Hagiography Of The Little Match Girl

the christmas cross stitch countries flare

in matchlight, moonbright in the air

and she's entranced and otherwhere

and cannot feel the cold.

and now it's bayberry candled

hidden in the wind, the secret

key in the lock that turns

exposing riches to the winter air-

to her-

and all she has to do is stare

in the blue sweetheart of a yellow flame.

but it dies down. against the wind

there is no shelter, finally.

and one more match for splendor

fit, remains.

above the tinseled homemade stars

just one scene in a Christmas play:

a loving face is wreathed in clouds

and wears the snow like God's own grace.

and in the light that streams and streams

there's no one on the streets to see

the child half frozen in the mists

gathered into eternity.

mary angela douglas 12 may 2014

Rosarium On The Still Waters

I dreamed of a world rosed over

after long wars.

where there were no mere angels

foil-brilliant on the Tree.

there were diamond scars-

where mirrors fled on the wind

beside the wedding cake dolls

deprived of seeing their own

beauty infinitely.

and parti-coloured hair ribbons,

tv snacks kept coming in on

the tides. old plaid lunchboxes.

stubborn receipts.

the kind in purple ink

don't fade away

and laved-or almost loved

by the bird-seeded docks

were the little birds

turned to gold and it all

changed hands.

where are the tides bound

are there any wild tygers?

I asked in a dream voice

never speaking out loud

but the roses grew and grew

untended certainly

crowding out the office papers

venerated machines

all all the golden parachutes

and the magic fish boned stories.

and have dim waters held the

Christmas twine round the children's toys
braided the red and green yarns

as if there was cherishing-still-

without them!

a lost voice said from deeper down

no stilled waters

bursting out of old ramparts;

farther down than the carnival shorn,

beach balls transparent as

blue and green or sea glanced-

glassed, came toward me

thrown by salt water taffied no one

shell tinctured cross tinctured abalone

sunset it's just me

Candyland board piece traveling

have I arrived only to say

is this the last of the rose miracles,

Therese, or to her pink candles.

everything had become

roselands, rose debris

even old shipwrecks

even your words to me

the serrated ones

had become like old coral

petaled endlessly

small fishes swam though

that space where the heart should be

on the antique charts

crossed off in Sheaffer's ink on a Saturday

dispensing with the aquarium's castle

the parakeet's beaded mirror

the lake poets sing-songing

nothing-nothing further now from the violet ridden woods;

entangled with maiden hair

sea spangled undine.

I can't stand all of this vanishing.

then by the Northern Harbor

where the Paraclete burns

never burning down the borealis oh

never the Little Mermaid stood

wistful, where saints never drowned

even though, it seemed they could-

was I gliding to vaster Kingdoms

alone in my blue-green God?

how can I cast my rose wreath for you on the waters

when I know you won't believe

I heard deep weeping 

all the way from Caledonia

and it's little else I know now

asleep or awake but this water-coloured seaming

believing it for believing's sake.

or you may tear the many opaled coat

I wear from shred to shred

as you did, once pale

moonset to moonset;

line by line.

I promise you

unbidden by anyone-

He said-

with a beautiful grief I almost understood-

or thought I did, it being the dream language, spoken;

a voice, Most Finely embroidered

canceling the snows that would have covered it all forever

in the beginning there were roses...

mary angela douglas 11 may 2014

White Frosted Cake Viewed At Ages 6 And 7

[with a stray phrase at the end, owed to edna st. vincent millay]

white frosted (coconut) cake

with a single cherry, or only half a cherry

adorning your snowy single layer,

how is it that the half-cherry gleams

like a ruby? on the kitchen cake stand

we imagine you, baked for the queen and brought

in proudly with retainers dressed in silver lame

or ladies in waiting in pale party dress,

lime green chiffon at the very least 

streaming from their cone shaped hats.

later they will go

(we are certain of it)

to the palace carport and play

pin-the-tail on the Donkey

just like we did, last Saturday

till their mothers call them home.

we know this is how it is.

and the crown jewels are

bubble gum machine

dispensed on your luckiest day

at the shoppng center

beside the garden tomatoes

for only a nickel

and you are rich, oh very

central to the pink fairy tale

we say to our little dog

whirring her pom-pom tail

like the applause meter

on Queen for a Day.

she doesn't guess,

(or does she?)

sniffing the tulips

as though they were roses-

we make it all up as we go along.

don't we?.while Grandmother plays

on the grand piano, Through Country Gardens.

white coconut cake with a single cherry.

making us very, very merry.*

mary angela douglas 10 may 2014

Note on the poem: allusion in the last line to Edna St. Vincent Millay's beautiful poem, Recuerdo: "We were very tired, we were very merry—We had gone back and forth all night on the ferry..." Look it up sometime, it is a lovely poem full of high spirits, apples and pears and kindness, a holiday mood recollected in tranquility. (Well, I hope it was a tranquil moment for her).

