Aren't You Tired Of Trick Questions On Tests

aren't you tired of trick questions on tests
the lack of daydreaming everywhere
the stares you get even this late in life

whenever you wear anything old.
surely there is a Pole left
where you can go

only taking scientific measurements part time
the rest of the time painting the aurora borealis
on what is left of the skies

so that the children remember colours
and don't cry for the failed interviews
what is failing but falling through

to the other side
where God and the stars are.

mary angela douglas 15 may 2018

Jeweled Were The Butterflies,On The Bough

we keep the flower thoughts to ourselves she thought
not to expose  them to the wind where peach breaks off
in the orchards of the sky

lest we fly, too, all butterfly away too suddenly
beyond the day, the afternoons the evenings of no longer.
she dressed in tulle
she thought it should always be that way,

in sequined slippers on a distant stage
wasn't she the very face of light
fly off fly off we cried all butterfly ships away

we cried on a certain day
when all the petals on the bough
just slipped away

mary angela douglas 12 may 2018

Apple Or Orange

in gradeschool once or once again
while having to prove in the workbook
yes I really can

tell oranges from apples
is this what we go to school for
I remember sraring at the clock

at ten after three

then looking quickly  out the windows
that hand cranked  opened from the inside
all those rows and rows

why  don't they believe me yet
that I know an apple is not an orange
and also, put the other way

an orange is not an apple
and why does the clock hand move so slowly
between 3;10 p.m. to 3:20 p.m.

when I can see the buses lined up already
can picture the older children lined up
with their flutaphones

and right now even at 3:10 we could be
on the road back again to home sweet home
if they would just let us

and, meanwhile,  why don't we talk about
the clock or am I the only one who sees

the clock needs help, it's lost its place
in the line somewhere drifting between 310
and 320

I want to know this they never talk about clocks really
except for the hickory dickory which is a rhyme
I loved as long as the mouse was a singing mouse

from Disney's Cinderella otherwise,poor mouse
always going up and down the clock never
stopping for apples or oranges

why am I so small at my desk so that my feet 
won't touch the floor
is that why I keep getting scored on sorting the

one apple out of the picture with the oranges
from the picture that teacher just mimeographed
at lunchtime so that apple or orange

they're always painted in purple ink
why do they think that I don't think
that I think apples and oranges could

possibly be the same thing
when what I really want to understand is
What is Time?

and why does it always keep slowing down
at the worst moments

mary angela douglas 11 may 2018

Retributions

they didn't die off dammit.
their beautiful ghosts are still there.
sitting in your chairs that used

to be theirs the ones in rose velour.
they want you to stop eating potato chips
and scattering them everywhere.

you will not banish them by thinking
now it's all your stage.
you'd better get used to it

they're out there trimming the rose hedges
as we speak, the ones their ancestors planted
and plotting how you'll wind up on the street

for smirking at your tacky tea parties
boo hoo so sad too bad they're all deceased.
and I'm the sole owner now.

watch out for that pier glass and how
where theyve long been known too  suddenly

to appear each time you comb your hair.
beware. they're out there still.
they always will be, see.

while you're hiding in the tv rumpus room
with all yur degrees.

they'll soon be tearing it out while you're asleep
that pumpkin coloured carpet you're so fond of...
with the olive accents.

mary angela douglas 10 may 2018

Palazzo In Pink

Im going to find a pink marble palazzo
and fill it with ancient ferns my
secret mosses the milky quartz

from Arkansas.
inner gardens courtyards
for the mockingbirds

for Telstar going over my Grandfather
and breakfasts at dawn
with Orange Tang.

and Silly Symphony cartoons.

what taste the new neighbor has
perhaps they'll sniff
the titled in the vicinity

what do I care for the air like wine
cherishing my library of Nancy Drew and
the Great Books

about the looks they gave me on the way to St. Marks.
I will be there
dressed in pink lace

slightly mindful of the snarks and

ready for the day
having things my way
sea creature emerging

from a roseate shell
God and I shall get along there.
very well.

mary angela douglas 10 may 2018

Little Red Bells In The Afternoon

little red bells in the afternoons
home from school
the snow glaze of the air

could we fall through the glaze
into an etching of Currier and Ives
all lemon and violet in the skies

strange freedom everywhere
and the bustling, the gift wrap sessions
like a kind of music

we were fond of then
when we passed choclate cherries round
the cordial kind and cordially.

