Leaving It All Behind

the soul as charioteer;
the soul at its zenith;
the soul as choirmaster of

the years and all the birds
gathering in the diamond boughs
of the why's and the how's

and where is where
when the soul is about 
to disappear

and the neighbors look
only for a spare hat and coat to wear
scrambling for what remains

as much as can be carried out the door
to add to their store

while the soul from higher plains
looks on.
and laughs.

mary angela douglas 

mary angela douglas 14 may 2016

Shine

here in the shade of aprils past
I weave the ladder of what is left
of the green and the pale green

wandering through flowered fields
and the star flowered skies overhead.
it is the long dead poets I read

and what they said

the best that lets me understand that I am younger, then,
than the dark green, the cooler shadows
of April, the winds through the window

chiming the wind chimes.
am I out of time, softly I ask the fairy tales
but, they still-golden,

Shine

mary angela douglas 14 may 2016

I Am Awake Yet I Am Asleep

trees and the shadows of trees
down the long lanes remembered,
beckoning in dreams

I see and the fingers of moonlight
reconfigured where there is
this quietude, the night music

and the groves of a rustling like silk
when the winds come through,
night winds from the star

that I remember as if they were saying somewhere,
lost angels, finding again the way:
all this will fade and yet will remain;

the leaves, rustling, the forests in shadows

the pools of moonlight
and the night birds singing
and I so glad to be in their music

while I am awake
and yet, asleep

mary angela douglas 14 may 2016

I Sent Messages

"This is my letter to the world..."
Emily Dickinson

I sent messages to the sun;
they melted.
to the seas,

where they dissolved.
to the clouds:
and they became rain.

I sent messages
as if they were rainbows,
mist, relief from pain

or roselike, in the gardens
of the earth.
or far from the flags 

being furled.
I sent messages impearled
and radiant with dew

and they were flowers, birds, bells
pealing and pealing
and I carried them

over long deserts
as if they were stars
or kept them in jars

as if they were strawberry preserves;
or on my back,
even when I lacked

everything but them in the world.
and I wonder, where they have gone,
into what whirlwind

that no answer returns

mary angela douglas 14 may 2016

Unto The Folkloric, The Embroidered Threads of Song

unto the folkloric with its fantasie impromptu
its scarlet and golden thread entwined
on an embroidered vine

and from the vine
the carols sought over long distances traversed
the beginning of earth from

the fond word of God
and this sod
on which we tread

our heads full of dreams
and singing the song to and all things
so that they begin again

entwined with the ruby. the golden thread
heralding the Heart
and the choric

mary angela douglas 12 may 2016

Reading For Comprehension

the idea of the story?
who thinks about the idea of water
when you are drinking it

after being parched?
the idea of light
when the sun comes out

after a week of cloudy skies?
what is the idea of the rose
when you are the rose itself

opening by only the whisper of air,
the warmth of one ray
what is it today

you would have us learn
with your flow chart of ideas
to deconstruct, reconstruct

taking the soul apart
to label its components
as if this were wisdom?

and, as if, we were broken
in not knowing this!

we who are already familiar
from dream times immemorial
with the rocking of the boat

of our sleep

and the silvery
in which we draw enchanted breath
and will never find there

the idea of Death

mary angela douglas 12 may 2016

Mirage

a temporary brightness clouded our eyes
on the blind way home;
we thought it was you, o Lord,

because it shone.
not always is it your gold that beckons us,
but even so-

reminding us of You,
it glows.

mary angela douglas 12 may 2016

I Understand A Little

I understand a little of the Palm Sundays coming down
o Lord the temporizing sunshine, welcoming parades
the cries of Hosanna that fade fade fade

the very echoes dying away

and then the skies grow dark
and you are left to face alone
what you did not impart

how hard it is to see true friends turn to dust
or what is left of them, stare you blankly in the eyes
then turn aside

as if 
you had never been.

mary angela douglas 12 may 2016

The Glorious Salvage

the messages left by wandering strangers
under rocks the storm turned over
the letters you sent into space

that never returned
the unopened valentines unearned
somewhere there is a post office

for God's neglected children
with brightly foiled on cardstock cards
keys without locks

embossed invitations
to all the weddings

illuminated silk-screened

the tick and the tock of birthdays acknowledged
well into the gloom of descending age
the Christmas letters packed like fruitcake

full of delicious crumbs of this and that
and citron glowing and the green cherries mystifying
sugared pineapple.

