I wonder if we'll be on the other side of music one day
ushered in with pink programmes
or you will swing on the gate of it
as you did before, roller skating
in preludes, wading through scales., Scarlatti
geranium coloured.
will the notes sound like crystals
falling;will we still admire the azaleas?
will Grandmother spell out tone poems
while we listen to small records
of the great composers;
remember, when we're away
the reticence of Beethoven
how he was charged with Light
after the rains, the wind shaking the leaves free of raindrops.
will the sheet music be scattered through the rose garden
because we left the windows open
or glimpsed in the pink nightlight
short songs on the page, arranged.
our faces in cameo infant profile;the toy pianos at rest
and then, the nocturnes.the almond trees somewhere,
blossoming.
it seems so distant now
the way we dreamed it then:
both hands on the keys
the gardenias, scented through the back screen door
now we are carried each on such a wave
through portals on a ship that wasn't there before
we never booked passage on.
you said in your sleep a baby corsage!
I know you must have in your rabbit dreams
with the guardian angels and the metronome;
this is Heaven
this is home where
music goes on and Mama sings our birthdays
rose light through the curtains in the afternoons.
may it always be.and near the pines.
after a dry season
you will lift the piano lid
like a sunrise.
and small bouquets will arrive
for the recital.
mary angela douglas 14 january 2020
Tuesday, January 14, 2020
Monday, January 13, 2020
Read Like You Did When You Were A Child
read like you did when you were a child
with sunset bookmarks
thirsty after awhile
for lemonade or lime.
go back to the picture every time
to the green chair in the rose garden
and rest your chin on the windowsill
of way back then
read read freely without clocks.
read and carry the tune within
or carry the one of let's begin
and begin again.
read for the colours for the pink roof's slope
read for the music without a note.
read for the heart's enchantment then
switch off the light
and dream it again.
mary angela douglas 13 january 2020
with sunset bookmarks
thirsty after awhile
for lemonade or lime.
go back to the picture every time
to the green chair in the rose garden
and rest your chin on the windowsill
of way back then
read read freely without clocks.
read and carry the tune within
or carry the one of let's begin
and begin again.
read for the colours for the pink roof's slope
read for the music without a note.
read for the heart's enchantment then
switch off the light
and dream it again.
mary angela douglas 13 january 2020
The Sins Against The Elephants
somewhere though no one could point to it on a map
the ghost of someone remembers
the sins against the elephants
where ghost children play
or with sacks full of jaw breakers
spend the eternal day
throwing pebbles
rippling the circus of Time
someone hears a trumpeting trampling
the scatter shot applause
the oohs and ahs
someone remembers under a tawny
and tempestuous tent flap flung wide revealing
its own rude universe
the elephant tired at the end of its tether
enough to make the angels cry. the elephant kneeling
as though in prayer; the whip lash and the trembling hide.
someone witnessed the sins against the elephants
imagination spurred this way the grey stampede of rain clouds
and forked lightning
the glitter for a moment...dissolve and fade;
and then they went away trundling softly swaying
to farther fields no longer boxcar bound
and garlands of flowers flung about their necks
and they were happy then;sweet recompense was theirs
yet in the tall grasses in the train yards where their small town griefs were sown
amid the deceit of sawdust and over painted clowns
in the tall grasses combed over the tracks of ghost towns bearing the mournful regal sounds
audio ambient upon the air the kind and gracious sounds they made for little children in the great parades or the turning around and around
wounds the spectacle forever and ever
so plaintivly...
when ghosts of the children we may have been then or some of our kin
chew on peppermints and remember when
counting between slow tears; oh for years and years
the sins against the elephants
who loved us.
mary angela douglas 13 january 2020
the ghost of someone remembers
the sins against the elephants
where ghost children play
or with sacks full of jaw breakers
spend the eternal day
throwing pebbles
rippling the circus of Time
someone hears a trumpeting trampling
the scatter shot applause
the oohs and ahs
someone remembers under a tawny
and tempestuous tent flap flung wide revealing
its own rude universe
the elephant tired at the end of its tether
enough to make the angels cry. the elephant kneeling
as though in prayer; the whip lash and the trembling hide.
