The Princess Who Never Laughed On The Evening Of...

making the Princess laugh was now worth

a whole half kingdom, perhaps she

smiled to herself

alone in her chamber

with her philosophy books;

her orchid book of hours.

and from her windows she espied

them lining up already in their armour

cagey with the clue to the Damoclean riddle

she devised.

she practices sighs

while the roses weep sheer petals

of pink turned to lavender

in the moon ridden gardens

shadowed too soon.

and folds her mantilla up,

the one of violet rains

on account of the dream she had

after supper

of the renegade planet

With myriad suns

In carnival skies

and each of them in imperial peril

just for a cracker jack prize.

mary angela douglas 12 july 2015 rev. 20 june 2017

Earliest Christmases And, Then Not

first there is the flutter of wings or is it snow
in the tinseled forest of memory the evergreen
of let there be lights in every colour outlining

the rooftops and glimpses of trees decked out fantastically
through each window and let the holly bush sideyard clang
shrub bells ice coated and the songs about the cockle shells

and rings of roses as well see their share of the reds
and greens, crepe paper flung, everywhere streamers at
the children's party, the rosy punch in paper cups

gulped down,oh I want to be the smallest one
in the picture book with the gift of robin blue eggs
for the baby Jesus, the wild bird feather.

milky quartz; the gold crushed powder of the wounded
butterflies I will bring to Him that they may fly
through all this starry tissue, snow drop flecked

as my heart is universe
over the crayola landscape and I weep
for what can't come back no matter

this season's heady pines
or the present wrapped in extravagant wrapping now

my Christmas ghosts are tapping, sweet Jesu I adored
and then they fled like moonlight
banished at dawn

from the nursery floor...

mary angela douglas 10 july 2015 rev. 20 june 2017

Pages Of Light

[to my Grandmother, Lucy W. Young]

I remember the pages of light
where the leaves shadow scattered-
spatter painted delight!

album or maple? queried the fairies,
the songs my mother taught me out of sight
and I leafing through her scrapbook.

I remember the blessed darkness,
the pink nightlights,
the sick bed consolations

and the little pear salads.
small fears made right.

the shade
where the dim  ferns perked after green
rains; the fragrance risen intensjvely from forest floors;

like mist, the kiss of my Grandmother

when I was almost sleeping;
the sound of distant horns as background.
Peter and the Wolf, the oboe the oboe.

the phonograph keening.

around the maypole sleeping I go round and round
wearing all the ribbons at once as they did once upon...
the dresses she bought us brought down from the

Heights they were that like pages of light
with baby rosebuds;
ginghams sashed,the cut-work graduation white

in tissue paper rustling,
try them on!make them last
she pleaded and the cotillions later,

the apricot jackets and the
multicoloured cummerbunds;
only what's done for Christ will last

green-gold  taffeta taffeta
premised upon mere please and thank you
penmanship, the rose carnation spray,

verses learned today 

and tea set privileges, the demitasse.
the heirloom piano reverenced.
and all of Music practiced bar by bar

the Arkansas stars
the lemon chiffons, the pages of light.

I danced needing nothing else
on an inner stage
and it is for this reason

and no other but that Christ saves
this poem to you Grandmother,

and the books you gave me gladly
from the turquoise, the sea-grey shelves.

mary angela douglas 10 july 2015;11 march 2016

Spectrums In Summers

oh for the taste of red gold, the violet of the plums
as in first summers the yellow and
the green spectrums, colours, wavering

rainbows as they run gold dimmed down the chins;
chilled iced tang of popsicles
or the slow noon's dish of berries, pears; of apples

in the wooden fruit bowl, the banana yellow curving over it
like a daylit moon, a quarter-one paired with the
cheering oranges, tangerines, tangelos, what do you know

it's nectarine singing a solo blushing like sunsets
behind familiar trees

it's lemon please the candy that's honeysucked-
sucked slowly, milk malted or the
raspberry chews; the candy roll palette you choose to

carry in your pocket as sweet against the sour world
and you understand in this, your fairy tale hour

in this world cherry equals red and lime the green
the sweet equations seem as if they could be
no other way and how clear it all is like pineapple yellows

translucent jellos generously whipped creamed

that you must run when the ice cream bells
summon like Christmas chimes in deep
midsummer with Grandfather's dime and

will it be fudgesicle this time, or the blueberry?
thin crusts of chocolate over the ice cream bars?
and pale pink spells flecked strawberry ice cream scooped

(or else cake roses duly noted)
and it all spells birthday, birthday it's your birthday
the sticky angels sing

forever from now on and you may dress in flower colours;
you may in every day weather the May queens sing
because you know, you love these things!

mary angela douglas 10 july 2015;10 march 2016

The Stage Sets Remain

the stage sets remain;
the actors passed on.
this is a feeling of

lingering this long on Earth:
everything tilts away from you,
even starlight.

some of the stage sets get repainted, fixed.
and you still have vintage pictures, trunks.
the odds and ends of kiosk scarves,

program notes, the boutique beaded.
you could go back to the old house

or one of them if you needed
at least to pass by
but not with the same neighbors;

not even the same sun's slant on the carpet.
the same geraniums.
the t.v. that flickered when it rained.