MY GRANDFATHER IN BROADMOOR, LITTLE ROCK, (JULY 1962)

MY GRANDFATHER IN BROADMOOR, LITTLE ROCK, (JULY 1962)

for Mr. and Mrs. Milton B. Young, my beloved grandparents and guardians who raised my sister and I]

an orangeade sunset cools behind the trees

of viridian green so thickly laid on his canvas of

the rose scented air, or magnolia, gardenia,

anywhere astonishes and swings

his backyard hammock

for a moment's respite

and we recite to a summer's breeze

through our open window the

names of clouds as though it were a round

my sister and I

oh cirrus, cumulous, cumulo-stratus

beautiful everything

(we laugh at nimbus)

and eat charbroiled burgers in a restaurant

where the minute man stands guard

and deep dish cherry pie

with a pat of butter piping hot

or watermelon at a stand after the ball games

shading into deep pink and dripping down the chin

of Heaven how could it be otherwise

or the drone of planes fly over catching his eye

and he points out the sky trails mysteriously

or we have a small party for the moment

celebrating Telstar

drinking Tang for breakfast, instant breakfasts

crunching strawberry filled toaster pastries

 just before the school bus comes,

goodbye my milky stars my beautiful everything

we will forget to say like a scene out of Our Town

we will remember someday

outrageously the blaze of the nasturtiums

orange, pink, and red shading into purple

oh do not cry for what was left unsaid

since even then we understood,

packing our schoolbooks in

for scholastic paperbacks, instead,

it was an Eternal neighborhood

mary angela douglas 10 may 2014

The Babies Are Read To From The Encyclopedia Of Orange

it's the orange crayon sun peeling off of the window

sills of your first summer, lollipop gazing in-

translucent, the country of tangerine

you can't yet hold in your hands.

the dress your mother wears

when she is happy (the flounced peach crepe)-

the dog in autumnal rays

only a little mystical

with fluffed out ears.

it's the amber held in your account

of days and days and days

and years and years of it

so honey flooded oh

how could you believe our crooning?

it's the candied flowers on the cake

sticky, all over your face. nasturtium!

only one glory of the Lord

but shining and shining;

the cream between the layers

apricot, wondered at-

even without the words

mary angela douglas 8 may 2014

The Princess Recounts The History Of Roses In A Picture Book Left At Versailles

[to Isak Dinesen.

and to the word "roseate"

to Poetry, itself, as it once was]

only one colour from the Palace of Versailles

I could have lived in till I died

requiring little else. the princess cried,

intensifications of the Rose

and lavish as a last sunset

as if all roses in the rose gardens of the world

were swept by rains from a deluge

of the Beautiful before my door
 and something in me sad

yearned beyond yearning itself

for what would not return

because we had banished it.

the arcane perfumes of it

in the foiled Spring diminishing

crimson by Crimson's cost and Crest

peach by pearled peach furled.

all carmine lost from the world

with their coronas-

as Christ was, from our sight...

the rubied Heart still streaming

an irreproachable Love

and so they sighed, the flowers,

crushed velvets their flower faces

pressed to the dust of our modernity

though you may say it

was only the bell haunted winds

hunting Christmas

in the Rose legends of

the world, the heart caught

on its own Diamond and torn,
 relinquishing something

no longer met by trains

(or with bunches of lilies)-

unless by certain children

who would not leave

the opalescent mud puddles-

rainbow stained, themselves,

(lost shimmer of Chartres);
 every jeweled thing

or the saints no longer believed in,

their aureoles

scuffed like old shoes

so that otherwise, my pearl,

only the names of roses-

regal as they were

in old seed catalogues remained for us,

oh God, mere stem of the language

I once loved

worn down.