someone witnessed the sins against the elephants
imagination spurred this way the grey stampede of rain clouds
and forked lightning
the glitter for a moment...dissolve and fade;
and then they went away trundling softly swaying
to farther fields no longer boxcar bound
and garlands of flowers flung about their necks
and they were happy then;sweet recompense was theirs
yet in the tall grasses in the train yards where their small town griefs were sown
amid the deceit of sawdust and over painted clowns
in the tall grasses combed over the tracks of ghost towns bearing the mournful regal sounds
audio ambient upon the air the kind and gracious sounds they made for little children in the great parades or the turning around and around
wounds the spectacle forever and ever
so plaintivly...
when ghosts of the children we may have been then or some of our kin
chew on peppermints and remember when
counting between slow tears; oh for years and years
the sins against the elephants
who loved us.
mary angela douglas 13 january 2020
Till We Are Not Ourselves
to William Blake
some miracles lance the heart of God
his children striving after bread
when they on manna long had fed
or choosing wilderness instead
some miracles in the circus bred.
sustained by grace, dissatisfied
departing from the Shepherd's side
to seek false sponsors as our guide
wed to denial as a bride;
unleashed His tears, in our floodtide
the wave the wave going over.
thus does the course of history wind
and choke the living tree to death
and cloud and cloud the mirror's breath
till we are not ourselves.
mary angela douglas 13 january 2020
some miracles lance the heart of God
his children striving after bread
when they on manna long had fed
or choosing wilderness instead
some miracles in the circus bred.
sustained by grace, dissatisfied
departing from the Shepherd's side
to seek false sponsors as our guide
wed to denial as a bride;
unleashed His tears, in our floodtide
the wave the wave going over.
thus does the course of history wind
and choke the living tree to death
and cloud and cloud the mirror's breath
till we are not ourselves.
mary angela douglas 13 january 2020
Sunday, January 12, 2020
On Their Days Off
inset with jewels the uncommon day arrives
for the common reader filled with rose surmise
surveying the field of books, his fold, his kingdom
bold, her castles set with pennants, ships
with a crystal hold all held within
though modern times deny, think it's a sin
to reed and read imagination's hoard and to spend
every cent on what in ages past
to only kings was lent
the beauty of a bordered page
the soul recaptured
though the landlords rage
at such inspected clutter;
hazard the waves the renter
thinks I will
as soon as this pale diatribe
fades into far hills
a mariner of words I will return
to everything since childhood
I could not help but learn
and learn and learn
sheer beauty on the friendly page.
the snowy one from age to age.
the one that kept me from the world's dim cage
since I began
will light my path beyond The Very End.
mary angela douglas 12 january 2020
for the common reader filled with rose surmise
surveying the field of books, his fold, his kingdom
bold, her castles set with pennants, ships
with a crystal hold all held within
though modern times deny, think it's a sin
to reed and read imagination's hoard and to spend
every cent on what in ages past
to only kings was lent
the beauty of a bordered page
the soul recaptured
though the landlords rage
at such inspected clutter;
hazard the waves the renter
thinks I will
as soon as this pale diatribe
fades into far hills
a mariner of words I will return
to everything since childhood
I could not help but learn
and learn and learn
sheer beauty on the friendly page.
the snowy one from age to age.
the one that kept me from the world's dim cage
since I began
will light my path beyond The Very End.
mary angela douglas 12 january 2020
Saturday, January 11, 2020
I Face Today
the tinkertoy, the cone shaped fir along the track
the lincoln log oh all of that a few game pieces strewn
I remember from a childhood room
and if I were my own fairy godmother still
a wand I'd wave and recreate them at my at my will
into some vast architectural wonder
where I'd live and suffer no ills or thunder
no cherry faked out medicines
no sugar pills
and most of all, no bills.
from small magic acorns oaks will grow
or beanstalks glittering row on row
ah zirconium...
