The Dolls Being Hungry Play-Pretend About Art

considering the blueberry phase of art please note

the cream clouds in the picture said the head doll

quite stickily

and here we have the lemon meringue hills

where the taffity cat wanders but not for long

(observe the encroaching shadow and the

cherry-scuro)

oh me said another doll should we be scared

is this the time for ghosts

and the golden arms retrieved?

"In this scene," she continued firmly

a little cross though her expression never changed

"Class! can't you imagine a human child in a strawberry

gown and she is preserving plum sweet jam

and can she have a peach sash timidly, this from

the baby doll and not spill anything?

(so we'll have more for tea)

"of course!" and it's about to be her Birthday

and there's going to be a huge pink cake

and an even bigger one for the dolls

with presents said the bride doll

and her pearl veil glimmered

shared all around smiled Raggedy Ann

shared all around, and buttercream frosted

dreaming and dreamed of

by the lemonade springs...

(they sighed)

mary angela douglas 7 march 2014

Imperfect Happiness Spilled Out Of A Golden Font, Somewhere

imperfect happiness spilled out of a golden font Somewhere

rainbow tinted just like the song where the bluebirds flew

and in their flight dyed the pink clouds blue blue

was the music gurgling down the drains after the rains came

imperfect happiness gushing down from the Far Mountains

where the children went that day hearing the piper piping

perfect happiness.  someday the world will shine more

perfectly and we'll be best they cried they cried for

imperfect happiness sticky as honey on the last currant bun

at home

someone tell me a story I was told that imperfect happiness

wasn't good enough but they were wrong

mary angela douglas 6 march 2014

To Edith Wharton Writing Ethan Frome By Ruby Red Firelight At Home (Her First Draft)

dear Edith Wharton

I loved your ruby red pickle dish

in the novella.

I couldn't get it out of my head.

how beautiful it must have

looked on the linoleum

or on the farmhouse pine planked floor

when it shattered-

as if a pirate broke in suddenly, tripped. and

scattered his treasure into every

fresh-mopped corner

before he got around to burying it

in the squash patch

or deep under the lilac palings

where the chickens wouldn't

get to it

after a hard winter.

and who, I ask you,

is going to sweep all this up

after that awful sled accident

mary angela douglas 5 march 2014

Broken Willow Ware, Oh How Will I Cross Over

broken willow ware, oh how will I cross over

the delicate bridge that skirts your jagged stream.

how sadly the split moons swivel in the pattern

and I have hurt their

dreams of languid twilight;

shimmering of small lavender bells

now out of tune.

how easy it was for the moon to slip

between your  careful clouds.

I dreamed I was there, day-wishing

and the dish slipped, too;

the baby ferns wept purple

in their streams

missing the implied Princess sail even

further, forever chipped from view...

standing in my rented kitchen

how will I explain to you

the fault-line in your terraced stair.

the shifting of your kind kingdom-

or recover your blue summers

or breathe this fractured air

mary angela douglas 5 march 2014

It's the Fairy Queen Out Of Sight In Pale Pink Satin

it's the Fairy Queen out of sight in pale pink satin

you want to catch a glimpse of through the trees.

and the harp glissandos, and you almost

think you can:

digging for deeper rose

near your castle of sand.

you want to see the pearl

of her custom-made slippers that shines that shines

on the underside of dreams and you almost

think you can- but then it's just

things in this summer's sunlight

butterfly gilded, wounding sheen

too near at hand so you drink your orangeade.

oh why won't she glide (you know she can)

on a glittering river that winds and winds

through a cherry bright landscape 

laddered down below-

plainly you saw from a backyard windowed tree-

last Saturday-

the fairy petaled snows

mary angela douglas 5 march 2014

To The Poets In A Departing Light

looking for the things they left behind-

some emblem of the gauntlet that they ran

I cried to the angels on my either hand:

how can I - how can I ever understand

the gold embroidery on this sleeve of night,

half-finished...

and are we kneeling in the evening grass ourselves

anointed in the dew falls from far stars

whose day has passed-

and shall I rummage in old trunks found by chance

among the violet silks and stage properties-

among the last effects of the unbartered voices-

looking for the things they left behind

how I have stumbled over the amethysts

the moonstones the looking glass

they have thrown out now with the trash

not knowing what they do.

forgive us Lord we have forgotten them

cast from a singular mold-

and their bright holiday among us;

going about in the rag tag remnants, left

thinking we have the whole

mary angela douglas 5 march 2014

Night Thoughts Of God

what is it that we want Him to say

leaning on the wind to hear His voice.

the simple things.

don't be afraid.  I'm with you

don't be afraid. 

it doesn't matter what they say.

don't be afraid.

it doesn't matter what they do.

I see. I understand. 