little green bells in the afternoon a little later
tissue sprinkled with multicoloured stars,
the little ones, I will wrap in several layers

as it they were brides, my presents
always books or candy, ocasionally the looking
glass set in porcelain with English roses painted on

to look so brilliant on the dresser.
as if for a stage play
blue bells and it's colder now

we want since it is warm inside

to touch our checks to the frosted glass
gold bells and the candles lit
and it's a December evening now

why does the lamplight stream rose gold
into our suburban living room
when my sister plays a Christmas tune

on the grand piano by tomorrow noon
we'll feel the dwindling, start to worry about school
in January

why do the days spin fast in their towers of dreaming why
I asked too long ago for you to know
and I'm still wondering,under the very same Star...

maryangela douglas 10 may 2018

Ferias

this is the beautiful day
the day you will dance in small circles
to muted tambourines

the day you remember orange popsicles
the labyrinth of stars and former feelings
walking toward evening...

then we were grass green new

the world was filled with fairs
with incidental music in elevators
small coffees in the afternoons

and going home to your apartment in the city
wherever your postage stamp apartment
was at the time

buying the scarf threaded with glitter thread
one pink, one blue in Indian cotton
from the kiosk by the Metro

and Kafka in your head, Ratushinskaya

her dream of the cherry velvet dress.
pink flowers fall  on the way to the Museums
littering the pavements with grace

on the way you dream again
of visiting the Impressionists.
and living in that space

the world was filled with fairs then.

with summer sandals and the soles of cork
so that you floated down avenues
in a special dress of rose coloured cotton.

trying at odd moments  to appear you were a real secretary
though they never believed you
and you didn't believe yourself.

then you believed in God and Gaelic music
in feeling ethereal, not of this  place
isn't it beautiful

isn't it a beautiful day
when you still feel that way.

mary angela douglas 10 may 2018

Goodbye My Jeanne

[For Jeanne D'Arc]

that is the fairy tree, the holy tree for certain
she breathed as though she spoke in cloud language
only God could hear; the other children having departed

now the silver edged angels,
the twilight ones appeared
when the stars were ensconced

not quite yet, the honeyed candle of her soul is lit.
ahead lies a future;
not of clouds.

Michael, Catherine, Margaret within the hour
appearing to the clear eyed child
who must speak truth to Power

the one her visions forge that indicate
the road that she must take
and all her meadowed dreams forsake,

leaving the fairy tree behind

packing only her one wool dress
the one on Sundays worn
her prayer book perhaps; could she read?

only the missal of her dreams
she is fanciful her mother said
after she'd gone, self willed they said

not right in the head and there was rage
at the turning of a page while
the cobwebs of the dawning grasses
served for a halo of sorts, for Joan.

a covering

sweeping into God, destiny, the fire...
a heart of resolve.

only the tree knew her best
where she confessed she loved God only
and the tree whispers  and would have shed every leaf

and oh, for very grief (the fairies said) and the tree

though newly leafed sensing not far from here, 
her last breath on the winds
sensing it would see her when

it also,brandishing newly and with its pearlized

flowerets would be let into the lobbies of Heaven would bloom again
heavy with birdsong, jubiliant.

this marked her now, goodbye my Jeanne...
to the once upon Kingdom

that ring around the moon.
my halo, my small Queen.
goodbye to life, to what has been

farewell, for honour's sake
pursue without turning back
the Divine trajectory.

for all of History.
For Love itself.
and nothing else.

mary angela douglas 10 may 2018;30 may 2019

Than To Be Truly Happy

they no longer tell you
that at any given moment
the Beautiful leans out from Heaven still

washing the world in silver and gold
because to them this style of poetry is no longer valid
embarassing, even

though who decided this first

no one knows and spoiled the first birthday
but you must bow down to despair and to the trending status quo
or flit the time no longer as in a golden age

or they will call you mad
(imagine that)
or what's worse, stupid, ignorant

with a grin on your face in the mud unless,

somehow you know more now
than when you were five and could see
the world alive and yourself in it

so you abide and make odd jokes
too blase to say otherwise and too afraid
in their disguise

not to fit into more or less the shroud they have made for you

but I say otherwise until I die
and after that too

because Heaven is still with us
Beauty has never left the room
though persecuted to the nines

and the room is the world

everytime it rains.even to the verge of
Flood and rainbow because they are His
and the silver regions and the mysteries

the plains at sunset washed in flame

and the gold of what we were told remains
even when we don't want it to because
what if someone found us out

when we were living the fairy tale
and roses opened and the skies echoed them in music
every time the birds sang

and God Himself was a rose and yet
Eternally and if not why does hope
spring is us despite everything smashed to bits if