Somewhere everything sent is acknowledged
somewhere everything received is complete
somewhere the handwriting is neat

in letters that swoop like sea birds
in graceful curves on floral stationary-
with something jeweled in their beaks;

from all the shipwrecks,
the glorious salvage

mary angela douglas 12 may 2016;rev, 20 june 2017

If You've Left It

feted at the place we must be leaving,
will we overstay our welcome so
that the May shadows linger

warning us that the crickets may chime?
gnats gather and the purple skies come down
and where have you hid your crown;

the time is going
and you must be found
or you will be lost

and who will count the cost, then,
of the dreams you would be sowing

under the midnight sun
if you've left it still undone?

mary angela douglas 10 may 2016

The Dowery

[for Sharon,my sister, a million years from today]
and to my mother-

I send you off, my sister
whenever your Time may be
in the little pitch tarred boat

knowing that Love will find you
among the rushes
and gather you in

despite this criminal world of sin,
distress, and unexpected largesse.
and I pray toward that day

you may sail with the winds of Music
at your back and lack for no bright song.
and those who thought wrong of me,

who thought I did not, could not care
we will leave aside and not address anywhere
at all on the day you are dressed

in your magnificence and more beribboned
and petticoat flounced than in the birthday years
you ever aspired to be

may you alight
bringing eagerly in your hands
the silver music that you loved on earth

you will know then, will never disappear,

as dowery for your rebirth
in the Heavenly spheres.

mary angela douglas 10 may 2016

Let Roses Unfold Like Myths Unto Themselves

let roses unfold like myths unto themselves;
their perfumes of the bygone
clear to us now

and ships of mist
linger longer for us in their harbours
of green waters, still.

God may work His will
so that the flowers bloom
all at the same time

and the ships return
like rhymes to their proper verses
with their Christmas sails 

glittering, Home-

on the eve of all eves-
to each of us-
alone.

mary angela douglas 9 may 2016

Party Planning

in Heaven we will wear garden party dresses
all the time I thought you said to me in a dream:
the kind splashed with roses on polished cotton

with sweetheart necklines, full skirts
and you showed me the elegant list you had prepared,
a dream list of pink and gold decorations,

the invitations on cream you showed to me
without speaking.
all this was in the land of no emergencies...

and of no setting suns and I was
so happy to see you Grandmother.
that of course, then I woke up.

why do you always come this way in dreams
imparting mind to mind without talking;
(you who spoke so much on every subject

when you were on earth,
to me, almost from birth)
something I don't understand

when I come to; and why does the dream dissolve
before I can stop and ask you things such as:
does dying hurt and do you like

where you're living now?

and is there something

I should know, somehow,

that you,being heavenly-prescient now
can tell me?
you used to spoon out advice

for every occasion from such a golden spoon

and morning, night and noon;

perhaps you said everything then 

so that you've nothing left to say.

anyway.
you seem to be the same as
on your best days here.

and that alone makes me happy.

mary angela douglas 8 may 2016

The Ice Minted Green Of The Luna Moth

the ice minted green of the luna moth,
moon coloured loveliest pale and
emerald thing

I have seen
and wondered how can anyone
doubt the Artist

who made also the winds
transparent so that she may glide

mary angela douglas 7 may 2016

The President Of Peppermint

I will vote for the President of peppermint,
the one who can't help but be jolly;
who carols constantly,

makes but never breaks the
evergreen promises.
I will elect him King

of the red and green
of festivities proclaimed or hidden;
of happiness unbidden in all seasons

and snows of the lacelike
softly coming down pure ice cream
on the town.