perhaps a ship on which I'd stow myself
a few silk dresses from a dream
culled from some wayward closet;
from first light until now:
all that music has endowed
but oh that Spring has disappeared
the schillings wrapped in gold,
oh chocolate
but not with those the remnant fears,
the sudden bouquets of white roses, tulips
lily of the valley sprays
the still odd moments aggravating tears not praise
and tears in the paper where once I wrote
inaccurately of stars spoken into light
or is it the other way around
how do I know am I queen of the Lost and Found
who only kept a few small charms in disarray
in jewelbox velour and out of the way
to meet the exigencies they say:
I face today.
mary angela douglas 11 january 2020
the lincoln log oh all of that a few game pieces strewn
I remember from a childhood room
and if I were my own fairy godmother still
a wand I'd wave and recreate them at my at my will
into some vast architectural wonder
where I'd live and suffer no ills or thunder
no cherry faked out medicines
no sugar pills
and most of all, no bills.
from small magic acorns oaks will grow
or beanstalks glittering row on row
ah zirconium...
perhaps a ship on which I'd stow myself
a few silk dresses from a dream
culled from some wayward closet;
from first light until now:
all that music has endowed
but oh that Spring has disappeared
the schillings wrapped in gold,
oh chocolate
but not with those the remnant fears,
the sudden bouquets of white roses, tulips
lily of the valley sprays
the still odd moments aggravating tears not praise
and tears in the paper where once I wrote
inaccurately of stars spoken into light
or is it the other way around
how do I know am I queen of the Lost and Found
who only kept a few small charms in disarray
in jewelbox velour and out of the way
to meet the exigencies they say:
I face today.
mary angela douglas 11 january 2020
Mr. Tin In The Years Prior To
he recollected tin toys, the woodman,
tin pie plates, lots of fun.
a shiny childhood,
then, no one.
and years of gazing at the stars
knowing they were silver, not
tin at all.not titanium.
who, then, should he have been
he pondered when he could not win
in realms of rust
with the moonlight out
for sure the brightest object in the woods.
perhaps I am a planet dowering light
he thought. perhaps not.
what orbit is mine.
these were the years the years before
he knew what he was looking for
without the looking glass his mother made him.
almost, without a past
before the yellow path appeared
the emerald place
the heart endearing and endeared.
mary angela douglas 11 january 2020
tin pie plates, lots of fun.
a shiny childhood,
then, no one.
and years of gazing at the stars
knowing they were silver, not
tin at all.not titanium.
who, then, should he have been
he pondered when he could not win
in realms of rust
with the moonlight out
for sure the brightest object in the woods.
perhaps I am a planet dowering light
he thought. perhaps not.
what orbit is mine.
these were the years the years before
he knew what he was looking for
without the looking glass his mother made him.
almost, without a past
before the yellow path appeared
the emerald place
the heart endearing and endeared.
mary angela douglas 11 january 2020
Thursday, January 09, 2020
Never, Never Melting
we were holding the train of the Snow Queen
as if the snows were Alencon lace
and above the sleet the sliding traffic always
on the glass mountain.
are you half asleep I asked my sister
and she always said oh not now
and that made me laugh.
how could I know the Snow Queen
bided Time
and the sweep of the snow
could obliterate the dream time too
all those tracks we made
in the silver realms.
we could always be new I thought
with every Spring.
but in the Spring we were chilled quite through.
never mind
chimed the cloisonne clock,
old jewelry and the flasks of perfume
on Grandmother's dresser.
we will get better at dressing for the weather
and we will forget our servitude.
knowing we are silver too
in our dresses and with their endless veils
of moonlight, perpetual lilac, deep in our thoughts
deep wells ourselves with the arc of the white gold flowers branching over us
all those stories we used to tell ourselves,
never never melting.
mary angela douglas 9 january 2020
as if the snows were Alencon lace
and above the sleet the sliding traffic always
on the glass mountain.
are you half asleep I asked my sister
and she always said oh not now
and that made me laugh.