Christ be not the green and given shepherd
of your aching soul

that could not die, that did not die
when you thought it would
because He is still alive in you

and has never left you alone

though there is cruelty
though there are those
who tear time apart

convincing you to
acquiesce and play the part
in a clueless fiat

and never venture to say
no, you know otherwise
that gold has sifted down from the sun

on the faces of children grown
who wed themselves to stone unknowngly

yet who are more than what is on the face of it
more than the illusion of clouds, shadows
over the continents

of what transpires on the evening news

that pass and must disintegrate
because they are not named
from any silly stage;

this is  foreign made more foreign
and tangled, no longer the colours
of honey ambered and

and not my nation
the will to turn away

and to deny the truth
that down inside
where lies do not grow

and cannot take root

the beautiful is green, pale geeen
and still alive in you
with forever and ever

and at the Beginning,
still.
and only when

you allow the cynical to prevail
to rage and Rule and have fits
has Death come to you

and by your own will

because you would rather appear brilliant
among the crowds on Crowds
than to be truly happy.

and filled with Light.

mary angela douglas 6 may 2018

Only This Hour

only this hour perhaps the rain storms through
lifting the dust from old customs out of the way roads
your faded housedress, roses

against the palings, let it flow, stream, pound the
pavements of your dream and green, greening
old stories, the cupboards of your mind

the sweet pines' fragrance grows,

unlock the storehouse, wind flinging open
the half latched barns
so that the animals breath great draughts

and the children reciting their applesauce poems
on a calendar day rimmed with gold.
let the rain cleanse the soul and rainbow patterned

oil spots on the carport where the children
were just playing jump rope, five and dime "ballets"
with the clash of thunder, running for the screen door

tne home style happiness inside; indoors we press
our noses to the glass and hear the roar of the gully washer pour
into new silver sieves we've just invented for

where will we be when we are old

looking farther down the periscope of time
Vu-finder restless
and then back at the summer when

it rained, almost every day.
rainbows popping up everywhere
afterwards.

mary angela douglas 3 may 2018

Gold Has Fallen;Gold (last version)

gold has fallen, Gold.
not the gold of empires;Light.
it's slanted glory across

our hearts, departing in
the season of sighs.
now are we numb;

again the harps
hung in the willows.
ourselves, our own exiles,

the ash of roses composed.
the last of the shadows surging.
and for no prize at all.

why will you persist in counting out
counting out and hoarding
the honey of our days

net worth of souls.ah, the expedient!
you who know branding so well.
banished, in one hand

quiet and no fool's gold,
the luminous love of our Lord
Candle beyond all candles

lighting our way.
and in the other,
the weight of trembling.nothing.

the blackbirds counted out
from dubious pies arising
have flown laquered into the ionesphere.

the lacklustre zones.
will you still keep
vetting the lachrimosa,

your professional demeanor,
your resumes of snow?
all verse is blank.

the cclipse drawn in crayons
by small children who know
this is no longer

the harbinger of fear
in nursery tales
but fear itself and terrorizing.

Jacob's angel in the bent dawns.
all wrong on display
in the museum of Song

for the chuldren's field trips where.
Beauty went
weeping, away, the.last moon

over the monsoon
with the Ark new furnished now.
what more can be implored.

and Infinite Love the dazzling,
the last beggar at your door.
the world awash in rain.

mary angela douglas 3 may 2018

Gold Has Fallen Gold

gold has fallen, Gold.
not the gold of empires;Light
it's slanted glory across

our hearts, departing in
the season of sighs.
now are we numb;

again the harps
hung in the willows.
ourselves, our own exiles.

the ash of roses composed.

the last of the shadows surging.
and for no prize at all.
why will you persist in counting out

counting out and hoarding
the honey of our days
net worth of souls.ah, the expedient!

you who know branding well.

balanced in one hand
quiet and no fool's gold
the luminous love of our Lord

Cande beyond all candles
lighting our way.
and in the other,

the weight of trembling.nothing.
the blackbirds counted out

from dubious pies arising
have flown laquered into the ionesphere.
the lacklustre zones.

