Riding Backwards On The Doll Train, Heading Home

riding backwards on the doll train, heading home,

I lift my hand for a moment in watery sunlight

waving like the Princesss Margaret did a long

time ago in a fairy tale newsreel.

will anyone notice these departures

from the real

as they like to call it.

it's not likely I laugh

and bribe the engineer

with candy leftover from Easter,

purple and orange.

does it taste like purple and orange

my sister asked dreamily

from the dream time I am 

no longer allowed to visit.

I don't know.

you try some.

and we traded baskets

the grass being the same sparkly green

on either side.

and imagined grand weddings

for the Bride doll

who looked at us mysteriously

forever with lilies in her hands.

mary angela douglas 23 march 2015

We Wrote In Coloured Chalks Formulas With No Solutions

we wrote in coloured chalks formulas with no solutions.

this was not allowed.

or scratched the moon's surface with a

lollipop swirling agate;

our marbles were confliscated.

also: jump ropes

dolls past their prime

the Bear with one eye left.

shoe button inventories

we were denied.

colouring books half done.

where will we find the Time
(to finish them) was said

once time's bright cherry boughs are stricken

and shaken by unseen winds?

but God- sympathizing with our plight

wrote to His heart's delight in

succulent cherry brushstrokes in the skies

and we were comforted.

mary angela douglas 23 march 2015

All Day At The Transient Window

all day at the transient window

I see ghost houses floating

little ghost gardens

with transparencies of roses

sheer azaleas

and a green awning flapping

like a kite a green green garden

chair

old kitchens everywhere with

yellow curtains attics with old

Christmas toys the vintage valentines

on a field day and now, colliding

with postcard tinted clouds

old hearts come sailing back on

unexpected reversals of breeze

cut out, construction paper

to someone's Mama

forever

mary angela douglas 22 march 2015

You'll Trudge On Through The Fairy Wood All Alone

you'll trudge on through the fairy wood all alone

the others having been taken by the hand,

led back another way

to where there is bread

spread with honey butter.

small doors shut tight

against the snows.

oh how unkind you cannot even think

in the finger freeze of the mittens dropped

along the roseless way.

you're on the brink of falling into

the well where no wishes are

until you see one star

floating on one scrap of cloud

above this sodden earth

and suddenly your soul begins to rise

above the dank strange sorrow

unpredicted in the schoolrooms.

no one to sigh over you then

they tsked on afterwards

as if they knew.

how could they.

ah, but

only through you

as though you were a looking glass

an open window

after awhile

did they ever see anything!

the attending angel cried,

with nothing like a smile

mary angela douglas 20 march 2015

Where Did All The Stage Sets Go, Ray Bradbury

where did all the stage sets go, Ray Bradbury
I wanted to ask him; it seemed like he
might know, if I'd been a relative.

well he was, though.

did we pack them in mothballs or did we
forget to bolt the cellar door
and then, the cyclone was upon us.

of course, the house came with us;
it did for Dorothy. but the furnishings?
it's a good day when you can remember

even one thing
that used to be in the cupboard.
what you poured into the jelly glass

on a sticky summer day.
two scoops, or three?
and did you leave the back door open

when it rained?

were storms clouds the same purple
you see nowadays or were they
more extravagant.

you tell me
whom you didn't even know.
I know it's somewhere in a story.

you wrote long ago
I just haven't gotten to yet.

try to remember. try harder.
they don't build attics now.
we're the attics.

isn't it so.

mary angela douglas 19 march 2015

This Is A Dream Of Stars He May Have Said In A Dream

(to the memory of my Grandfather handing to us on a summer's day,
star wheels, star maps you could turn to see the summer constellations...or winter, or spring, or fall...)

this is a dream of stars he may have said in a dream
I had recently that I forgot when I woke up
the dream of stars the way they used to be seen

from our backyard?
when someone had that dream before you
and couldn't get out of their head the music of
the spheres, remember?

or was that earlier.
new mists have come to be and they
cloud everything now.

even in the National Geographic

but this is your dream of stars you won't remember
this is what they say to you in fairytales when
you see something rare before you're meant to:

you won't remember this when you awake.
go back to sleep. you're in the house
you used to know my Grandfather smiled

a far away smile when

my Grandmother lullabied and they were
eating ice cream in a midnight kitchen
and we were all laughing.

