It's The Raspberry Ripple Through The Ice-Creamed Stories

it's the raspberry ripple through the ice-creamed stories

tower on pasteled tower (and with whipped cream)

that half keeps me alive 

it's the picture book surprise

of a world still unfolding;

of imagination in living colours

inside, still spreading its fans, gold sequined

rainbow sunrise sherbeted.

spumoni triple play oops! Neapolitan I

meant to say while

rabbiting through the Easter grass

in the dead of winter

slipping past the deadlines.

my taffeta pockets cramfull of salted nuts

and wedding mints after the receptions

to supplement my larder.

God knows I need to.

but I'm at work and not supposed to do this 

while I'm keying things in.

how would they write me up?

let's think about this some more.

maybe they'll say:

your daydreams are off the [flow] chart

[and it's starting to flow like lava now

toward my tiny happy hut in the path of it,

multicoloured!]

too retro to be believed or annotated

ever in the thirty-ringed employee handbook

you should have memorized by now

or in the Moses brought them down from the mountain

unwritten rules we'll never tell you unless it's too late

and anyway, we just made them up on the spot for you

you you, you anamolie (of course, they can't spell it

that's what they hired me for)

because anyone with a professional demeanor

and half a spitsworth of leadership skill-sets

and diva-tasking

has got to know better than this.

you're letting us all down.

ALL?

(clomp. clomp. here they come; this is it)

Miss Douglas, you're on probation for wishing again

-30-

mary angela douglas 22 january 2014

Under A Pink And Blue Sky

under a pink and blue sky

babies in their cribs awake and cry

longing to be dressed in pink and blue

immediately; the

older children on their way to school

miles from the Fair grow wistful

for cotton candy, wax-paper packed in a lunchbox

by the gherkins and the fruit salad, crammed in

near the meatloaf sandwich on an onion roll:

pure tasty pink and blue spun out of nothing

although they know
it isn't summer anymore.

the baker in the town square

halts amid the jonquil icing batches

unprepared for the flood of calls

for pink and blue frosted cakes

stacked end to end and will they

reach the moon or 

the Princess counting her gowns in a half-baked dream

who throws the whole lot out starting over

in pink and blue chintz that's satinly ordered up

on the pink princess phone this

very sheer pink and blue minute: veiled illusion, tulle-

bring swatches of pasteled chalks as seen from space;

the astronauts gaze befuddled from the capsule at

an earth redecorated pink and blue and ask themselves

will the sea rise soon in 50 metre waves or more

dousing the aurora

in ribbons of pink and blue moire?

not daring to ask Houston.

and will you remember suddenly struck

by candy coloured lightning through and through

everything you thought you knew

for the final examination

oh! but you'd forgotten

pink and blue
you realized later
thinking things through
making do with an A-

mary angela douglas 22 january 2014

A Letter Arrives In The Kingdom Of Nasturtiums

Dear Mama,
I wish I could have written this before:

let's go to the Kingdom of Nasturtiums

where it's always pure orange, pure violet.

and a pink so tinged with blue it makes you

want to cry it is so beautiful

exactly as it appears on the Burpee seed packets in the kitchen drawer,

dear Mama.

we will have no rent.

and feast on strawberries and cream just

like English nursery rhymes.

and I'll have lemon curd for tea or lime

which do you prefer?

there will be no institutions there

no watchdogs of your fragile mind

masquerading as friends

who complain that they're too footsore now

from being out all day to fetch the less than glitzy Christmas decorations for the steel grey decor they keep you in.

your soul like an orchid shone..

in Heaven I expect it to be different.

no spindle pricks at all

no kingdom of sleep brave, brave princess

awake, awake in the Kingdom of Nasturtiums

God is the flower gardener and

there are no walls

mary angela douglas 20 january 2014

Over The Velvet Rooftops Of The Night

over the velvet rooftops of the night

I sailed my cloudy ship

into hidden moonlight

where are you I cried

at the window of my soul

frosted, as if for Christmas

candelight is down

the withered wreaths are gathered by the proud

while the tree in the attic tells stories

to the mice that forget their cheese for the moment...

little fir tree, I still love you

Hans Christian Anderson

over the velvet rooftops of the night

did we paper airplane sail your stories

over the griefs, over the griefs

of the sullen earth,

forever?

mary angela douglas 19 january 2014

Newswires Slowly Gathered/ Not Everyone Loved The Sixties And Their Aftermath Part 1

in a world of causes why should the soul

be caught in the brambles

like a superfluous guest trapped at the party?

what do you want with the soul?