how could I know the Snow Queen
bided Time
and the sweep of the snow
could obliterate the dream time too
all those tracks we made
in the silver realms.
we could always be new I thought
with every Spring.
but in the Spring we were chilled quite through.
never mind
chimed the cloisonne clock,
old jewelry and the flasks of perfume
on Grandmother's dresser.
we will get better at dressing for the weather
and we will forget our servitude.
knowing we are silver too
in our dresses and with their endless veils
of moonlight, perpetual lilac, deep in our thoughts
deep wells ourselves with the arc of the white gold flowers branching over us
all those stories we used to tell ourselves,
never never melting.
mary angela douglas 9 january 2020
Different People Live There Now
beyond the lemon border of the stars
we had coloured in our robin's egg blue day
and this was perpetual Easter
and in our Easter dresses and with the backyard lilies in our hands
we would stand on the green and within the dark green shadows.
having our pictures made by a smiling Grandfather.
this was our circumference then; all april weather
when Grandmother tied our sashes perfectly
and Mama was replete, springlike in conversation
we could not measure;only live within.
I know this happened even though the violet storms rolled in
even though that house so solid then is the house is a house of memory now
and though I would visit it somehow
through a thousand thousand blizzards
and the way most treacherous
even in rags
I know the door is locked now.
and different people live there
who do not know me.
mary angela douglas 9 january 2020
If Only We Could Name Them
what if as many multicoloured lights
reflected off the snow in various landscapes
depending on the sun and shade
and all prismatic light were emblematic of
the feelings that we cannot name
wreathed in delicacy vanishing
too early as in Monet when he finally
found exactly the painted way into
the banished, plein air pearlike,
and we behold as through a rainbowed periscope
the moment as it passed in just that shade refracted
of rose, of splintered lime of the muted azures
and inexplicable, the lavenders of summer;
that april, turning back on itself reversing the petaled
light light light
of the fresh breeze on a certain day in the country taking flight
the leaves blurred now and forever
as though in a dream from which we would not
wake if we could choose
our latitudes,
seeking the vocabulary
of all the colours; gemlike, the residues,
if only we could name them.
mary angela douglas 9 january 2020
reflected off the snow in various landscapes
depending on the sun and shade
and all prismatic light were emblematic of
the feelings that we cannot name
wreathed in delicacy vanishing
too early as in Monet when he finally
found exactly the painted way into
the banished, plein air pearlike,
the glaze on the parks; pearl like
for the cathedral days
and we behold as through a rainbowed periscope
the moment as it passed in just that shade refracted
of rose, of splintered lime of the muted azures
and inexplicable, the lavenders of summer;
that april, turning back on itself reversing the petaled
light light light
of the fresh breeze on a certain day in the country taking flight
the leaves blurred now and forever
as though in a dream from which we would not
wake if we could choose
our latitudes,
seeking the vocabulary
of all the colours; gemlike, the residues,
if only we could name them.
mary angela douglas 9 january 2020
Tuesday, January 07, 2020
Garcia Lorca In The Painting of Orchid And Blue
for the small wounds in the wind
the ones lined with gold
he was willing to devote
words to paper
but they flew off float into song
and carried the weight
of even one tear
to the oracles that cannot hear
the tear that tears the wind in two.
the tear of goodbye.
the trembling music under the sun
on the day of its eclipse.
all the wounded houses
on the avenue.
all the portals into the blue escape
ladders coming down from heaven
and the ship that cannot wait.
mary angela douglas 7 january 2020
Sunday, January 05, 2020
Withouten Any Sun
for George Herbert
stars in their flocks have scattered from the skies
bell ringers have turned home to mend their crystal
and I the last watcher judged unwise
persist in seeing Christmas in disguise
persist in connecting all the starlit dots
into the fantastic;past the overweening years
while forecasts made of fog appear
stamped as foretold
and yet and yet
and bright within my mind
I see the Star of God's design and most revered
inviolate, invulnerable and clear
and brand it here
on my small heart withouten any sun
the ensign of the world to come.