I feel it too, but we'll go on...

what was it that we heard so long ago

glad tidings...I bring you - something

peace, don't be afraid I'm near

what is it that we want to hear

My dear My dear

I'll catch you if you fall

don't you remember when

I did before?

don't be afraid lullay  lullay My little child

don't be afraid

hush, take My hand.

sleep...

tomorrow is another day

for you and Me

mary angela douglas 4 march 2014

Rose Reverie Of The International Geophysical Year

"Grand go the Years,

in the Crescent above them-

Worlds scoop their Arcs-

And Firmaments - row-

Diadems - drop-

And Doges - surrender-

Soundless as Dots,

On a Disc of Snow."

-Emily Dickinson, Safe in Their Alabaster Chamber (last stanza)

transmitting sound where there are no waves

or music when it snows inside the mind

we measure nothing

silver discs on solid ground

and no receptors found

and the clashing of invisible cymbals

where flight should be instead;

no vie en rose.

but it's someone's immemorial year again-

it's someone's expedition-

do you know who sent you-

is it arctic you survive-

is it the far north of everything-

without - the Northern Star

is it the silence that won't be sifted-

borealis? - cadence of

colours that never arrive

however long you may stand watch-

and the order is given-

you may stand watch-

over the clouds inside the mind

that create these white out conditions

and write your

long last letter-

like the filmy - skies

and write your

long last letter-

that can never- arrive-

to startle the gulls and the

vagrant seasides out of sight-

and out of time-

with this rose reverie-

with these - ghost brides-

with the syllables

God gave to you,

one - at a frosted - time-

mary angela douglas 1 march 2014

Another Shop On The Street With Mary Poppins

hard words with a candy center,

can such things be?

queried the wanderers fresh off the bus.

I went with them to see:

hard words with a candy center

and more, besides

in a sweet shoppe off the beaten way.

where egg whites were beaten

40 times a day to freshen the

peaks imaginations slid down

hard words with a candy center

lined up in apothecary jars

and here's a handful of the lemon

sunbursts

the caramel twirled the raspberry

indented shells overflowing with

hazelnut (reserved for the poets

or children after school.)

or blue ribboned ribbon candies

for the vocabulary builders

in the back of the books;

aurora bright, day long

lollipops and sundries

the sugar dusted conversation starters

glasslike, made with honey,

pink vanilla fudged

my and my again we sighed

taking some of each

till the last bell chimed

taking pink sackfuls back with us

and, at christmas time

red and green sacks of mince pie words

for those who never minced them

what a surprise 

ginger orange peeled snug under the Tree

"where did you get these?" 

(keeping the key lime answers for ourselves)

mary angela douglas 28 february 2014

And I Was Alive In The Cherry-Sprigged Day

and I was alive in the cherry-sprigged day

she said to herself, smoothing her rose taffeta-

before the recitals dissolved and just when

the sprinklers were on and we went out

secretly into the side yard

plucking the sunset gardenias

my shadow and I

in our familiar glade.

and will it lengthen 

in the blue blue grass

my soul's flounced dress

pink as the azalea shrubery

with God forever

taking out the hem.

and will the dusk settle

like a summer snow

like a summer snow

on all you know

tinting the ice cream

and the moonlight that

was then and can I live there

ever again

mary angela douglas 28 february 2014

Oh God Let There Be No More False Alarms

"underneath are the Everlasting Arms..."
-The Holy Bible

oh God let there be no more false alarms
ever widening the fissures of the surviving soul;
though flowers be massed on sudden graves
and the edged winds blow sharp frost around

quenching each radiant corner of the mind.
let your fierce kindness stand:
bearing the small injustices away that hurt
as much as the great- assay
Eternal Spring after the short winter of the world
that we live daily.

forgetting to turn the page
we are locked in it still
not seeing there is no door now
and no guard
the winds having blown it all away.

our backs to the ruins
we can just walk free

mary angela douglas 28 february 2014

It Is Astonishing The Princess Said

it is astonishing the Princess said

seeing the bent twig flower after all

through cool disdain

through monkey puzzle maze

through pea-soup rains and the

sticky sun; whole summers without

lemonade.

sipping the air of home I would

have run in pale green skirts

forever; not even in fairytales

that kind of freedom shines.

see how the bent twig flowered after all

perfumed as all the rest,

but deeply different.