mary angela douglas 18 march 2015

I Weep For The Children That We Were

for my sister, Sharon

I weep for the children that we were:

blue cloudy day above

beneath us the green grass

we thought would last

we thought would last

now so many earth turnings later I review

the things that we knew then

we thought we would always know

time in its snows has taken everything away

I cried to God with nothing left to say

and then within my soul there came

the murmur of soft breezes, summers' sheen

a Voice that gleamed through the racked shell of my heart

there will come a new Eden

there will come a new Eden

mary angela douglas 17 march 2015

A Fairy Tale River Ribboned Through The World

a fairy tale river ribboned through the world

visible to some, shining in odd places, shimmering

to little children.

some floated boats on it, some cast necklaces of flowers,

the rainbow broidered merely smiled (mysteriously).

it grew, the fairy tale river, past all we knew

past trees in their summer bowers

and where an unseen music carried us

through livid hours, through warlike ravages of time

still bordered with eglantine, with airy castles

and with cherried towers;

edged sky to sky in Romany and while

the world decried: "Anamalie!"

etched deep beyond the mire of day-to-day

and told at times beside no fires or where

the fires burned low

and when that failed

and all our harps wept winterly on the trees
 abandoned to strange orchards

on days at home with the door and window locked,

and the little sod crevices

and when it rained

and when authorities complained

still ours to keep

a rose red rose white flame

asleep, awake

we dreamed of.

mary angela douglas 15 march 2015

Lament For Lost Books Lost On Purpose

If I forget to read
between the lines of the butterfly crumbling pages
in the dust-laden corners

faintly may the violets of future springs
reprimand; the baby stars leave off
shining in the land of ploughed under kingdoms

if I refuse the gleam of the wild apple borders
of the suddenly untold told intertwined with gold, with silver,
cerise, elaborate devices,

stories rich and strange that should not cease
oh do not cease to know

knowing that they are mine to know,
but, if so,
may the lute strings in the attics hidden

break my heart

far far is the world from bliss, contemptuous
of this, of these faded valentines with the clasped hands
the pale blue ribbons streaming

from the mouths of doves
then may the small birds fly away
from the rainbow running rills

and may no one till from this anymore
the least of spent languages,
the currencies of dreams.

mary angela douglas 12 march 2015

Fleeting Conversation With The Snow Child

to my mother, Mary Adalyn Young-Douglas, in memory of...

I am the clock that's made of stars

she faintly smiled but I didn't understand

the cupboard with myriad jams asleep

the sing-song sung, the quiet sweep of hands

round the face of the moon the snows

that go, they will go and you won't 

expect them to.

I wondered.

then it was spring.

mary angela douglas 10 march 2015

There Should Be Little Cakes For The Green Road

there should be little cakes for the green road

frosted pink the colour of april suns, the

colour of pinks (the flowers, I mean)

the ones I've never seen and we should go

before we're known by name and while

the stars remain in the skies

the dews are tipped with flame
tipping over into the mystical lane
as if God spilled His tea

(if His tea were made of diamonds someone said)

there should be lullabies through the green grass

blowing, clear water to see ourselves in

and berries near.

then we'll have bread and butter

till there isn't anymore.

dark bread, darker than darkest honey

and some to spare

for the others

on the green road

the one that leads home.

mary angela douglas 10 march 2015

Her Hair In The Picture Was Braided With Jewels

her hair in the picture was braided with jewels

she quite forgot were there

unconscious in the sunlight of her beauty rare.

this was a real princess, I thought.

and turned the page. and the sun was still out.

and it was the same day

though the jewels were darker somehow

who can say why

old picture books make me cry;

the ones they published

before the Great War

for children

going out the door

and the wind, suddenly coming up

in their faces.

mary angela douglas 8 march 2015

Not All The Pastel Airplanes Gliding By

not all the pastel airplanes gliding by

could miss the clouds

and hit the floor

it seemed to us then.

and then we wrote upon the wind

in several colours

depending on supplies.

and folded down, the heart

was a surprise

when it was opened

and whether the sky was

translucent and even if we

we were opaque

we learned to make

something out of construction paper

after a while

so that our time at school

was not wasted,

Grandmother smiled.

mary angela douglas 8 march 2015

At Home With The Queen Of Small Things

teacups painted forget-me-not

wreathed of pink posies sit

on a weathered acorn shelf.

her thoughts brim over

mid such pelf

with pale gold, someone said,

but not too much.