mary angela douglas 5 january 2020
stars in their flocks have scattered from the skies
bell ringers have turned home to mend their crystal
and I the last watcher judged unwise
persist in seeing Christmas in disguise
persist in connecting all the starlit dots
into the fantastic;past the overweening years
while forecasts made of fog appear
stamped as foretold
and yet and yet
and bright within my mind
I see the Star of God's design and most revered
inviolate, invulnerable and clear
and brand it here
on my small heart withouten any sun
the ensign of the world to come.
mary angela douglas 5 january 2020
Ephiphany: All The Small Stars Are Out
sometimes everything is foreign
though I walk luminous streets
as if my soul were swept away
like crumbs
despite all the churches
and the kingdom comes
the riveting sound of bells
I try to sleep but the trains arent running
shifting from one corner to the same one back
so someone else can vacuum
my apparent lack
I am intractable through inspections
a quarter sized note
a ship that cannot sail.
I am the dust of flowers, the rainbow mote
the pines hacked down
the ghost of the ghost town several times removed
the tidal wave come down on the milky stars
and something wants to say, in lilac, flood tide speech
why is what is so out of reach
that it cannot be said
a something without a name in singular or plural
fire without flame and the winter sun
bestir yourself an ancient voice belies
but the angels standing guard don't budge
holding the line while they infer in silver:
not this time.
mary angela douglas 5 january 2020
though I walk luminous streets
as if my soul were swept away
like crumbs
despite all the churches
and the kingdom comes
the riveting sound of bells
I try to sleep but the trains arent running
shifting from one corner to the same one back
so someone else can vacuum
my apparent lack
I am intractable through inspections
a quarter sized note
a ship that cannot sail.
I am the dust of flowers, the rainbow mote
the pines hacked down
the ghost of the ghost town several times removed
the tidal wave come down on the milky stars
and something wants to say, in lilac, flood tide speech
why is what is so out of reach
that it cannot be said
a something without a name in singular or plural
fire without flame and the winter sun
bestir yourself an ancient voice belies
but the angels standing guard don't budge
holding the line while they infer in silver:
not this time.
mary angela douglas 5 january 2020
Saturday, January 04, 2020
Some Notes On the PFP
puppies for peace gathered on the lawn.
they thought there would be treats.
there was occasional barking
yet reporters said this in no way
marred the occasion of
the puppy uprising
it's not surprising;
they were so sweet.
poor little things.
how could they know
it was just a show.
in a drenching rain
I feel their pain.
still still waiting
anticipating
for someone to throw the ball.
and that's not all. they felt so small.
all tail wagging ceased
they straggled home.
without a bone.
mary angela douglas 4 january 2020
Note; This is a completely non partisan poem. I feel like the citizens of the U.S. are treated
kind of like puppies. You can protest all you want on either side. They dont take you seriously. Our leaders I mean. Not one of them.
they thought there would be treats.
there was occasional barking
yet reporters said this in no way
marred the occasion of
the puppy uprising
it's not surprising;
they were so sweet.
poor little things.
how could they know
it was just a show.
in a drenching rain
I feel their pain.
still still waiting
anticipating
for someone to throw the ball.
and that's not all. they felt so small.
all tail wagging ceased
they straggled home.
without a bone.
mary angela douglas 4 january 2020
Note; This is a completely non partisan poem. I feel like the citizens of the U.S. are treated
kind of like puppies. You can protest all you want on either side. They dont take you seriously. Our leaders I mean. Not one of them.
Friday, January 03, 2020
For S.D.
she said life is riverbanks and rabbit holes
and sometimes who could tell the difference
out in the sunshine munching the strawberries
next thing you know
your voice of crystal disappears
into intervening years
the sheep before dreams
forget to get counted.
what will happen on the job tomorrow
you arent sewing a fine seam
as was predicted in the cloud days
every summer by our Grandmorher.
music gets younger inside you anyway
filling your dance card up with sonatinas.
