brushed with hidden snows);

the Easter iris shadows

of Before-

above the earth, so tumult-driven,

blind-

I still can see

clouds with their own angels

in the tree-tops...

mary angela douglas 5 march 2012

Relevance/All These Bright Soldiers Falling In The Mist

[to Sidney Lanier, the American Keats (1842-1881)]

is it too late to let you know

the green shade in your marshes

lingers still-

and the tree-tiered cathedrals, depth-on-depth that

you believed in?

who can replace all those

born with a feeling for music;

still less, the few

whom Music loved:

crowding Beauty in a

handful of poems

on less than a lifetime's sigh-

it takes that long

to understand

all these bright soldiers

falling in the mist

that we have left behind-

mary angela douglas 1 march 2012

Note on the poem:  on the question of relevance in poetry in my opinion as Emily Dickinson inferred all those are relevant who died for Truth or Beauty no matter what the "cool club" says...

Play Something On The Violin For Rilke

Rilkean birds flew out of my heart

startled by the nearness of the skies.

cloud music I have loved you

with an unseen love

imagining the winds at Duino

and the first gold fissure of

angels floating nigh

the pale green parapets in

dangerous weather, the

Poet almost blown overboard…

who can forget to love

the poet born

to be wounded by roses,

business letters and the unrecorded-

covert sniping  glances on

the endless pavements where you walked-

the leaves whirl up as high as sunset

roses left for you by God

though you’re no longer here to gather them.

children gazing from their windows-

unused to the battlements of high Song-

as suddenly- began to dream…

began to notice the teacups rattling on their own-

and the far distances…

as though they were meant to be

strange neighbors

in the same music,

Shining-

mary angela douglas 27-28 february 2012

Blue Distances Don't Make Me Cry The Way They Used To

Anna Pavlova stepped onto another stage

at first, so imperceptibly,

in more than pave diamond Light.

it doesn’t take so much to know,

even in surroundings that new

she’d hardly feel the difference:  always dreaming

past you in her own distances, anyway;

waking up in this recurring dream

as it very driftingly came to her

that even when she was telling the

first dream to a dream-friend:

“I had this dream…”

she’s still in a

a subset of the

larger dream and

not awake yet…

will I catch fire?

she whispered to herself onstage-

upsetting the candles at the stage’s

rim (not knowing they were stars)

blue distances don’t make me cry

the way they used to;

will I forget how to breathe -  again-?

then, realizing  some mistake,

unfocused light,some trepitude, alarm,
a phantom fluttering of the heart already phantom

how will  I die here?

but that was earlier…and before-

fresh angels sewed

strange jewels on the

same costume

festooned her dress with unfamiliar flowers

and every step

and gesture she

remembered as if snow

could be conscious of snowing (itself)

again.

my feet aren’t bleeding  -anymore-

she marveled out of sight and

fluttering softly, softer through

such hues of silkeness beyond distress.

angels watched her turn

into a pearl diminishment of light

and trying to speak, but failing-

she found, with joy,

she couldn’t end-

that it was

like a mirror reflection endlessly

ribboning  into another mirror…

but real

and vivid fine crystal etched as

she always knew

the sheen of ballet could be

if one stayed up White Nights

to wind the music-box…
always running down

Anna Pavlova, I am standing still

I said softly to her there- and

not in a lithograph of my own time-

here at a door I’m not permitted to enter

with one rosebud 

question left, -I’m quarter-turned -  and unresolved

not wishing to wound my God, my Christ,

my Full-Blown Rose
trespassing on your wilderness, winter's bloom
an opalescence irretrievable now:

some questions don’t  belong to me at all

even if blue distances can’t make me cry
as Mandelstam, for the draping of another Anna's shawl
the profile swan, the living cameo...

the way they used to…

it’s only that it streams so hauntingly on and on… and  sometimes,

beautiful beyond bearing that

Anna Pavlova stepped out on another stage

surpassing all comparisons, and dying too many times

at last, perfected her crystal petit pointe

revealing  the flash-points of the Living Swan

and mignonette variations on the evening air…

though  it’s

perishable as any dream strophe can be:

let something heartfelt still seep through

like music from a far distant Court or undersea-

though it’s like baby star-shine

learning to be, “star”-not any star, but Yours, alone-

(my God)

Anna Pavlova stepped out on another stage:

when will Russia do the same...

through prayers barely spoken

it shall be wrought:

blue distances won’t make you cry anymore,

tenderly was whispered.

mary angela douglas 29-31  january 2012 rev. 8 january 2018

Gretel's Reminiscence

once there were clouds like flowers.

people held onto their hearts

with kite strings.

when they went floating up-

they held festivals for hours-

spooning out the thick cream

of afternoons

we walked among them,

penny-splendid,

breaking off sugar-candy;

above us,

continents of roses-

mary angela douglas 26 january 2012

Going North

GOING NORTH

[to George McDonald-

and to my mother, at the back of the North Wind-]

dreaming  lines from Your book of pearl

we carried the snow in our small hands

from the white-worked embroideries on the lawn.

you only feel the cold at first;

then you don’t.