will you still keep
vetting the lachrimosa

your professional demeanor,
your resumes of snow?
all verse is blank.

the cclipse drawn in crayons
by small children who know
you are no longer

the harbinger of fear
in nursery tales

but fear itself and terrorizing.
Jacob's angel in the bent dawns.
all wrong on display

in the museum of Song
for the chuldren's field trips where.
Beauty went

weeping, away, the.last moon

over the monsoon
with the Ark new furnished now.

what more can be implored.

and Infinite love the dazzling,
the last beggar at your door.
the world awash in rain.

mary angela douglas 3 may 2018

Those Who Were Never Told

I have been partial to the speed of clouds
suspended animation of the leaves
the winter vagaries

and I like a clouded marble.
the elegance of the departing waves.
resolved into the spell of ice

syllables saved for the special occasions
like the good china used for company
the pink linen cloth laid on the cherry table

variant equations someone else can understand
it's not my job.
starshine is enough and truly, God yet

sometimes in late aftenoons
the feeling of not being here at all
and the soul resounding, yes

that has always been the rule
going out or coming in after childhood
was sent off into exile they said I never did

like the mopsy rabbits the flopsy ones
or so's, to bed without the blackberry supper
disappeared not mattering as much

from year to year
and asking, what is here
my soul feels everywhere and nowhere

at the same time
in need in want only of the starry ladders
swinging down this is not my home

my lovelies gone
except when caught in music
and in the divinity of words flowing

from a spigot of gold in the
quiet beyond midnight
I who have know clouds dream

that the angels awake
to guard lost armies
who were never told

the war is gone.
and everything else, with it.

mary angela douglas 1 may 2018

Morning Glories, Morning's Vine

morning glories, morning's vine
why, for you, should I repine
when morning's glory elsewhere shines.

I numbered you among my friends
but when I turned around again
your magic vanished

purples closed, and then departed
springtime's golds,  and tangerines
and pink ones too.

what, oh what
became of you.

I thought you chimed but I was new
to how time closes,
flowers fade.

and how the roses melt to shade.

childhood's first goodbyes are hard
the flowers in a small backyard
and birdsong alters, while the trees

shed ochre tears on slightest breeze.
still will I keep your pictures bright
and not dispose myself toward night

remembering how I loved you then
and danced, like you, in every wind.

mary angela douglas 1 may 2018

The Spain Of My Mind, The Wind Of Gold

the scent of the carnation in that country,
ringing of bells.
the indigo bells of elaborate welcome,

and the ochre ones for death.
the breath of the carnation.
only the silver child

turns on a dime.
the terraces of night
have their stars.

the dreaming patios
the fireflies in jars

interior saints,
know who you are and
the chapel candles.

and the weary tours.
oh if I could be, endure to be
the scent of the carnation

on foreign winds
at home again
the cinnamon

not for trade.
the windlass of the sun.

the emblem of the wishes made
fronting the grey seas.
the mantilla of snow and

the recent rose not for me

but the rose of fable, yes
the one unfolding of the poem
pale green on the piano,

my weeping serenata
and petal past petal
the lingering afternoon

the trumpets refused
and then, the country of carnation
resuming, first measure,

to exist within.
beyond the aesthetic of elusive towers
of the carnelian,

the segovian, winds.

mary angela douglas 30 april 2018

The Pink Moon Or The Full Flower Moon

the pink moon or the full flower moon
this was an april name the forecasters said
the full gold

the snow moon
I fell asleep, dreaming the Indian names
in a dream like a full blown rose

names swam to me through the haze
all my own:
the diamond breeze moon, and linen too,

the moon shaped like a bird
the harp moon, ascending
with the stars ringing,

Orion in a choir
watching over, who you are

the jade moon
the one in haiku
the one of precious gems

my sister coveted.
but only out of love
the one of let's pretend

we can walk for hours on the flower snows
and not grow cold
the russet moon, the one of apple bloom

when we were made of gold
the one you wrote music to
in whole notes in the afternoon

the moon of cracked china,
infinitely preserved

the moon of many etudes,
breaking into tears. for years and years.
I found the moon of distance always appears

emerald and stern, the moon of will
you never learn
the sugar moon when we sipped honey

like the hummingbirds
the moon of going away
has come to stay

at least on earth
we wait for the moon
of beautiful returns

articulated
our hearts like lead.
and left unsaid,

the moon like a spoke
the moon of hope
to settle in the trees;

breaking into bud.,
the moon of white violets
and keeping promises

at least the ones you made
when the moon was pale green.
and oh, the azalea moon,

the moon in dreaming shades
when the sun fades slipping into,
through Christmas, the moon of the

unheld breath,
before Beauty, descending
the moon of variegated cloud

the moon of opal
when my Grandmother said,
in velvet words

awaking from death,
tune the piano
I am coming home.