I know the willows abide.
the bubbles you blew into the horizons
the baby piano's chime.
the moon gets nearer, all the time.
the moon gets nearer, all the time.
mary angela douglas 3 january 2020
Who Will Defend The Poetry of Light
who will defend the poetry of Light
in a dark age
in love with dark arts, inconsistencies
come away the starlight sighs
the ivory pages yellowed into dust
you must
into a green shade
resolve dissolve from this stage
that augurs everything everything is lost
she said my ships at sea
the valentines that came to me from a vast God
the old letters fostered in the attics
we will reprieve I said and breathed
in the holy candles of the stars
as once Keats did sailing the meridians of dream
enraptured
or Yeats or Rilke
alone on the battlements facing the disaster
causing bright angels to come.
the sweet Word the forgotten Word,
strummed.
mary angela douglas 3 january 2020
in a dark age
in love with dark arts, inconsistencies
come away the starlight sighs
the ivory pages yellowed into dust
you must
into a green shade
resolve dissolve from this stage
that augurs everything everything is lost
she said my ships at sea
the valentines that came to me from a vast God
the old letters fostered in the attics
we will reprieve I said and breathed
in the holy candles of the stars
as once Keats did sailing the meridians of dream
enraptured
or Yeats or Rilke
alone on the battlements facing the disaster
causing bright angels to come.
the sweet Word the forgotten Word,
strummed.
mary angela douglas 3 january 2020
Wednesday, January 01, 2020
That Headline About The Puffins With Apologies To CNN
a puffin falls asleep in its crib of light
don't you wonder what it dreams about at night
or in the day
does a wave seem simple
when it's far away
or does it just exist
waiting for an instant like this
when scientists declare
it scratched itself with a twig two times somewhere
perhaps it can use tools
or does the puffin think
what idiots they are
who think they know
a puffin from a star.
mary angela douglas 1 january 2020
don't you wonder what it dreams about at night
or in the day
does a wave seem simple
when it's far away
or does it just exist
waiting for an instant like this
when scientists declare
it scratched itself with a twig two times somewhere
perhaps it can use tools
or does the puffin think
what idiots they are
who think they know
a puffin from a star.
mary angela douglas 1 january 2020
Tuesday, December 31, 2019
New Year's Eve/Day Toast, An Emerald One
well it's click, click, click of the ruby heels
Good Glinda in a froth of pink
the wand waved over all your worries
that's what I think.
it's seeing spots before your eyes
like emerald sequins
when the curtains come down
it's like saying goodbye
when you don't want to
goodbye. and you don't know how.
here's to Kansas or the way home.
the balloon adrift and the oh no
then you wake yourself up from the lucid dream.
here's to all the beauty you've ever seen
all the friends in a lovely disguise.
won't they be surprised to see you
again, when the curtains rise
when the dear earth chimes
or your part of it.
mary angela douglas 31 december 2019
Good Glinda in a froth of pink
the wand waved over all your worries
that's what I think.
it's seeing spots before your eyes
like emerald sequins
when the curtains come down
it's like saying goodbye
when you don't want to
goodbye. and you don't know how.
here's to Kansas or the way home.
the balloon adrift and the oh no
then you wake yourself up from the lucid dream.
here's to all the beauty you've ever seen
all the friends in a lovely disguise.
won't they be surprised to see you
again, when the curtains rise
when the dear earth chimes
or your part of it.
mary angela douglas 31 december 2019
Monday, December 30, 2019
Repaired
on a reef of ivory and of gold
a ship has foundered
and in its hold
transparent apples.
so I will scold the grey white feathered waves
o.
bring my ghost ship home.
on a day of silver and of brass
I cry without knowing
oh, alas
a ship has foundered
that I once knew
and what I thought were lies
are true
no mending basket
no household task
can mend what I
believed was past
according to the signs I knew
dear Lord can you
reverse it all
All Time I mean
I am too small
but through my spyglass I can see
my ghost ship still
by your decree
I hope to see it in the bay
on some forgiven spring bright day
and you and I will count the host
of all that I have loved the most
and all the treasure there.