some of the trees are gone.
only the clouds seem the same.
but they were always drifting

even when you first came.

mary angela douglas 9 july 2015;10 march 2016

Dear Sugar In The Delft Blue Bowl

dear sugar you have sparkled long enough
in the delft blue bowl shift out and come
with us cried her new companions

on the bluebird road. since everyone's
suddenly loquacious even the curtains.
she dimpled, yes!

and the cherry branches swayed without regret
but what they said you must imagine
as you imagine the day 

was like a dream as all days
should be but if not then
we'll read Maeterlinck hour by rainy hour

and count the flowers in the meadows
of Night having slept 
all their colours...

Away

mary angela douglas 8 july 2015

On Pilfering Emeralds And Other Things

they are stealing the royal emeralds
worried the Wizard not under his breath
on a summer day with the trees in

their summer Oz gleam full blown
cried the birds of viridian, glass blown
even the skies are crackling

when the green heart of the citizenry
cracks anew
being newly Sprung;

just like in Kansas Dorothy thought,
before the Storm and wrung her old
dress out, the blue and white checked

since she had far to go yet and so put

thinking by: all thoughts of pilfering
emeralds having never occurred to
her; her pockets already chock filled

with straw bright thoughts of Home

mary angela douglas 8 july 2015

Places With Such Beautiful Names Have Endured Such Atrocities

[to William Blake and the Space Program]

places with such beautiful names have endured such atrocities
I heard the angels chained complain complain
and not unto their lutes of fire.

it is the inward love that I desire cried Jehovah
into His new handkerchief of the somber, silken skies
while over the earth with a myriad surprise

the sunrise rose and rose and rose
dazzling the astronauts.

mary angela douglas 8 july 2015

Cincuenta Meditation On Cinderella's Dress

the froth of her dress was like a small sea
or something branched as flowers can be
in the spring or starlight caught in a looking

glass. oh how can you ask me
who only stood at the door and gaped
and counted for riff raff in the end.

green I would say if you asked me at ten
but then again maybe turquoise laced with
galaxies but in the afternoon

she stood in her bare toes dressed like a rose
in rose, I know, being her fellow servant
and her friend

such beauty will not grace again
a thousand, thousand ball rooms
not even by royal invitation.

insipid nations crowd the board
and swear off fairy tales outworn
proud of their ragged boats

washed stem to stern in ordinary time
they have not learned to measure music measureless.

beauty must be cherished said her ghost

or it will dim is all old poets said
to you in the end,
and fairly wept at this

and so did I
at home on the train
in the world of the dead

mary angela douglas 8 july 2015 rev. 22 june 2017

In The Variety Store Of Dreams

[to Eugene Field for the Sugarplum Tree,
to all the Five and Ten's...]

in the variety store of my dreams I saw...
reams of golden notebook paper, 3-ringed.
hair bows of rococo velveteen

and, to match, the dirndl skirts on sale
the ones embroidered with the tiny rosebuds
and, I grew pale: Parisienne perfumes

in their cristal flasks and not their

knock offs and so affordable at last.
fishing tackle for the Magic Fish
the one that gives you what you wish for

up to a point and wooden apples
hollowed out with appley tea sets crouched within
all brimmed mysteriously with apple tea!

tuna melt, the tuna club, the Blue Plate grub!
I rubbed my eyes in sweet surprise
and fountain cokes; is this a joke?

and candies, candies meant for me,
a pennysworth
from the gumdrop tree in a dreamtime shower

and china fit for a playhouse dower
and all my loves come back to me
like the apple tree, the mockingbird,

gardenia coolness, curling fern
small brook silvering in a shaded sun
fountain pen letters from my Mother.

and Time ran backwards in technicolor.

mary angela douglas 8 july 2015;10 march 2016 rev. 22 june 2017

For Banished Music

[for John Dowland and myriad others]

"Flow, my tears, fall from your springs!
Exiled for ever, let me mourn..."

John Downland from the poem set to music: Flow, My Tears

why do they balk at the beautiful words
and send them pitiless, away?
and for this, they expect to win the accolades

that they have let the opaline fires die
down to ash or that that they have lashed them
mocking them in a dismissive way

onto the departing masts until they drift

harbor to harbor now, unwelcome in any language.
gilded, gilded for naught I thought
until I thought I would break down.

ah no breathed my glad angels, no.
find them wind them then the clocks of
beauty scorned and phrase by phrase

renew the obviated music!
what light was ever lit for banishment.
renew the facets of their diamond days

let emerald grasses sapphire suns
hold sway. the jeweled winds arise.
and fashion, fashion it as though

you came upon their snowdrifts suddenly
in an ancient wood, so struck by awe and stood:
bowed head and tears flow my tears, flow

for the arrows let go no more

from the stinging bow, the wounded deer,

but sing in their stead:

the Rose unfolding heedless sterling Center,

Christ, of it all

mary angela douglas 8 july 2015 rev. 22 june 2017

Through Goldenrod Years

to my sister

they've castled my castles did you cry
to the vacant chessboard
and this is where the gales swept through

this is where
the crystal chessmen vanished
the queens took cover in a dream

and the rooks quavered.