the Crayon's  stub.

mary angela douglas 7-8 may 2014;rev. 17 november 2014

The King Has Forsaken The Kingdom Of Pink And Blue

[a derivative tune for the docents blithely noting the passing of the rose and blue periods of Picasso endlessly in the museums...(while thinking of other things)]

it's the pink and the blue of the epoch that has left you

you think, you don't know, but

you're not inured to the snows and the music box yet

still turning under glass; the miniscule prima in her

scrap of pale peach foam

and the paper-weighted sighs blown past you

when it all comes to pass and you're so sad

for the Kingdom of Tinkertoy

for the pick-up-sticks floating

 over the oceans.

missing the color "mauve"

mary angela douglas 6 may 2014

Tall Tale At The Rose Rodeo, You Bet! Southwestern Daydream With A Realistic Dollop At The End

I'm at the rose rodeo,

can't you tell?

on a horse made of ice cream,

wishing wells, the best

Western omelette of all times

while brandishing the Giant

Stuckey's lollipop-swirling sunset

oh, you bet!

with theme parks on the side.

I'm at the rose rodeo with the licorice rope trick

having packed the pink picnic splendidly
ahead of time

with its frosted cakes, lemonade

to spare while doing handstands, bareback

not spilling potato salad, pimento anywhere.

I'll wear a Derby hat at the rose rodeo

to make a splash

one with spirals and spirals of roses, gladiola,

wild violets that won't ever wilt beside
the Gingerbread houses shingled peppermints,

pink cherry orchards down to the rim

the whole cherry festival veiled, unveiled,

top that, no spots before my eyes.

I won't even blink (you will, I think)

so I'll win the staring contest, too!

amazing in the maze.

it won't come off my head 

when the horse throws me

mary angela douglas 6, 8 may 2014

Pavane Of The Sleeping Stream

[in memory of my Grandmother-

and for Judy Collins]

it's the pavane of the sleeping stream

the sleeping stream that leads I won't know where

fresh out of the gate like Peter in Prokofiev

I hear the white duck's oboe

I hear the white duck's oboe in a vivid spring

and I follow the sleeping stream

and cut blue lavender flowers

and the snowy green from the snowball

bushes of the neighbors

or from the fields between

pale pink pale green pale blue
in clusters near the porches of
the gliding swings

thinking all things are equal

at least among flowers

I am least among flowers

and follow the sleeping stream

the onyx with its one small star
on my grandmother's brother's ring

and lose the pavane never weeping

the crystal beaded sunsets,

like her handbags,

in the distance
I don't even know I'm leaving,

and it's all Rouault in the mists,

the weeping clown, Pagliacci

on glass records going round

in studios of the merry-go-round
 and being the vanishing point of rain

from an early age

rain on her watered colours

rain upon my face

I can't see dissolving

when no one says: "you're leaving home"
at the end of the summers

I am the sleeping stream

I am the piano stowed away by strangers.

mary angela douglas 6 may 2014;rev. 17 november 2014

A (Slightly) Yummier Poem Called 'The Emperor Of Ice Cream"

on not quite meeting the reader's expectation

(with no apologies to Wallace Stevens)

he can have all the ice cream he wants

any old time.

what did you expect?

there's forty councilors in strawberry silks

lined up each day and night just to catch the drips

from his ice cream cones

piled up to the moon with vari-coloured scoops.

the toppings alone could reach Mars.

The Emperor of Ice Cream.

there's something worth aiming for thought

the worldwide child in us all still dreaming

of Neapolitan or peppermint oh sigh

on catching a glimpse of the title of your poem

in the table of contents in late Spring of a freshman year.

(that close to summer) but here's no mention of fudge ripple,

the prevaricating royal banana split, the eons of whipped cream.

nor raspberry drizzle. not a luscious word about custard even.

what happened, wallace stevens ? were you half asleep

from selling insurance

for fortnights, mon oncle, with no caramels in your pockets.

or did the title wander in from someone else's draft by mistake

with the confectionary single whine of

"there's no emperor but the emperor of ice cream"

(we all guessed that from the age of five)

or mistyped, misfiled
when your secretary was out with the measles.

you weasel. elegant on every other occasion.

did you never have birthdays to remember it by?