he will be the one

who favors the Nativity,
the astonishing Star;
who furnishes candy jars

all over the Kingdom
and beams on endless bookshelves
wherever we may dwell

and lets us
keep our Dreams

to ourselves in the summer shade
and drift in the quiet parades
if we want to

mary angela douglas 7 may 2016

In The Library Of The Paramount

in the library of the paramount
she kept rose leaves, scraps of summer grass
the overpass of trees

and the violets beneath the leaves
the flecks off the waters.
o sons and daughters she cried

what is it you have lied for
what do you work at every day
oblivious to these

the greatest of the small
while you are walled up

Alive

mary angela douglas 7 may 2016

I Saw The Salient Stars In A Sky Of Flame

I saw the salient stars in a sky of flame.
and the Western wind whispered the name:
Van Gogh, Van Gogh...

and then
the stars sparkled more fiercely
and were brave again.

mary angela douglas 6 may 2016

Cherry Dress From Goodwill

I bought a cherry seersucker dress from Goodwill once
it was too long for me but I didn't hem it.
it was striped pink vertically

and with a wild border of cherries two inches before the hem,
that wasn't hemmed.
I felt wherever I went in it,  I am wearing my cherry dress

and I am happy because of this.
I still don't understand the distress
this caused in certain quarters.

were cherries out of fashion, or seersucker?
or were they simply jealous
that I found it at Goodwill

or just the kind of people who always will
want us all decked out
in power lunch blazers

and Egyptian beads on the Metro,
replicas of those at the National Gallery.

mary angela douglas 5 may 2016

Imbibing The Pink Of The Day

we were drinking in: the pink of the day
(this was more refreshing than you can imagine)
with tiny rosebuds embroidered on our skirts

a faraway look on our faces.
it's peonies breaking through the mists
it's the outrageous colours

like suns in their own right soon
and this is our delight
to color it all in

after the fact or before
like the dream of what she wore
before it ever came to pass,

said Cinderella to the cracked looking glass in the garret
as if it were all, either way you spell it
or whatever the book was about:

a rose leafed jam

spooned out

mary angela douglas 5 may 2016

It's As Likely To Be Found

it's as likely to be found
as a jewel in the eye of a hurricane,
the word you're missing:

the one you long to say out loud
with multifoliate symbols;
its own cathedral.

whether near or far,
it's as likely to be drowned
in an ocean of noise

as anything else.
but a ship in distress
emits a certain radiance

as do certain names;

the silver sounds of Christmas 
as it fades, for instance;
the orient pearl;

girlhood in the garden,

the shade of a rose forgotten;
the notes for a last toccata
as it slips to the ground;

the colours of bartered rainbows
in the Lost and Found.

mary angela douglas 5 may 2016

Soda Fountain Ghost-Dream

it's a cherry phosphate, old fashioned soda fountain
kind of day I thought to myself
in an out of the way place

down a side lane
no one paid much attention to these days;
so it all came back to me.

the generous scoops of ice cream
in the malteds, the stools of green leather
we used to twirl on,

our feet never touching the floor.
coke floats, rootbeer floats, the
world's largest banana splits

and fudge sauce
over all of this.
(don't forget the maraschinos

and the whipped cream...)

mary angela douglas 5 may 2016

Practical English In Three Volumes

[to Funk and Wagnalls]

practical English in three volumes
stared out the bookshop window
where it was always raining.

practical English was a little wistful;
missing always its fistful of diamonds;
consigned to bargain, clearance corners.

how it longed to go across the street
in the slipshod weather and go eat a hamburger,
the old fashoned kind,

with just enough pickle and onion
to give one sustenance in the 1940s.
or automat lemon pie;

it's enough to make one sigh:
admirably dreamed, thought practical English,
tempted to waste reams of paper,gold limned,

if only one weren't so hungry.
please God may the poets not show up
to browse today.

let there be an eccentric, rich collector
who will place me, just so,
next to a first edition of

Hans Christian Andersen
with a frontpiece tissue guard;
near a fine bouquet of april flowers

with the mastiff tied up in the yard.

where life is not so hard;
where mama holds onto the chocolate stained
and keeps one out of the rain,

from nursery school refrains and
the dog eared disappearing.

oh, let me count the hours...
separated by commas.
or semi-precious semicolons-

(in case there's chiming).