I asked the malefactors trespassing

once again in the moonlight: 

can the soul protest?

is there a pennant gold enough to wave

for injuries against the Soul?

these things take their toll.

oh, miss the parades that waste your time.

believe in what you are and study harder while

clinging to the tower going under; it only seems to be.

let those who seem and cannot be take charge of the ripples 

widening in the Pond;and pitch their tents in the pitch black 

nothingness of world wide fame, applause.

and celebrate celebrity.

God and the Soul are one without them,

certainly.

mary angela douglas 19 january 2014;20 nov. 2014

Child Near The Half Glazed Pond In Early April

anchor your stained-glass shadows in the grass

it's irised still, your Easter;

your heart is full of flowers.

the chill of the pale greens gathers fast

in the woods and on the playgrounds

at recess;

recessed in the stone,

the Madonna hints at birthdays

white tissued, tied in blue bows even in

snows that interrupt your aprils.

hold fast the page that they would turn for you

and anchor your stained glass shadows in the grass-

the grass that blows when the

winds of His presence, pass.

you are the spring's cathedral

beautiful, wavering, there

in His best looking glass-

mary angela douglas 19 january 2014

Drinking Our Milk Up Under The Milky Way

drinking our milk up under the Milky Way

(that's above a violet rooftop)

we know the cartoons wait for us;

it's Saturday (after chores done hastily)

and the curly black dog waits under

the table for the coffee cake crumbs to fall.

sometimes it's buttermilk sipped slowly

marigold or

are the stars then butter coloured

we could think while munching our wonder bread

sweet butter spread

looking back we wonder why

they called it bread

but twinkies twinkled after school

inside there's a world of creme

frosting though it's not your

birthday

why can't the moonlight stay

the way that it was then

so dairy fresh so silver lined

inside the blue lines of

our writing tablets

after school just one week

before Christmas

mary angela douglas 19 january 2014

Red Velveteen Wouldn't The Rosebuds Wish To Be

red velveteen wouldn't the rosebuds wish to be

thought the little girl colouring endlessly

in the afternoon while her mama

listened from the kitchen.

red velveteen.

it feels the same

indoor as out

she sang brightly of bright petals

all afternoon

red velveteen

why wouldn't Cinderella

choose that very shade

I would if I were her she sang

and wouldn't you sing

on a rainy, rainy afternoon

red velveteen

red velveteen

with a scattering of tiny pearls

if you were her?

mary angela douglas 19 january 2014

It Snowed In My Dream The Princess Said

it snowed in my dream the princess said

to no one at breakfast

in a boysenberry light

and buttered her bread.

the courtyard filled with crystal on crystal

soundlessly.

a pause in music, you know and

not a rest

dressed in pure silver

fleece downwind of certain stars

and I in a blue spring shawl

a rose trimmed skirt

in a landscape of parfait colours

began to say

to no one at all it's winter here

but it isn't cold at all

sing it from the high sweet towers

mary angela douglas 19 january 2014

Nocturne Again In The Small Sleep Of The World

talking in the sleep of the world the small leaves sigh

sigh down corridors of moonlight

year on year

all things fade into their beginning

the painting's on the wind

it chimes

down corridors of moonlight

in the sleep of the world

the artist wakes all colours fade

into their beginning

the small leaves sigh

do the stars listen

glistening every time 

a small child sighs

how many weeks till

the Christmas of the world,

returns?

and will You find me

everywhere

the small leaves sigh

down corridors of dream

dream, in the fading of the world

mary angela douglas 19 january 2014

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

God Grant To The Countries In The Fine Mists Of Your Eden

God grant to the countries in the fine mists of your  Eden

a returning way through the fairytale woods

even as music is barely heard at first

when the children open their eyes

in an unfamiliar room.

and if the skies above my page are snowless still-

missing Christmas and the evergreen-

let flowers be gathered by imaginary springs

where the waters flow over the bruised soul.

it's deep in our winter caves that I keep sweeping up

the broken nebulae around your hallowed head

or pressed against the windows of Your far kingdoms

I'm just keeping still.

awaiting starlight and the rose corolla

as it was in our beginning

mary angela douglas 14 january 2014

Fantasie Impromptu On Her Last Letter To Lytton

FANTASIE IMPROMPTU ON HER LAST LETTER TO LYTTON

[for Virginia Woolf]