she feels the lightest
 breeze's touch
as if it were a gale.

she sings but it's just

one spoonful of jam

at a time:

then she forgets a word, a stitch
a rhyme

when chipmunks interrupt

and the swallows glittering.

oh in a raindrop's mirror

she adjusts her skirts

of fringed, of maple red

that once were green

that once were green.
(she sings and sings)

because a scrap of

 petticoat is showing

and she is that exact

and wears the world like

a pearl though it feels to her

like a thumbtack

and reads
 over glasses
delicately made

to fit

the titles of short stories

in tiniest manuscripts

she scribbles through a honey drop hour

and publishes

for all the flowers.

mary angela douglas 7 march 2015;rev. 8 march 2015

Sweet Secrets Of Grade School Continents I Remember

sweet secrets of grade school continents I remember.
how the desk smelled like peanut butter
when you rested your head on it

until you heard like a sing songing bird
the teacher chirp
put your thinking caps on, little boys and girls!

we didn't think we were little
as we fastened on invisible hats
quite seriously.

we were there and so we listened
to the Grand Canyon Suite on the classroom record player
over and over

or saw Velvet win the National
on the auditorium screen
each and every spring.

or square danced on an early evening stage
for the P.T.A.

with lukewarm cokes served afterwards
the kind in the green glass bottles.
later it would be layer cakes and

cake walks, penny valentines on stiff cardboard.
I love. I love, oh who? just violets
because they're blue. and foldover bread

with butter and sugar

and Christmas parties on the last day of school
before the snow flies and the tinsel stars.

come out come out wherever you are

and recess when we can play anything.
and pinch frail honeysuckle off the vine.
and midday breaks for ice cream cups

are fine
with their flat wooden spoons
and one exact scoop of vanilla

packed to the rim.

and soon, you're home
in the twilight blue again
saying hello to

the backyard moon
your own favorite clouds
you chalked in pastels

on Art Day on manilla paper.

and when it hurts too much
these attics things put by I say
just remember the tall tales in the readers.

Babe the Blue (blue raspberry blue) Ox lumbering through.
and for a while,

The Princess Who Never Smiled.

mary angela douglas 7 march 2015;rev. 8 march 2015

To Tulip Beds In All Colours

to tulip beds in all colours

we wanted to travel

as though the world were

storybook painted

page by page

and so we read.

and breathed in golden apples

fireworks flocking over the castles,

the orange blossomed things they said

by indefatigable fountains.

and hardly dared breathe out

because of beauty, clouding there 

and all mapped out beside the

king's pear trees or we were revelers ever

of imprinted Christmas never

going away and side-by-side

our childhood's shelves displayed

the summer round-de-lays

the princess in her towers

the mystic hours, chiming we knew not how

faint music of all we felt before

yet could not name

left to our own rose
see-saw bright devices

the wind-up, toylike scheme.

oh roundelay rose or roundelay Noel!
when we stayed Home from school a little unwell

outside though thunder snows arose

mere History stirred

and barely gleamed.
while we saw dragons in the steam
above the buttered lakes of oatmeal.

mary angela douglas 7 march 2015

The Capital By Late Moonlight

clocking through the metro turnstiles

I went further than expected

happy on the pavements near

the flowering cherry; the embassies

of few charities. on the way to see Monet.

marble at midnight glows 

as if each building were a moon.

are we really this planet dreamily

I mused;the working day sped ahead

and political conjecture.

yellow leaves came down

annointing the matinees, ballets

I survived to see.

and turning through the turnstile

once again through crowds perfecting

professional repartee

ah still I only see

Spring petaling the pavements

colonizing the moons.

mary angela douglas 7 march 2015

I Opened The Book Of Dreams And It Was Empty

I opened the book of dreams and it was empty

as if great snows had taken it away

and did you hold in your hands bouquets of

snows and snows

and was all that vanishing

meant for you.

I gaze and gaze

but nothing speaks: they go their ways,

the muted and the sure.

yet starlight was pure

though who of them could say 

of their own provenance ah,

was the book of days inlaid in
dark blue and gold?