(ice cream, I mean ICE CREAM!)
or only cake and never

the impressionistic pink of the mounded strawberry floating in the

moon bright bowl. you could have tried!

at least to keep that guy with the cigar out of the ice cream shoppe

for a few stanzas longer.

flicking ash on all that creamery cream-
what a waste of good ice cream of 
a poem with little bells on the door.

mary angela douglas 5 may 2014;rev. 17 november 2014

Further Or Farther The Golden Riddle Asked

a harp in a nutshell I will carry

to the verge of a glassed-in sea;

no further than this

before words that spark no war

only are spoken.

or ride on the spokes of rose petals

when the carriage is free

all the way down the hills

of dream where there is no rent;

where the coloured sands sift to the bottom

of the aquariums where the Castles are!

or where the parakeet preens before the beaded mirrors

imagining he has jewels and is, therefore, King

where it is possible to have good manners

and no cream coloured gloves

and love is only snow skies piling up for the children

the pearl refractions and the serene

no further than this,

before all there is to say

is glad tidings, glad tidings everywhere

all afternoon, coming or going

and nothing further.

mary angela douglas 5 may 2014;rev. 17 november 2014

Cordelia And The Mandatory

embroider your silence!

thundered the King, her father.

Cordelia couldn't.

she was just that way.

and it was strange because,

outside of state occasions,

she embroidered everything

for the least reason.

making a present of it all

in your favorite colours

for your least whim.

but this- 

coming down from on High, perforce

she just couldn't do it.

not even for her third of the Kingdom.

mary angela douglas 4 may 2014

The Blessing Over The Apricot Nectar

the ice cubes clink in the apricot juice

like gilded bells and the froth of sunset

in small iridescent beads

washes over us; after all

you meant to say

like Alice on her summer day

then let it be the tart lemon mixed with

the cherry pie sweetness 

toffee laden 

you were born for! or else it's

pomegranate, the ruby starriness

transposed to our local setting.

may it be made of jade.

the young leaves shade.

the life-span of gold.

may its ears be stuffed with amethyst snows:

your fairy tale instant! lidded with stars

in the hard winter

with not a scrap of bad news

at the indoors tea parties.

mary angela douglas 4 may 2014;rev. 17 november 2014

Lament On The Echoing Green

[to William Blake, to Walter De La Mare...

and to my mother]

"the hidden emerald of a far off day..."

she began to say but

coming or going? queried her angels

as if dressed by Kate Greenaway.

"I don't know; it's the sheen of the day

that matters, not that it slipped away.

may it ever be raspberry," I prayed.

she smiled.

it slipped away.

and the halo of her stories shone

after the angel departed,

I heard, over Christmas vacation...

oh remain my heart's mirage

 she murmured from Heaven

And the geranium borders

in the garden, faded.

oh where have the clouds gone

that shimmered in the air

when they were all still here

eating daintily in vintage clothes

from pastel bowls:

perfections of the strawberries and cream?

where poetry was easily spoken

on the earlier, the echoing green?

mary angela douglas 4 may 2014rev. 17 november 2014

Spelling The Things That Drift Away

spelling the things that drift away

I learned that the

leaves were leaving; there's

iris cold, and then,

the apricot swish of trees

disbanded in a sudden wind

and over again

is the nursery tune

with it's jack-in the box surprise

to the nerves

though it's only you

turning the crank 

of a summer afternoon

in watermelon pinks

wondering with your sister:

what will become

of our star census

from the backyard or our

tiny metal kitchenette's

red gingham curtains painted on

showcasing the window's outdoor scene?

(charm subset of The Yard

our Grandfather mows)

when we are really far from here 

and from cocoas

and the corner snows

of the showering azaleas

and Christmas lights big as tulip bulbs;

you'd be leaning on a folkloric moon
on some other stage and so would I-

that won't hold up the sky or

longing for the jeweled acoustics

of a song bright angels withheld from you;

oh it seems that way to you now

that we're etching the scratch art sky

thick with colours from

all you dreamed of  - then

watching the pastel wax dripped down

Forever and over the bottle green

so candy thick as if it were

all your birthdays at the same time,

in the pizzeria.

the sparklers, sprinklers, neon nectars fizzing out...

kaleidoscope meshing

this late in the day, they say-

the angels at rest in you-

still

mary angela douglas 4 may 2014;17 november 2014