mary angela douglas 4 may 2016

Outpost

there should have been zigzags of green
lightening in the skies;
an unfamiliar outpost suddenly felt like home

with copies of the National Geographic
from the early 20th century;
a brown leather chair.

a floral rug.

there I would have gathered the stars like seed pearls
in old rusty buckets
left out all night.

or lingered at the screen door at nightfall in the rains
just breathing the ozone and the ionic plains
in the distances would be mine

though I would never try to own them;
the roses, sodden in the garden
weeping for what they were blind to.

so did I.

it is a velvet darkness
I said to my soul.
the farthest outpost.

all I will do is stare at the night
and remember old ghosts
rattling the bowls in the kitchen

to serve up the cherry vanilla
or radio shows, coming through.

or they will be right beside me
when I do-
pointing out to me again,

with oh, kind hands:
the constellations
as though we all started again.

mary angela douglas 2 may 2016

Once In The Gold Of The Day We Wore Blue Dresses

[to my sister Sharon]

once in the gold of the day we wore blue dresses:
robins egg blue or ice blue
with a superfluity of lace

and watched Sky King on Saturdays on T.V.
and Telstar in the evening sky
from our backyard

and the Big Dipper,
the North Star to steer by
when we were out with our dolls

or on the porch, before ice cream;
and it is the fourth of July
with golden sparklers

rivaling the stars.
and this is who we are
in our blue dresses

in the rose of the day
and loved by those who love us
who can say how much.

and overfond of vanilla,
chocolate and raspberry,
or strawberries over cake;

spumoni, o the pink
and the green of it:
and every wish we make

and the new day
when we wake.
and we pray to.

always.

mary angela douglas 2 may 2016

In Search Of The Myth To Wrap Herself In

in search of the myth to wrap herself in, she went;
the one made of roses, of snow drifted into roses;
the one of fine blue,

the sky myth, the one turning clouds to silver,
the sea from itself; the fine myth that
can't be disputed because, unheard

it rests in the heart
a mere bird in the bough
and quieted from singing.

in search of the wild myth, the pure
that rang like crystal when it did not sing
that singed nothing and yet burned on

like the touch of snow, of rose, of blue;
the one she knew before;
the one that didn't crucify;

the one of lilies and of the triumph
that goes unheeded:
the purple one in the palm of God

extended as life is
beyond all winters.
as hope is

beyond the final blow.

mary angela douglas 1 may 2016

Poetry Is The Gold, Past Deconstructing

is it the gold you might not see at first
flashing through the trees in the cold
of a world that does not recognize these

fragments of love letters
written on the wind
in ancient texts

the texts of dreams part-way
unscrolled and then you wake up.
is it that light foreshadowed, unshadowed

when clouds come
that you would articulate
for no other reason than

that you can or that, otherwise,
it may vanish
from human understanding?

or that, as a child, you still
command your alphabet blocks,
see words in pictures first

and more densely;

densely to expose, partially,
like the light through the trees
spontaneously imploding,

the density of the heart
imposed upon?
what can words impart of

light of light of light

questioned the poets they deride
through impoverished midnights
down to their very souls

awaiting the Unheard.

but light but light
is not easily deconstructed
flitter all the silver birds

at dawn.

mary angela douglas 1 may 2016

Here We Have Thieves of Metronomes, Images

here we have thieves of metronomes,images:
the petty criminals of music
thieving other poet's lines

in sheer daylight.
the tick and the tock of it
down in the valley-o.

may cryptic winds blow
the myrtle off their brows
and the orange blossoms flow

another way,
warned of dreams.
catch the peddlars as they come

all penny bright, on the run;
new sheriffs of Nottingham

here they come
and robin won't defend

peddling the pilfered wares of Beauty
as their own;
ask God who knows the details.

and how the hand painted clocks
we laboured on with care
rebel on the other side

where springs are sprung
and Time counts for nothing;

the filagree of tulips,

devil's flowers.
under their spell-
released,

glow golden in Paradise
in the pink and the green of it
where these aren't allowed in

to even crease the paper
true hearts wrote upon.

mary angela douglas 1 may 2016