I know that this was

though curio cabinet-stashed
oh I really was. and

though these floods remain
above the capsized,
tree-lined,violet aubades

drowned in it all:
old Christmas train-yard,
 valentine-pale, my scissored heart!

still
coveting the singing wave-

turn back, turn back
with Maytimes petaling anew 

to crown you with music

 far from the fictive town.
sheer language never drowned there.

mary angela douglas 6 march 2015;rev.8, 11 march 2015

It's The Orange Peel In The Cake That Makes The Difference

it's the orange peel in the cake that makes the difference
sniffed the witch I wouldn't know I can barely fry an egg
though I long to see the pale pink shining through of

the egg fried just enough.
just enough, the witch brewed tea with cinnamon
and something, I'm not sure, a whiff of something...

never mind. her pies are perfect.
she'll win every prize
for the raspberry dazzle drizzled with

cream and honey baked words to match.
oooh. only made from Scratch
she is matchless, never cooking with gas

and the queen
of home economics.

mary angela douglas 4 march 2015

Beautiful Dresses

they could be lilac with a pale green sash

with full skirts that swish , small capped sleeves

or pale pink, sugared with rosebuds embroidered

on the bodice, ribbon of satin, whisper of lace;

Easter easter blue, polished cotton oh brand new

and petticoats of eyelet snow

and slippers of strange pearl and you want to whirl

and whirl, you can't help yourself.

so thought a little girl at a Saturday window

in deep reverie.

these are the dresses I'll where everywhere

when I'm grown.
and who and what and how

who knows but I won't forget sheer

dresses of lawn, too, and branching taffetas of

cherry; the frothy gown of Cinderella

threaded in gold and with the moon the moon
caught shimmering through vast panels of cristal

or ballet tulle, pastels, depending on your mood

coasting over the difficult

or the arco irised she said in small Spanish

coinage of the vivid.

with jewels that do not match

because they don't have to!

they're sparkling!

she laughed only a slight ruffle

a dress like a valentine or old posies

in an album.

later on

much later.

she dreamed beyond

the boxy little jackets

when what you need is christmas velveteen

with tiny rhinestone buttons

not all this

dressed for success.

the job fairs giving the illusion

of carnival, merriment and all the rest:

still all all you want

is a beautiful dress.
cathedral bright

of lilies, of lilies
pale happiness.

mary angela douglas 4 march 2015

Jellybean Poems In A Jar Of Summer Glistened

jellybean poems in a jar of summer glistened.

we scoop them by handfuls and never one by one

splurging on flavors under a strawberry sun

with whipped cream clouds

I added pinkly waiting for summer paperbacks

to come: ordered six weeks ago.

they're here! brown paper wrapped but not for long.

the dog barks by the embroidered divan intuiting fun:

a candyland of summer reading; screen doors shielding, sodas

creaming, deeper lemon shadows on the kitchen walls are dreaming:

banana splits with Hershey's syrup surfeited; fireworks on the lawn;

linen dresses on Sundays, or seersucker striped in pastel hues;

piano pieces in the cool cool house of the cut gardenias...

barefoot dancing down the hall.

when we were small.

mary angela douglas 3 march 2015,14 april 2015

It's Made Of Mother Of Pearl, She May Have Said

[to my Grandmother, Lucy W. Young in jeweled memory...]

it's made of mother of pearl she

may have said one afternoon

regarding a ring on her hand.

to me it seemed

as if the words she said then

were mother of pearl

and in more instances than one.

she made words glow

when she said them

I don't know if it was the music in her

that did this. but all my life

it comes to me the same way:

some words are mother of pearl,

some are the milky jade.

some have wings like silver birds

and fly away.

mary angela douglas 2 march 2015

I Pray For The Angels At The Ruined Gate

I pray for the angels at the ruined gate.

the silent angels. the ones with sheathed swords.

the ones who have turned aside from weeping

it says in the music when you turn the page.

can you turn the page for the ruined angels

at the silent gate that cannot open now.

it cannot open because it is ruined.

we sing in the rubble.

mary angela douglas 28 february 2015

Architects, Amaze Me! Commanded Ray Bradbury, Heart Full Of Wonders

imagine a museum of roller coasting tales

of wild eyed carousels, the rain stippled horses

of far legend

a museum of winds. of rains:

the pattering, the misunderstood and now redeemed jeweled beadings on old windowpanes, on roofs the color of fire

imagine...

a museum of green rivers and greener trees

and summer dioramas and children brimming over

with field flowers.

even then, is it enough?

in a corner of stained glass radiance

rosier than Chartres

with isinglass rose petals opening

on the day:

a yellow house

is not torn down is not torn down is not

torn down.

is here.

to stay.

mary angela douglas 26 february 2015