There Is No Politics In Heaven

there is no politics in Heaven;
how could there be
where one is seen

as one sees
through pure crystal, the Mystery
forever on earth unresolved

and all is ordered

through Love only.
there we will walk on gold
among familiar trees transfigured

in the company of God 

with no governments

no need to be enfranchised.
the documents dissolve
we will be ourselves

in the Soul's country

Freedom and the expanse
beyond Time
no polls.

no need to assume roles
the governed and the governing
to pose in electioneering

to depose kings.
and then to be, the one deposed.

and all is blooming, blooming
and all of this
is far away. and clouded now;

and where I want to be.

mary angela douglas 13 july 2019

That Beauty Might Not Fail

to Edna St. Vincnet Millay

that beauty might not fail
perhaps she came, allusively
to stand between the tulip trees

in the early photograph

as if at the border of sound and spirit,
to linger there.
pouring sonnets from a silver pitcher

unerring, into the golden.
to say as each moment crystalized
how could I hold this

note forever yet
light,, cannot fail

to be memorialized here;
the impassioned soul made real.
beyond scant fear scanned

a construct never to be diminished, scarred

though all we feel on earth though the heart be marred
remains unfinished
it was where we were

mary angela douglas 13 july 2019

To The Match Girl, Dreaming

(to Hans Christian Andersen (for The Little Match Girl)

the first match shows The Tree
in all its finery, loaded with apples,
sugarplums, the candles of the world

reflected in your face
and now, the second grace is struck
and there's one Star

to guide you from where you are
frozen skylark in the snow and dreaming
of the third

with all the birds heard singing
Heaven and home to you
no longer alone.

but spared
all worldly care.

mary angela douglas 12 july 2019

If I Sent Messages From The Moon

if I sent messages from the moon
would the headline read: MAROONED
would I miss moss and just a touch of frost

on the wild violets.
what compass could I carry.
what slip knot at the end

down a silvery fire escape.
quietus made too late.

Emily said in our town
oh earth you're just too wonderful
when she was coming back.

was that a telegram too?
the moon was made for rumination
there's a lot to think about sometimes.

no moths to consume though.
you could wear silver forever
and just be who you are

along with all the stars.

mary angela douglas 11 july 2019

Toledo, As Painted By El Greco

on a day of tormented skies
suddenly I dreamed of Toledo
Toledo as painted by El Greco.

will music fall out of the sky?
Segovia, cease with the fountains
I think of all the small things

I learned about Spain
in school. the cape lined with rose
that taunts the soul

the beauty of the word "Escorial"
at festivals, then I wanted to weep
to prophesy:

cien mil rosas will arise

and crown everything
but time has lapsed
like the legend of Quixote

across the dread and blinding sands
and no one gives commands that mean anything
and there is a kind of grief

I don't know why the colour of cerise
reversing the preterit
as if Garcia Lorca had died again
and honey and olive mixed provide

no balm.
nor the nascent oranges chilled
in the last storm of all

the one on the way, on the winds
from the sad green towers 

mary angela douglas 11 july 2019

Once Upon A Time Etude No. 1

once upon a time
the moon was dressed in gold,
shading to silver

we had no formulas.
the dog had eyes that glowed in the dark.
we believed in hidden treasure.

we loved to play with measuring cups,
but not to measure.

a red wagon pulled on a summer day
then playing in the sprinkler
was followed by a matinee

or strawberry shortcake
on some occasions.

any cake was good, though.
with pink icing.
we learned to be nice

to wear Sunday dresses
with net petticoats.
to float until we felt

we were out in the deep water
and we had to turn back,
kicking like mad.

we learned

not to sit on a tack.
to play jacks until the cows came home
though we didn't have any cows.

milk was good for us
except at school
in slightly soured cartons.

and applesauce too.

we felt all trees were watching over us
that having shadows was important
thanks to Peter Pan.

that the first day of school
crackled almost like Christmas
and Time to us

was a silver ocean
we could draw bucketfuls from.
and we would never run out

of it.
or God.

mary angela douglas 11 july 2019

Every Poem Is A Frontier

every poem is a frontier

the glaze on the wind

before the snows begin

and you are no longer here

even when they testify you are.

as far as words can be

from the soul

you want to go without distraction.

packing everything.

but every moon looks back on you

and every faction.

where is there left to go

when hearing doesn't help.

listening, still less.

have you begun to move from earth

without the ladder provided by the angels

is this too soon? where are my manners.

it's an immersion, it has wings.you try to explain.

things begin to pick up in the rain.

this isnt a story this is happening now

as if you're feeling peeled from a silver

bough from the route you had taken

on a summer afternoon

its such a different country now.