I am no longer I she cried

in the pier glass of waters far from home

closer in time is farther back much earlier she sighed

to the larkspur shadows in the room

that held her like a necessary angel

in his gaze or repartee

glancing up from his reading perhaps

a little quizzical thinking

why is it every time she enters the room

like a particular shade of blue the rarest

flower shade so hard to find

but there it is, the tuning, turning of her mind

a larkspur presence in a room less vivid

did he find her thus

almost the colour of skies

and chained to earth

diffident, larklike closer in time to him than others

she strayed on earth

despite the broken engagement

language is faltering she cried

and spoke to him from ancient tapestries

unraveling

I am no longer I she said

to the larkspur purling waters

when I arise from dreams of thee

from dreams of thee

no longer among the living

mary angela douglas 12 january 2014

NOTE ON THE POEM: THE LETTER WAS FOUND IN HER DESK NEVER SENT

Deep In The Long Ago

"and did you open the treasury of snow"

-The Holy Bible

deep in the long ago

deeper than snow

hearts have been hidden

by One who knows.

past all disaster and

chilling remark

farther than starlight

purer than art there

time cannot render

what God can impart

where green ever varies

in woodlands apart

spring lives forever

and never departs

purer than starlight

farther than art

perfumed of all roses

and taffy sunlight

proving the poets

they laughed at

were right

deeper than snowfall

Christmas bells chime

forever and ever

you'll know that it's time

when the secret heart's bidden

by One who knows

every chapter of long ago

rose upon rose

mary angela douglas 9 january 2014

Jump Rope Rhyme For Virginia Woolf

[in honor of the day my grandmother, laughing, said my great aunt worried I would face a grim future not even knowing how to bake banana bread...]

Virginia Woolf Woolf Woolf

could barely cook cook cook

but she could write write write

all dressed in white white white

and she could think think think

in every shade of ink ink ink

on the way to Kew Kew Kew

in a gown of blue blue blue

and she could see see see

better than Albee bee bee...

mary angela douglas 8 january 2014

Picture Book

may you remain on earth a long time

a few pages smudged with melted chocolate

not by design

or emphatic turquoise crayon scribbled on

yet part of a snowiness that will endure

wedged in your cardboard seams,

trellised in your rose bright borders

whenever a golden something

treads invisibly on the apricot sash of

the princess and we held our breath

to see what astonishment is made of

on the very next page.

among all toys you're queen or

king of the domino kingdoms

splashed with finger paints

a little cobwebbed, only in starlight.

wars can come and go but not here.

in the lilac friendly neighborhoods

so dear to your bound kingdoms everywhere

the grass grows waist high

with no complaints from the neighbors;

your rising sun watercoloured

between two green hills

a little chalky, light peach

egg-fried.

first day of all first days the best preserved

jam or jelly of all berries the most delicious

fairy splendid compote.

I wrote you on my heart back then

most beautiful page turning that

has ever been at the

pink frosted picnic that can never end;

of friends, the best:

exorbitant, exuberant rainbowed

perpetually- 

blessed.

mary angela douglas 8 january 2014

It's The Confetti Of Moonlight

it's the confetti of moonlight

poured on the small child's floor overnight

that lets her sleep in wonder

never getting up at all

except when she smells ice cream

from the hall all the way down

from the buttercup kitchen

vanilla with Hershey's sauce

and maraschinos scooped into three

bowls now, not two.

prescient from the beginning

regarding things that matter.

a strawberry scattered dawn

the clover spared from the lawnmower

rejoiced over with her little sister.

the stars the stars the stars

from a small window viewed

and endlessly from the top bunk

not to be overshadowed by the

pink nightlight

in the pale blue room, asleep.

mary angela douglas 3 january 2014

Mulberry Mulled The Princess

mulberry mulled the Princess,

for a new gown.

with slippers of cranberried broidery

designed by elves

on thistledown holiday

surprised at play

and ordered to dress-make

or else.

experience came hard for the princess.

a mulberry dress gift-wrapped at last

arrived by parcel post in blinding snow

with mustard colored shoes.

mary angela douglas 2 january 2014

Beautiful Dress

[to my Grandmother]

it was sewn for valor.

handstitched.

with pearl embroidered

to shine quietly.

not to cause distress.

it swishes like the colours

of roses raindroped furling

under clouds of violet.

before the storms of

yearning,

silent,

perfumed of lilies.

staunchness at the yoke

and a hidden thread of gold

in perfect stitches by the

Unseen runs through this silk of night

illumined by angels in flight

the music he died for.

prove it was a labor of love.

wear it.

mary angela douglas 2 january 2014

A Paperweight Pennysworth Of Pink Quartz Hearts, Please

"here is the paperweight of pink quartz hearts.

that can't be broken;

a gift for a seamless dream, occasionally,

don't you think? a misplaced birthday,

a tin woodman on his way;

the bracken valentine burnished

like the burning bush"-

(the salesperson shimmered in the high-end retail

scheme of things.)