bring to a crystalline repair.
mary angela douglas 30 december 2019
a ship has foundered
and in its hold
transparent apples.
so I will scold the grey white feathered waves
o.
bring my ghost ship home.
on a day of silver and of brass
I cry without knowing
oh, alas
a ship has foundered
that I once knew
and what I thought were lies
are true
no mending basket
no household task
can mend what I
believed was past
according to the signs I knew
dear Lord can you
reverse it all
All Time I mean
I am too small
but through my spyglass I can see
my ghost ship still
by your decree
I hope to see it in the bay
on some forgiven spring bright day
and you and I will count the host
of all that I have loved the most
and all the treasure there.
bring to a crystalline repair.
mary angela douglas 30 december 2019
Sunday, December 29, 2019
I Had Been The Rose Tree
I had been the rose tree and the white rose too
the red rose white rose twined in the story
by all stories end
that will not end with me
in the rose red rose white music
that trills on
under the signet of the crystal Bear
rainbow shimmering in thin air
the very North Star.
the emblem of where you are, my soul
Orion bought with the price of tears
threaded through recriminating year
the red rose white rose twined in the story
by all stories end
that will not end with me
in the rose red rose white music
that trills on
under the signet of the crystal Bear
rainbow shimmering in thin air
the very North Star.
the emblem of where you are, my soul
Orion bought with the price of tears
threaded through recriminating year
from the beginning
silver dipped out from the Great Dipper
with the young winds in my hair
the folkloric skirts
the tiny jackets
made for elves
and hand embroidered.
I could wear those well;I did.
with shoes dyed to matc
from the berries in the field.
this is a misreading you say
in your off green vest
your turned up shoes
dressed for Success
your restlessness, ill defined
your pruned back vines
you slithery so and so
dont you think I know
who are you nibbling the door down
on my acquarium's castle any time you just seahorse feel like it
grieving the flowery borders brocade
that you stage a fit at because it's mine
stamping it into bits
breaking the crystal of the stream.
silver dipped out from the Great Dipper
with the young winds in my hair
the folkloric skirts
the tiny jackets
made for elves
and hand embroidered.
I could wear those well;I did.
with shoes dyed to matc
from the berries in the field.
this is a misreading you say
in your off green vest
your turned up shoes
dressed for Success
your restlessness, ill defined
your pruned back vines
you slithery so and so
dont you think I know
who are you nibbling the door down
on my acquarium's castle any time you just seahorse feel like it
grieving the flowery borders brocade
that you stage a fit at because it's mine
stamping it into bits
breaking the crystal of the stream.
into dollhouse mirrors
from dream to altered dream
puckering every seam
from dream to altered dream
puckering every seam
your name is envy.
thinking you're right on time.
with your poisoned rosy apples.
thinking you're right on time.
with your poisoned rosy apples.
you are not wanted here.
you'll have to disappear.
I know I've made it clear.
mary angela douglas 29 december 2019
you'll have to disappear.
I know I've made it clear.
mary angela douglas 29 december 2019
I Will Praise In You The Idiosyncracy Of Snow
I will praise in You
the idiosyncracy of snow on april blooms
the rose of sunrise
and the grey skies down.
and then at once
the other way around.
no tombs are Thine.
the everlastingly Divine.
the breath of life in spearmint winds
the resurrected
all adrift at sea still praising Thee
the blue green of icebergs
and more than these
and everything otherwise
the steadfast zaniness of saints.
the picture palace and Mussorgsky
the gold of the heart recalled in the tolling bells
the black sea swells
the desolate autumn..
bitter the scent of zinnias still
the fading of the whippoorwills
I will praise on
in covert music till the last dawn.
mary angela douglas 29 december 2019
the idiosyncracy of snow on april blooms
the rose of sunrise
and the grey skies down.
and then at once
the other way around.
no tombs are Thine.
the everlastingly Divine.