am I this ghost

they think they still need at work

to answer the phones.

to open the mail.

what messages may fail

from a Far Coast

is up to you.

the landscape's white on white.and it has bloomed

while you remember the word that means blizzard

in the language you were supposed to learn.

no one can understand what you heard

but you can't blame them.

its just an eternal kind of day and

every one feels this way.

when the ground is shifting.

mary angela douglas 9 july 2019

Yes We Will

we'll go out with tiny swords to wound him
the Dragon crunching up the neighborhood
but only if he comes to our backyard

and makes the dog bark good and hard
waking us up
we'll put on fluffy slippers

and our Christmas robes
and arms ourselves
with fruit flavored life savours

while the neighbors look on
thinking finally we wont have to buy
any more thin mints from them

in March.
come heck or high winds
we will defend

our fortress.
and the larch.
yes we will.

and all our learning
from the rumor mill, turning.


mary angela douglas 9 june 2019

On Worrying About Nothing

a big fat ball of nothing came my way
gathering speed, momentum as they say
till a friend said, hey,

you'd better step away.

but I said Nothing can seem huge to you some days
but all you really have to do is say
Nothing isnt there

what is there to scare
I'll stare the  nothing down
and go my way.

mary angela douglas 9 july 2019

The Talking Doll Goes To The Job Fair

I don't have a resume at all.
I am very small.
I talk out of turn

I will never learn
but you'll like me, after all
I am a cheerful doll

you may get tired of,
after a while
when I can't reach the files

with rooted hair. 
eyelashes out to there.
though I confess

as far as the dress code goes
I've just got the one frock I came with,
with it's baby rose...

don't dock me!
or clock me,
I can't tell time.

though Im pretty good at rhyme
and trudging through the snow
when the bus can't find me.

I do my best.
not dressed to impress.
and wander on

with my little song
in the Coliseum
with no per diem.

mary angela douglas 9 july 2019

The Way You'll See It, In The End

the way you see it in the end
still could be bordered with lilies of the valley
a fragile dawn

in pinks and blues as
the cue to birdsong 
the last view of the moon

through plate glass
all the past like a Christmas train
through a wide wide  tract

where the people wave back at you,
forever

mary angela douglas 9 july 2019

To The Minor Poets In A Heartless Hour, Speaking Love to Power

[to Valerie Macon, who lives for all poetry.
and who rose to the occasion]

in almost any poem
someone else's heart is on the line.
to think this way

is to be subject to the rejoinder
too much schmaltz.

I think, really? Is it better to ignore
as has been done before
of course, always in the name

of Higher Criticism a poet, a peon's inalienable soul?
of holding to golden literary standards
the person writing anything at all.

in their starry scrawl

as if in the dock, or in jail.
to make them feel, they failed.
is this necessary?

we are all small.
we all try to be known.
some for power.

to occupy a throne.

I am not speaking of those. 
even small insects in their summer fields compose
and float up to God

their miniature hymns.
are unacknowledged poets
not as worthy as them?

mary angela douglas 8 july 2019

The Sea Maid's Reminiscence (Final Version)

(to Hans Christian Andersen


I miss sea glass, my grandmother's pearls

coral music in the whirlpools

the icebergs on the moon,

when the moon is

floating topside on the waters

the ships of doom retrieved.

ladders of angels.

most of all, I miss speaking

where I'm heard

ever my mind a bell from far

distances in the Dream Time

ever the wave's repealing improvised

and not dancing on swords;

the fragrance of the frangipangi

the simple accords

of water and light

the depths where I

am out of sight.

mary angela douglas 7 july 2019

The Sea Maid's Reminiscence

I miss sea glass, my mother's pearls
coral music in the whirlpools
the icebergs on the moon,

the moon floating on the waters
the ships of doom retrieved.
most of all, I miss speaking

where I'm heard
even my mind from far distances
in the Dream Time

and not dancing on swords

the fragrance of the frangipangi
the simple accords
of water and light

the depths where I
am out of sight.

mary angela douglas 7 july 2019

The Seeing Heart And The Scarecrow Rendered In Charcoal

(for William Wordsworth)

there, by the Seeing Heart, and not the stream


that makes its murky way into an ancient seam

I paused and did not want to go again.

invisible world made more invisible with Time

how can I see you locked into rhyme

that falls away

made for the coffee crowd.

these ragged rocks convey what might have been

I sense in the world at large such desolation.

friendlessness

and all is scarecrow; a highway dream sign

reads: Beware.