I pick this one for my portrait

done in tearose chalks:

the center of the nosegay-

mainstay of my heart

through cool disdain.

mary angela douglas 26 february 2014

Bright As The Census Of His Golden Pears

bright as the census of His golden pears

about to glitter from the branch of moonlight

when all has been accounted for-

that bright the day could be.

or cherry deep in stories we've not

heard before, we'd wander and we'd wonder

why the colour red is so delicious

so that small girls dreaming Christmas dreams

imagine only cherry silk or velvet

trimmed with clouds

each lay me down to sleep

so bright the day that hasn't been yet

and the creek behind the house.

a casket of jewels, just found

the breaking apart of dewdrop hearts on

dawn spoked grass and ground

or on the vivid rose.

and clover perfumed

we would go, our baskets full

of pink cakes, fizzy drinks

and snow...

mary angela douglas 21 february 2014

Note on Poem:  There is a fairytale that begins with the King requiring, in turn, each of his sons to guard the pear (or the apple, or the plum, I can't remember which) orchard

because the golden fruit in the morning is always missing from some branch or other-and in childhood I used to be transfixed just by the beginning of that fairytale, never mind the rest of the story.

Also, the phrase "lay me down to sleep" refers to the children's prayer before bedtime:

"now I lay me down to sleep

I pray the Lord my soul to keep.

If I should die before I wake,

I pray the Lord my soul to take."

which does not seem to me like a bad prayer to pray as an older person, either.

Forgetting The Looking Glass We Left Behind

"for now we see through a glass darkly, 

but then, face to face."

-The Holy Bible

forgetting the looking glass we left behind

how will we pass through when the

moon slips by the open casement

of the fairy windows and

the Ship arrives?

take what you can carry on your back

even old fairy tales advise

but even they leave out, sometimes,

the caves of the mind where inner opulence 

survives, if at all and if

the fires are tended to

they will blaze up in the bleak counties

of the outside world when you are late to work

or cannot find your shoe at the right moment

to prove that you were there

where everything shone

when Eden was still Eden.

sad world, eating the candy hearts that

say "I love you" till nothing is left.

you cry you cry like a child bereft

and can't understand

the looking glass, the key to the Other side

where Love abides is

what you must pack

even more than the bread and butter

to be happy

mary angela douglas 21 february 2014

They Will Arise Parting The Dark Green Velvet Portieres

they will arise: parting the dark green velvet portieres

at first, on a vacant Christmas stage

with delicate stealth.

no longer adored.

still they pass muster to defend

their ancient playmate's children's children.

how rich their estate, with candy stripings

fresh cut boughs of pine of fir.

missing no starlight, candlelit and strange.

they will arise again and again

tucking into old sugarplums, nougat well

preserved, this army's provender.

splendid in scarlet trimmed with a gold

language barely spoken anymore.

in a flourish of bisque, rose-hatted

over the modern lawns they march

squashing the crew-cut dubious grass

where once were whole meadows

flower full. (and "cowslips" piped a little girl

in organza, colour of orangeade

"don't leave them out of the story.")

and it is spring in the techno-centric world

where fairytales hardly count anymore.

your shutters will not keep them out,

taking the babies by surprise and

bringing back the fairy gifts stolen

at cradle-side.

they will arise

heading over the violet hills to the metro areas

and taking charge of the scraggly grounds,

the fruitless enterprise and (after dark),

rattling the windows of the office park

dispensing lollipops all around.

mary angela douglas 19 february 2014

Old Poetry, Torn Pocket Where The Diamond Dust Is Seeping

old poetry, torn pocket where the diamond dust is seeping

on the trail and will the children nestle near the soughing trees, little dreaming no one will come for them.

still, cherry-cheeked and making the best of things.

old poetry. scraps of butterfly wings a little gilded.

seldom seen  by anyone now,

the buttercup light beneath their chins.

small dinner table games remembered.

here's the pink rabbit made of the damask napkin.

the Easter jellybeans in stained glass sticky melting;

in between the lint in the wounded pocket

sing your lost angels out of sight

all night she dreamed of a pink apron

fantastic with a blueberry thread.

white rolls sugared.

will they awake where there is singing

old poetry.  here's my apple tart for you

with cream. forgive all departures

from the the crystal stream.

I weep for your seeping diamonds, still.

mary angela douglas 19 february 2014

Etched In The Fossil Of Time Are The Tears

etched in the fossil of time are the tears

of those who went before on this

revolving stage-set; silver the vein

of laughter; caught, the gold of

kneeling on the childhood floor

fastened in a fleck of moonlight.

dear God. are You near?

I know you are.

because you were

on this revolving stage set

where we haunt their mirrors

and stand where others stood

the petal drifting springs;

the heavy rains at the bus-stop.

we tread on their amber shadows

on the train. in old apartments,

on cracked linoleum

or worrying about work

we stand at their windows.

even in the grocery aisle, 

it's already started.

how richly the fern and the rose

have darkened, held in Your hand

while the sorrows burned.

and You preserved,

a little sentimental

this crease in, the snows.

mary angela douglas 19 february 2014

The Mermaid Predictions, The Future of Snow

the mermaid predictions, the future of snow

is this my future thought the smallest one

a pearl dissolving only on the surface of the seas.

I have left everything and still, I am alone...