a dish of frozen cherries for the King:  scooped out-

a Queen looks out from her diamond windowpane

and sighs,

“will these ships sail?”

cover my words in the green shade of your hands.

the sun can blister what should be said.

and you may find the back-hand of the wind

and every lost subaltern telling you what to do

with your fine soul

though  filmy valentines from God Himself

will  shadow you…

and may I scoop from the frozen honey

of your tears, white velvet on my slightest wings,

bright words to remain on earth with

after you’ve disappeared-

she cried.

while children standing on orange crates

declaim it’s best to be

eating oranges at Christmas-tide

and peppermint  ice-cream.

the Queen smiled out

rich stenciled window-panes

where they finger-wrote in frost

their last goodbyes.

carry fond words into the eternities,

she wrote them back -

carry blizzards on your back

for the sake of the truth

we saved from melting...

mary angela douglas 21 january 2012

The Long Goodbye To The Horse Thieves

“the grass withers; the flower fades…the word of our God shall stand forever.”

-Isaiah, the Holy Bible

“And call no man on earth your Father.”

-Jesus

no more cattle drives, as I recount:

I was walking too close by the edge of the sea

that isn’t anymore;

weren’t you?

at least, that’s what they said

among other things, before they shot the

horses out from under us…

I was counting vermillion angels

floating on silos at sunset;shining,

apple- blossom clouded

and listening to “Appalachian Spring”.*

somehow, they said, not so

pointedly at first, making me feel at home-

you’re not enough-

how it is with all of us now,

I couldn’t say. too much

stolen time…the circuitry’s been changed.

who let these people in here?

do you know?

they think I don’t know.

I know enough:

when blankness descended,

they called it music.

they still do…

they don’t like what’s in your head.

they don’t like that you have a head.

perhaps they’re waiting for the headless horseman.*

who could explain the beads they

bartered or why they shone like jewels so long ago;

thinking ourselves among friends, soothed by their guitars we were led away:

no rodeos left for the horseless riders.

no lemonade poured for the thirsty, anymore.

but there’s a porch in Heaven wrapped thrice around the moon,

tree-house balconies on pine-needled air,

where Bradbury’s grandmother serves us coconut cake…*

(the kind with dark cherries on top).

where we say Grace and mean it.

you’re not that far from where you were before…

in this world, this is no small accomplishment-

let us leave the kitchen chair pushed back from the table

consulting the dish-cloth calendar towel-the gold edged Psalms with the purple ribbon-marker.

scarlet sparkles on the spiced apples

from your last summer studio day

when you left your Coke half-finished on the piano

thinking you’d drink it later…

and green- golden shadows guild the picture

you leaned against the wall at a king’s command,

not a king at all as some of us found out-

only a lifetime later-

come help us save the world, they sing

with periwinkle flowers in their eyes

but it’s the last you’ll see of your childhood home

and the people who raised you-

and blts made by hand, finished off in your very own Munsey toaster…

mimosa splendor

ermine tears

your thistledown sob

where are you, grandmother-

holding my string of pearls, my

necklace of the mustard-seed…

the gold signet ring of your favorite brother

who died at 12-

surely God will help me find

the dustless corner where I stashed

the Schirmer's  olive folios-

the ivory keys scented just like snow.

the color of my eyes.

beauty wavers, losing her pleats

looking for lost pinwheels;

scanning the wrinkled linen of the skies-

oh, but we’re still on the fairgrounds of the Free

where the Laughing Lady’s laughing just as long as

you’ve got a quarter and a lime snow-cone-

and Christmas marionettes in show windows

dressed in special plaid velveteen for this occasion

pour and pour their Victorian tea not spilling an amber drop

all gold beribboned,  glistening under -

my Deportment Store sky.

Listen…they’re moving their doll mouths:

“It’s still not too late-run away; we wish we could.”

Pink thunder sounds above the Orange plains…

the buffalo clouds turn restive

above old cattle-rustled friends who think en masse

and not like me;

the stars are broken ornaments above their

Christmas tree farms…

I’m leaving this- dear Christ and your Christmas, tree-top Star,  go with me!

I will rummage in fragrant dresser- drawers

for the pure precognitions

I know – were mine- before

the spiritual carnies came to town-

selling candles and sucking out

with borrowed straws

the ice-cream from my soul-

content to find in confetti tissue still

all my lost visions folded fresh

with gardenia sachets and

by such a kind hand….

I’d bring you the frosting rose unmelting

from my festive birthday slice, Grandmother, remember?

I’m almost very young again: with gifts done up in

 glossy pink and blue-

on 45 rpms, the music of the great composers-

In love with holy freedom with the raspberry finish of the sky

and the blackberry night shining down and down

the blessedly pathless woods

mary angela douglas 15-17 january 2012

Notes: Ray Bradbury, great American writer of real American dreams

*Appalachian Spring – incredibly lyrical suite by Aaron Copeland, expressive of the American Heartland and Appalachia

*The Headless Horseman, ghost story by Washngton Irving early Americn writer who lived and worked around present-day Tarrytown, NY

*blts - bacon, lettuce and tomato sandwiches on toast