Poetry On The Full Tides Going Home

in my dream I danced

till the sky came down in translucent blue petals

the sky came down

and the wanderers wandered no more

and the sky drifted in the snow white seas

in the snow white seas

and the foam of all goodbyes was canceled

and the anvil of the heart was not struck

was not struck and the clock ticked not

with the tock of all goodbyes

and the fairytale did not crumple

in a heap of gold belied

in my dream I danced

the mysteries falling about my feet

and beauty on every side

and beauty on every side

had come to abide forever

where the gold of faiytales revived

and the wanderers floated in the

snow white seas 

in the snow white seas

in view of land

and poetry glowed

on every hand

on every hand

no longer turning into foam

mary angela douglas 22 march 2014

The Poet At Liberty To Eat Bread And Butter

butter your crusts thinly

so it will last longer;

the butter I mean

because it's exceptional

and it gleams

like marigolds

from a special mold

imprinted with willows

adown adown a

certain stream

with early ferns

and allusive urns.

a spread for holidays

for your last Christmas on earth.

and bittersweet even

with strawberry jam

(the last spoonful)

scraping the sides of the churn

when the last book's paid for

and you've earned it.

mary angela douglas 20 march 2014

Yum Yum Said The Monster

yum yum said the monster.

I will eat you up.

but the poet kept scribbling

trying to keep up

with the broken rainbow pieces

scattered everywhere by his better angels.

yum yum said the monster

here I come

be scared and drop everything

but the poet remembered

time is fleeting anyway and

kept on scribbling, dipping his pen

in light, in golden molten light

though he was not warm.

though she had no light

but the garret window-light

and when the clouds passed over

inner light.

munch munch cried the monster

craving attention

but the poet never heard

because the singing of the birds

in the tree of his soul could not

be sacrificed

to feed the gobble gobble

of the Liar

crunching on starlight

and miniature roses,

intransigent little children

in love with the Beginning

mary angela douglas 20 march 2014

And I Have Been Beaten With Words

and I have been beaten with words

or the lack of words

with the back of words

for a very long time

she sighed to a raveling wind

and when will it end

there is light I can feel it on

my skin but it's a winter light

and where will the soul be warm again

and words were given for light

for brightness like song to birds

like wings to flight

but I have been beaten with words

with the lack of words

with complicity and with

the matter-of-fact the

sleight of hand

and just and just

because they can;

with sign language behind the

daily scenes of the cognoscenti

with flash cards instructing 

the instructors mark this well: 

and notice the behavior

near the wishing well

the propensity for believing

anything other than beating

mary angela douglas 17 march 2014

Dear Reader:

For a possible and whimsical solution to this kind of problem, please see my poem (below) "Facing the Dragons Down".  And words really are for light and for happiness. Why would they want to be anything else?

-md

FACING THE DRAGONS DOWN

through kingdoms now

as it was then

you tread a certain

inward path

while they line up again

to stare you through

on a very tiresome playground-

or hurl, with no one else around

a mere boulder or two

down the embankment.

don't ask me how

they know it's you with

a birthday message for

your ailing children

done up in maypole ribbons bright

and the fairytale hour-glass

sands on the low-end...

but they could find you

in their sleep

on the margrave's run-down highway-

and creepity creep creep

through the heat-

roiling their chartruese scales-

waving a finny fin-

casting a munching eye on

your last bit of raisin toast

with frosting...

or burping from an office window

just to throw you off- belching

a murky word in-between

presentations...no one else

in the room even heard.

(and they're not meant to)

do not fear them;

let them rave:

thrashing the marigold window shades

beneath God's diamond and

discerning eye-

you may look swiftly all around

but no one else is there to pound.

they must mean, you.

don't be alarmed;

don't be concerned.

it just that it's your

turnity turn turn

To Be Facing the Dragons Down-

mary angela douglas 23 august 2011

Declaring Our Independence From The Clouds

declaring our independence from the clouds

we count on You oh Lord;

driftwood after shipwreck,

pinpointed starlight through these heavy fogs

declaring our intention only sure it's just the

heartbeat's prayer to keep on beating

even this far from land.

declaring our independence from the clouds

the swirling darkness everywhere we need

Your hand but we are frightened when Your sun drifts near

and then so far apart.

be Thou our level ground who change not, Love

Be Thou our Heart.

we have no other basis.

we are your flowers soon cut down

or not all at once

your sunset vanishing; rise to save us Now

and Ever After.

mary angela douglas 16 march 2014

Sunday Best Words Come Strolling

Sunday best words come strolling

twirling their parasols.

inside they are pink-cheeked with excitement

one second before Christmas

they'll burst from a fairy tale garden

rife with mignonette

crowded with antique roses and with hyacinths

oh we were just in the neighborhood

coolly they'll insist.

we thought we'd drop by with dreamy blancmange.

how large the moon looms in their eyes

though they pretend otherwise.

but something gives them away.

a little silver raveling out of a pocket

a little gold dust on the floor where they

were standing somewhat out of the way

with their velveteen shadows with

wishes suddenly coming true by the bunches.

or there's an apricot tinge to their sky.

a cerise valentine offered, shyly.

call me old fashioned. I like them.

I like them a lot.

with or without doilies.

resplendent on the Avenue.

sidestepping the diamond hegemonies

flared out with an extra crinoline or two.

out racketing the bluebirds and

it isn't even spring yet.

wearing a peach cummerbund can't you imagine it?

their pockets stuffed with caramels double wrapped

in jewel toned foils.

my best friends in all the world the world

they whirl and whirl so happy on the sidewalk after Church,

my Sunday best words...

mary angela douglas 15 march 2014;6 august 2022

The Elephant Man In The Grape Arbor Hides From Sorrow

there is a bruise in the sky

the small stars sing to

above the grape arbor

where the Elephant Man hides

from sorrow and his shadows

are purple too and not as lumpy

the tears caught in his throat

and the Elephant Man is riding

or he hopes to the silver horse

of his dreams and he is elegant

and flowing as the wind as the wind

through the grape arbor and the bruise in the

sky is not larger than his own and it is

widening like a purple stain on the universe

of sighs of negligence of misplaced laughter

little stars will encircle him by and by

the little stars will come

and leaven the leaven

for the Elephant Man in the grape arbor

hidden and unbidden except by God 

except by God

on earth as it is in Heaven 

mary angela douglas 10 march 2014

The Toothless Lion Chewed On His Cage of Air

the toothless lion chewed on his cage of air

and swiped at the stars

but they were too far

his paws buttered in moonlight.

after long rains the trees fall,

the huge trees making no sound

at all. and the mind could shine like gold

where the rivers flood

the rivers flood and he drinks his cage of air

and swipes at the mane of stars that shakes him

God has scattered everywhere

but where is there to see by their

fierce light but a tawny nightmare shrinking

in tall grasses midnight by midnight

batting at the flies of ruby and green

sweet bottle green more beautiful than

his pacing on the summer's bridge

no longer scaring little children

mary angela douglas 8 march 2014

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.