the breath of life in spearmint winds
the resurrected
all adrift at sea still praising Thee
the blue green of icebergs
and more than these
and everything otherwise
the steadfast zaniness of saints.
the picture palace and Mussorgsky
the gold of the heart recalled in the tolling bells
the black sea swells
the desolate autumn..
bitter the scent of zinnias still
the fading of the whippoorwills
I will praise on
in covert music till the last dawn.
mary angela douglas 29 december 2019
The Strawberry Cone In The Picture Book, Topped By The Pistachio, Topped By The Golden Vanilla
we began early with the ideal
as opposed to real life at school
where sometimes despite the
grownups best efforts
to pin us down in our desks
we would float upwards
children of the space age
with the fairy tale tinge still about us
in our Golden Age.
how to explain these tendencies
without, haha, reverting to psychology.
oh let's not refer to psychology
in this poem or any other.
let's be free
to not return to the subject at hand
observing the members of the band
on the bus after school
with their flutaphones.
I will play upon said flutaphones
remembering the images of ice cream
in various picture books
circa the 1950s
oh, take another look, also at the balloons...
was their ever in real life
ice cream this fluffy, colours this extravagant.
oh welcome child to the inner pageants.
it's eternal ice cream
no matter how it seems otherwise.
no matter how much
you wore out that page
no matter whether the backdrop
is at the zoo near the lion's cage
at the school fair or the county one
where everyone comes for the blue ribbons fluttering
or the cake walks or musical chairs
your eyes are fixed only there even in the comics
with Lulu, on the perfect cone.
there it is again.
in strawberry almost frothing wonder
topped by the pistachio, and then the golden cream
of vanilla or nearby fragrance of the sarsaparilla
I know it tastes better than anything else at the circus,
birthdays notwithstanding
and I bless the illustrator from my heart
and I want to declare in a Whitman like way
in a song of myself
not the elf on the shelf
with Plato stating the ideal forms
this is the form of the ideal
triple decker ice cream cone
imprinted in my soul
let it be emblematic forever
painted always like the Paradiso
in the same creaminess never dripping
never slipping from the cherishing hand
and filled in
in the everlasting colouring books virgorously,
in the neverlands
using our best crayons the best we can
to the heart's delight
in the heaven of heavens.
mary angela douglas 29 december 2019
as opposed to real life at school
where sometimes despite the
grownups best efforts
to pin us down in our desks
we would float upwards
children of the space age
with the fairy tale tinge still about us
in our Golden Age.
how to explain these tendencies
without, haha, reverting to psychology.
oh let's not refer to psychology
in this poem or any other.
let's be free
to not return to the subject at hand
observing the members of the band
on the bus after school
with their flutaphones.
I will play upon said flutaphones
remembering the images of ice cream
in various picture books
circa the 1950s
oh, take another look, also at the balloons...
was their ever in real life
ice cream this fluffy, colours this extravagant.
oh welcome child to the inner pageants.
it's eternal ice cream
no matter how it seems otherwise.
no matter how much
you wore out that page
no matter whether the backdrop
is at the zoo near the lion's cage
at the school fair or the county one
where everyone comes for the blue ribbons fluttering
or the cake walks or musical chairs
your eyes are fixed only there even in the comics
with Lulu, on the perfect cone.
there it is again.
in strawberry almost frothing wonder
topped by the pistachio, and then the golden cream
of vanilla or nearby fragrance of the sarsaparilla
I know it tastes better than anything else at the circus,
birthdays notwithstanding
and I bless the illustrator from my heart
and I want to declare in a Whitman like way
in a song of myself
not the elf on the shelf
with Plato stating the ideal forms
this is the form of the ideal
triple decker ice cream cone
imprinted in my soul
let it be emblematic forever
painted always like the Paradiso
in the same creaminess never dripping
never slipping from the cherishing hand
and filled in
in the everlasting colouring books virgorously,
in the neverlands
using our best crayons the best we can
to the heart's delight
in the heaven of heavens.
mary angela douglas 29 december 2019
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