"near the castle lies the fairytale bridge

and mother of pearl, the moat filled to the brim

and certainly.

you can't ask for much more, these days,
for the price."

these days.

the pink quartz stars shine in the afternoons

of carnation tissue sunsets

 in the winter cold

and the peach bright something

out of reach is still, in the mind,

a lovely thing

not needing to be owned.

mary angela douglas 2 january 2014;rev. 2 january 2015

It's All Lemon Chiffon

it's all lemon chiffon

she sighed in a fifties dress shop

in a dream.

don't you have any other colours?

something in strawberry pink?

or Cinderella jump-rope-rhyming  green?

you'll see, it's not the frothiness I mind.

the skirts fuller than full moons.

all as they should be.

the sequined, beaded tops that shine

uncompromised as a sweetheart neckline.

I'm just not a lemon drop person

dropping a line or two on forsythia stationary

when there's time to say thank you

for the yellow everything.

it was just what I wanted.

mary angela douglas 2 january 2014

Cake Batter Poem I Pour You Into The Pan

cake batter poem, I pour you into the pan

shaped like a star, a heart.

will anyone eat you?

will they call you scrumptious?

will they covet your frosted roses

on each slice?

I'm glad you never burn in the oven

like the other cakes do.

you always come out just right

and flavorful, too.

I like to think so.

cake batter poem

I'll sprinkle you with candied everything

and sugared violets you know,

half hidden under the snow of your icing

for any guest on winter's road

a long way off from spring

mary angela douglas 2 january 2014

Red Teakettle

[to Natalia (who gave me the red teakettle)]

red teakettle.

colour of roses.

or cherries.

depending on the light from one window.

your whistling is not merry.

but a shriek from Xanadu.

perfect for vesuvial tea

each time I'm reading and

forget you're on the stove.

forgive me.

at Christmas I will pour you

into an emerald cup.

but you are not seasonal.

on grey days against walls

the color of pale butter

you try to shine like rubies

in a cockpit kitchenette

designed by dolls.

mary angela douglas 2 january 2014

Note on the poem:  Though I am American I have always loved the British spelling "colour".  In my poems I use the British spelling (colour) to convey (as it does to me) an exuberant colour or feeling.  When I use the plainer American spelling, "color" (and not to say I feel all American spelling is plain, by any means) it is to convey a certain diminishment of feeling or color, something subdued.  Very hard to explain this without having a third spelling!

It makes me happy to do so.  In the sixth grade when I was twelve and had finished Charlotte Bronte's Jane Eyre for the first time,  I started using "colour" in all my papers for school and kept getting marked down for it in red ink (you can guess the ink was the color red). 

Privately I thought, Charlotte Bronte could not be mistaken.  Every time I use "colour" thinking back on this, I feel a tiny sense of victory. Colour. Colour Colour.

Dorothy Slept In The Emerald Eye Of Cyclones

Dorothy slept in the emerald eye of cyclones

hearing the sound of running water, running footsteps;

away from these gold fields, she cried!

to her surprise already

missing home, and that amazed by trees

shedding emerald leaves

along the boulevards of dreams and

feeling a little small among the figurines,

the lemon drop candy dished breakables.

Dorothy, at once! in a green dress, once ice blue-

remained herself, predictable as storms

finding the irregular beautiful; on the doorstep of

many houses peering in

to admire so rainbow-boxed!

the blooms of near neighbors 

next door to a dream and

violet, swirled as carnival glass, country, contrary-wise.

deep in His iridescence, not to be swept away.

I haven't come to stay she said firmly.

waking up in the afternoon

to ham biscuits, farmhouse coffee

2/3 cream.

to her own room

with the bluebird wallpaper.

mary angela douglas 2 january 2014;rev. august 20, 2014