Hans Anderson dipped his pen in the foam

and thought of the future of snow.

how does it feel to melt not knowing

if anyone remembers

the fireworks over the castle

the whole of Denmark dancing.

am I the future of snow the poet mourned

and tempered her future.

she will glide on light into the chambers

of good children.

and that, forever

mary angela douglas 18 february 2014

Note on the Poem: I went to Amazon today to see if it would be possible to order a ten pound bag of pinto beans so I won't have to think about what's for dinner for a longish time and a momentary ad for Porter Fox's Book "DEEP: on Skiing and the Future of Snow" caught my eye - especially the incredibly poetic, evocative phrase "the future of snow".

The phrase did not originate with me, then, but it did trigger this poem on Hans Christian Anderson and his deep (as deep as the future of snow) fairytale on sacrificial love,The Little Mermaid...  Thank you Porter Fox for such an incredible phrase.

Introversion

and if there's a shine like abalone

in rainbow puddles after rain

she will stoop down I know she will

and scoop the remnants with her gaze

and all the way to school walking slowly

her soft eyes contain the spokes of

many rainbows.

though she does not speak that often

nor is spoken to.

for this she is marked down in red

in the archives of the school

the ones that no one needs to dust.

the ones perused.

in later life and home from work

on any weekend you can't imagine

she will part the sunrise curtains slightly

and the same pink and blue

swirled with mint with mother of pearl

will appear to her:

as if in a waking dream.

mary angela douglas 17 february 2014

Attic On A Summer Day Dusting Off Old Catalogs In Disarray

sprigged are the clouds of the summer dresses

pleated down the front of the sky

pin-tucked with eyelet

tears of joy for the

poufy petticoats, crinolines of the rose

or layered sherbet stand-alone.

who will ever wear them again in lemon

grove paintings long ago,

done like the hats with mysterious veiling

discreet flowers

and will we watch their angels lifting off

with wings cut out by the serious children

from Simplicity Pattern No.

1 billion and one

mary angela douglas 17 february 2014

Maypole Dancing Dulcet As Spring

["Sweet spring, full of sweet dayes and roses,

A box where sweets compacted lie;"

-George Herbert, Vertue

maypole dancing dulcet as spring

streamers of pink, of green of lemon

like the sun, of violet, pale

cerise and candy spun and spinning

as if we are flowers flowers themselves

and first of the illustrations first of May

in a book of old stories inscribed carefully

in someone else's april handwriting

sloping, violet-fed. sighed the princess,

in every colour.

and she's in a dotted swiss, pale green

and a rose rose riband of velvet

because

it's green we are dancing holding onto

the sun (to a lemon drop one) and

taffy pulling the pink and the green

and the pale cerise, cerise.

compacted sweets she decided on

for a birthday in a silver box,

wide with a ribbon of lavender sheen and I

want that dress in every colour, please;

oh sheerly

pleasingly holding onto the light the Princess

dreamed: imploring the Flower Queen

getting lost in the spectrum and laughing.

and this is where wishes were granted-

pastel, with softest slippers to match...

mary angela douglas 16 february 2014

Floretti Of The Hidden Stars Who Has

floretti of the hidden stars who has

carved you into my heart

that the blue and the gold of you

should not be turned away

from the fine fair fairytale doorstep

swept clean of sorrows.

for all the fairytales are truth

down to the least detail.

This I learned to say.

let the debris of exile

castaway, on a ship of no devising

be only the ghost ship sailing away from you,

Beauty in exile,

even after Christ!

floretti floretti I murmured to

bright children sleeping

to the ghost of their tears

in the curve of your canticle, moonlight;

Your broken silver candle still not quenched

though many have thought otherwise:

stringing their Mays like pearls and

forgetting the Jeweler.

mary angela douglas 16 february 2014

Amaryllis Ah The Lily Light

[to Edgar Allen Poe]

amaryllis ah the lily light

when will the spent wing flame

lifting the sky that's fallen down

on those with sudden fame

rose was the colour of the sigh

before the bent knights came

flauting the codes that shone like stars

above the winter's plain

amaryllis ah the lily light

and, will you come down the glen

to shine like music in our hearts

and let us bloom again

mary angela douglas 15 february 2014

The Things They Think You Ought to Know

the things they think you ought to know

could fill a room of any size with

cloudbanks holding back the lies

they'll tell when you're not in the room

but you walk under a yellow moon

in a landscape of primary colours

and only hear the crystal angels.

fee simple what is owed and

fait accompli feeling more alone

ragtag mornings in school halls

are raveling still; who cares.

there's still a beauty everywhere

unravaged and

some of the sparkle won't wear off the starlight

in your mind and in your mind, walking away

from them still you'll start

mixing the yellows and blues

into the greenest day where

they won't find you

mary angela douglas 15 february 2014