Here there's no crossing at all.

let ravens seem rubied in the sunset air

but I know better.

this is not lark blue happiness

but a cunning stair, where the gnats

rise after long rains and

the havens have grown over everywhere

the cataracts bode no good.

and where you stood once,

in an enchanted wood

an emerald light filtering down

has morphed into a town foreboding;

the scarecrow's straw tears.

mary angela douglas 7 july 2019

The Seeing Heart And The Scarecrow Rendered

there, by the Seeing Heart, and not the stream
that makes its murky way into an ancient seam
I paused and did not want to go again.

invisible world made more invisible with Time
how can I see you locked into  rhyme
that falls away.

made for the coffee crowd.

these ragged rocks convey what might have been
I sense in the world at large such desolation.
friendlessness

and all is scarecrow, a highway dream sign
reads: Beware.
Here there's no crossing at all.

let ravens seem rubied in the sunset air
but I know better.
this is not lark blue happiness

but a dubious stair, where the gnats
swarm after long rains and
the havens have grown over everywhere

the cataracts bode no good.

and where you stood once
in an enchanted wood
an emerald light filtering down

has turned into a town foreboding;
the scarecrow's straw tears.

mary angela douglas 7 july 2019

What Is Impossible To Say In Words

(for Dmitri Shoshtakovich)


this is daylight then

when gold shines through the fissures;


this is the violet tide and unreturning now;

a quake of diamonds concluding

who knows how

and where you are

the dark snows little stars

and hemispheres hardly breathe;

amber beading on the sunken lawns.

what eve is this that shakes the garnet core

you cannot even form the words, your fist.

there is no birdsong left in this, but shards;

caesura.

there is a pause between worlds.

a diminshment, in music.

fountains shut off.

angels turn from the scene,

the weeping spires.

mary angela douglas 6 july 2019

Let's Analyze Little Kids To Pieces

let's analyze little kids to pieces.
do they have 3 vegs to eat
are they standing on their feet

did they share their toys today
what is on their resume
can they tap dance in their sleep

take a swan dive in the deep
will they make a mint by ten
leave the world of let's pretend

at a very early age
learn to dictate every page
of their memoir all the rage

are they social as can be
are they ever really free.

mary angela douglas 6 july 2019

She Explains To The Uncomprehending Her Predilection for The Romantics

there's a rose gold patina or I truly wish there would be
in the morning when I look out
on a sea of trees

in a summer park
where in the dark
a lurid green flows from the security lamplight beams

so I imagine brighter scenes.

as if there would be
a castle up the service road out back

where in fact police cruisers circle around
and then go up it to downtown
where the condos glow.

and I think I will move there
when I have better luck  (the castle, that is)
and I will keep the refined sense

of the stories I grew up on
rose gold patina or not
and embroider them more deeply

though all around me rots.

mary angela dougla  5 july 2019

It Won't Be The Way You Heard It On The News

it won't be the way
you heard it on the news
when it happens to you

you'll find out in a dream
more than you'll discover
at an agency

I don't mean
to be discouraging.
you'll see what I mean.

but I hope you don't
I really hope
you stay afloat

and don't have to find out for yourself
how meaningless these
conversations are

when you are no longer standing
where the hallways are.

mary angela douglas 4 july 2019

Cold Reading;Not To Be Resumed

it comes back to you like a wave, a cold one
strong enough to knock you down
you feel you are reading your own poem soundlessly

before a crowd but

there's such a lack of resonance
in the room
you might be reading in a tomb

and not the one where those who died
for beauty rest.
for truth, o, even less.

and a something's not in tune.
how discontented the orchestra seems
some Greek chorus in a dream

chanting the victims home but there's no bier.
no Delphic fire.
never mind I said to my soul.
we will be brief

and sail away before we come to grief
captive for a day
that turns out to be a century

like one mistaken from a foreign shore or
entering through the wrong door

to a stranger's wedding reception
with radar like detection
scanned and banned

when they assess
you're not one of the guests.


mary angela douglas 4 july 2019

Hushed To Me Are The Names The Rain Gives

hushed to me are the names the rain gives to me,

to anyone listening

the former blueness of clouds

the camoflouge of the skies.

hushed are the small ferns

I bent down to see

the wish for moss roses among them.

every waning moment for me

in a subdued gold

but the child in me cries

but it's still gold

the aim of all enterprise

not exactly that.

the rain falls in cascades 

over the gardens I do not own

yet I am free to gaze on.

these and whatever I see

even to other people's lamplight

privy.