mary angela douglas 29 april 2018

To Ray Bradbury, Six Years Gone

let me braid in forget me not blue
fire balloons the tune of You though

maybe we speak of you too much
those of us who read you extravagantly
in some dream summons to life

with each page poured over, each page turned down still,
the magic foundry still going, tangerine glowing
in the few years since you've been gone.

not wanting to lose the day and fearing the night
we plunge on in beatific reminiscence
when we should just take flight; when

what we should do is just live
as if we were made of the sun
that honeycombed sphere

and the zenith still clear
and write, o write the page of gold o

live! I seem to hear you say
as if it were ever August in brocades
with the grass of eternities before you

the windows far flung while the wind says
never out of breath,
come, Yea come, elusively

berry stained and unrestrained
in the green glad praise of God,
red clover proud and sweet.

raspberry replete
the race before you lies even autumn at the verge
still incomplete

the all out of doors rapture of: we're on our way, pounding
the bittersweet, dawning streets
in fresh, unboxed tennis shoes, we ARE

some remnant of the cloudless day,
neon colours and the bests of
and all the marvels out there.

and everything to love:
don't be old, I hear you say, be
newer day by day.and braver.

let all the dandelion hours accrue
into a vintage so rich the wish for time,
more time,

comes true...

mary angela douglas 28 april 2018

We Had Castles, Castles By The Score

we had castles, castles by the score
and apricot sands, wavy blue water
painted by hand on huge sheets of

glossy paper, we
in honeycombed shadows
played all day

in castles, pink, on a green margent
emeralds in the trees
and the trees rained them

in a glittering breeze
we gathered them in our pinafores
till the last rays

and took them indoors
and that is how we lived
and though you think me poor

how I live richly, now.

mary angela douglas 28 april 2018

TO MY MOTHER BY THE SCREEN DOOR OF HEAVEN, LOOKING OUT

was she in larkspur, that shade of blue
when the wind was blue
the awning of the house

the color of dusk
then we were thinking it
is really autumn, rust, majolica satin

and the gold no longer brushes the
cream of clover on the lawn, can.
glow over the zinnias anymore

in their spiky and sometime fuschia-
universe;
was she in larkspur, was she

larkspur's soul come back to the recital
how could the children answer that
being told not to speak

in their frail armour.who wanted to say
not finding the right way exactly oh no
the zinnias are in peril

but the wind speaks, you thought,
the wind creaks and the pines know it
just like the playground swings or

when we play too early
the Christmas Firestone records.
isn't the wind a child that blows

now soft, now tempestuous
blind with flowers and
telling all the secrets, knowing them by very heart;

or holiday managing all apart
our art of thinking it is so
the wind, as a fairy princess

no matter what the records show;
tossing the gold of ancient kites
we never see.

and though we dream and dream
the fallen stars and the mysteries
all about our feet and silverly;

as though we were royalty
it is of that lady disappeared
my mama, in the strawberry myths we

braid about you, continually
we would all primrose bright
primarily- Sing.

mary angela douglas 27 april 2018

To My Mother On The Porch Of Heaven

was she in larkspur, that shade of blue
when the wind was blue
the awning of the house

the color of dusk
then we were thinking it
is nearly autumn, rust,

and the gold no longer brushes the
cream of clover on the lawn.
was she in larkspur, was she

larkspur's soul come back
how could the children answer that
being told not to speak

but the wind speaks you thought
the wind speaks and the pines know it
isn't the wind a child that blows

now soft, now tempestuous
telling all the secrets, knowing them by heart
the art of thinking it is so

tossing the gold of ancient kites
we never see

and though we dream and dream
the fallen stars and the mysteries
all about our feet and silverly;

as though we were royalty.
it is of that lady disappeared
oh mother in the myths we

braid about you, continually
we would all primrose bright
primarily- Sing.

mary angela douglas 27 april 2018