I wish I could stand in the rain

stand the rain as flowers can

and be exactly who I am

I feel like a scarecrow

in my soul

only good enough

to frighten the ravens away.

yet to me has been given

a language of rain

of the departing names

the ones I sob over

with no one nigh.

when clouds are tinted;

the colour of the sky.

mary angela douglas 4 july 2019

WHERE WE LIVE

where we live.

as children, at the North Pole

though we are always warm

the way the Match Girl was,

glimpsing visions in the briefest flame

or in story books, in out of the way nooks

making up our own names

as long as the teachers don't scold

and send us out to be clinically examined

standing us up

in the corner with Cinderella

as if we were their dolls.

daydreaming being now an aberration

in our scientific nation

unless we dream of numbers, data.

of flat ironed information and of

having a professional demeanor.

what could be meaner. but

we live in a country all our own.

at the corner, with an apple tree, a playhouse

set for tea even when we're grown.

and a tree swing, pushed by God alone.

into His clouds.

we're always shifting the scenery

before it gets shifted for us

and in our own Play, where the courtiers adore us

in our shining role because we're kind

with a crown of tinfoil;

never getting old

left to our own devices

as we should be

in a nation called "free"

what is free.

the air. the Soul.

comets,

the puddles we slosh through

on our way to being productive somewhere

for someone who may cut us loose

with no excuses made?

not there. in summer shade

near the raspberry bushes

anywhere farther than

the charmed mind can go

the clear mind calculated less than;

the mind that holds no grudge

sweet brook running under it all yet

fastened to the wind, the sky

the mind in its once upons

forever asking why

won't this come true

kitelike in its gemmy wonders blown

and out of favor.

we are the tribe of imagination's darlings

the least to be acknowledged in the GNP.

but we don't need to be.

mary angela douglas 4 july 2019

Every Poet Thinks He Owns The Colour Red

every poet thinks he owns the colour red
and bread and butter, sky and sea
grass and the trees

the way the wind blows through
in any language
and so they are startled to see

all words they love in anyone else's poem.
though each note sounds when played
a different way

but it is hard on them
to get the feeling back
they only own the alphabet.

mary angela douglas 3 july 2019

The Goose Girl Praised

sometimes a bit of gold shines through a tattered dress
the rain has its tiaras I confess only that
and where her slippers wear clean through

the dew anoints
the princess disguised.

I would embroider in this wise
on the goose girl exiled
the vault of Heaven, her roof

the scudding clouds
with floss of forget me not blue,
little rosebuds

for she should get her due
in multifaceted lore
shooed out the door

and near to penury
you are still who you are with your bunch of violets
though they have scattered you

farther than Far
friendless yet holding the secret still
that God helps whom He will.

mary angela douglas 3 july 2019

Why Can't They Tell Me

why can't they tell me the way back
cathedral angels in my dreams
they should know that

but they are seamless
stationed without utterance.
oh I would travel back

with even the slightest map

through the Spring mud
to see the wild violets again
packing only bread and butter

and raspberry jam
on a fairy tale quest in my light slippers
anticipating, once more, a golden ending.

sometimes before daybreak
I am in the old towns

all the houses are there,
the same curtains.
the willow ware pitcher.

Im in the rocking chair with my Grandmother
soothing me with the old tales
and everyone is there.because

it's near Christmas
my sister and me and all the dolls
apple checked and learning music together.

in the metronome's glare

I see the piano in my dream, I left the lid
and then it breaks apart;
ice floes over the dam

the living room table

the melting of my soul
into the irretrievable.

mary angela douglas 2 july 2019

The Atmosphere In The Room Explained/At The Micless Open Mic

writing the room away I freeze the screen
calling tender angels to the scene replayed:
so much intransigence masquerading

as politeness; my words are honey
but they stop in the first aisle
for those with daggered smiles or the enigmatic

this is reading for the public (a little problematic)
of writers themselves
this is the shore littered with sea shells

where beleaguered sea animals creep away
this is the official occasion with its official invisible say so
hiding meanness unparalleled

in a world of parallel bars where I've come to play
from which I slip and fall oh, anyway all Q.E.D.
and continue reading, after all

and I hide distress
in my old fashioned dress, I love
reading the words of honey

from my poem that flows slowly. viscous
on an excruciating day, sadly, irrevocably
as if over Pompeii

mary angela douglas 2 july 2019

115 North Monroe

it's still the thing you were waiting to understand
through blue shadows on the hardwood
the floors upended, where are her sapphire rings

the seascape in the music room
the way it felt back then.
Keats and Shelley in a Modern edition

now ivoried with age
"to Mary from Joseph, with all my love"
and in an aqua binding

whose colour has been lost to

modern publishers
as if they swallowed the sea.
they all write about memory

just not yours.
will you go with your
small metal beach pail

to the sandbox again
overshadowed by pines
or with small steps crunching through

the fallen leaves into
the forest green neat little house

with the pale green awning;
the porch swing also the colour of  pines
the angels sitting on the steps

a long, long time
opening for you,
the screen door.

mary angela douglas 1 july 2019