in grade school they said
if the twisters come
find the nearest ditch.

we'd been all over on our bicycles maybe
or just circling the block from our mimosa trees
in long afternoons of strawberry and vanilla

and wrapped the chocolate squares
back in their silver foil...
never never! cherishing all at once!

as if by King's command.

who'd ever seen a ditch on the playground
where we'd run, pretending we were horses
in our bright pinafores, our Greenaway dresses

or close by, home.

but we accepted the filmstrips for what they were,
continued skipping rope till the wild dust flew
and you flew up in the backyard swing

till I thought you'd launch into space: the unrivalled

queen of the swing set's summers blues and greens,
don't you remember? through goldenrod years,
the worst storms never appeared.

mary angela douglas 7 july 2015

Light Rain

we heard music through a cloud
so faintly; o finally we thought either
we are dying or it's music

unable to muster the interrogative.
though interrogated, slightly,
in the lunch rooms year by year,

I smiled:

everything in the declarative
or it's just unclear,
a little windy,

my dear not my dear
or anyone ever.
I'm not trying to be clever;

this is how it feels
rewinding the old reels
and not for the show-offs.

dummkopf cried they
in their several languages.

I heard only

the chiming of distant stars...
where are you, I sighed...
sowing their what-evers.

do you know if it's snowing
or is it just a light rain I heard
someone singing this refrain,

one sided conversations
break
the already broken down

on afternoons we couldn't
go into town;

on days we saw the canyons through gauze
and gaping holes where once there
were grand

pianos in the rooms.
so long, he said
to the treble clefs,

the grace notes trembling
on their winter's eve.
it isn't graceful to believe

In God Here.
yet, I do.
where the music is flowing to:

where one day
we'll really hear it,
you or I,

opening all the Presents at once.

mary angela douglas 3 july 2015 rev. 22 june 2017

Who Has The What O'Clock In Fairy Tales

who has the what o'clock in fairy tales?
it's rarely said;
the silver deadline looms

and you haven't guessed the riddle yet
or you have.
you follow directions closely when

retrieving rubies for the dwarves,
the crones, the somethings in disguise.
and you grow wise. or

the clock strikes twelve, but barely
anything else except: when the coach breaks down,
it's time for pumpkin pie

the children chime.
or you are lost in the woods
that have no end, my friend.

my friend where the tick tock of the soul
is just bewildering;
sorting the peas from the ashes

once again
and spinning the straw to someone else's gold
until your story's told

unless it all comes back to you in stunning detail
after you're so footsore you can hardly stand.
you were in that land, and spoke all afternoon

to people from another place
and luck and time ran out on you
(but never Grace)

just as you stooped to pluck
the one rose in their snows.

mary angela douglas 29 june 2015

What They Said

forever finding the silver key
to the golden door
the right glove not the left

the piano without the middle C

it seems that way in dreams
like there's always a dust storm
blowing away the days

or you've caught the wrong bus

or just,
the fare's too high.
so walk through the debris

around the dream corner
where the people start
painting their houses in

neon colors instead of bisque
taking the risk and hope
seems possible anyway

it's a town you've never seen

and when you wake up
you'll never remember
what they said

mary angela douglas 28 june 2015

Is Life Not Burning Bush Enough

is life not burning bush enough
that we should kneel
here in the shadow of your lovely

hand, my God? what matter if
flamed tip to tip your angels sing
creasing the sun or not? stripping

all music then, unrippling from the air
let them depart, leaving no sign at all
though we but gape at the winding stair

that held them once.

in pools of drifting moons
reflected, let light become:
simply your evening's name

or through the shallows of our little day
may the deep winds come.
miracle enough 

to see You spelled in the fainter stars
and vivid, close as hummingbird,
pink shell- or rose

where we arise from griefs
to know to know that You are near in them
though we but lightly trace

from hill to hill and trembling, 
unerringly the features of Your Grace
the purple of your sandal

where the wave-
breaks open

mary angela douglas 25 june 2015

Oops! Or the Fairies Have Really Good Hearing

would you care for a drop of chocolate,
a pink iced bun?
we asked the Fairy on the run.

but she wanted only
apple crumb cake,
baked Alaska.

eclairs? we asked again.
she flittered.
then, she stared.

she must think she's someone
we both almost said
when her moss green wings

unfurled replete, with tiny gold spots.
but she heard us then
and never forgot.

and never returned
though we cried a lot what 
with all the jeweled things

we'd wished for

mary angela douglas 25 june 2015

Arranging The Pasteboard Furniture

arranging the pasteboard furniture
in the dollhouse, won't the
summer be fine? and

edged in the lace of Queen Anne;
diecut valentines
the elegant names of the meadow

flowers, flowers all under the blue

sanctuary of skies
we'll scatter so pinkly there;
where cloudlike, again the bride doll glimmers

for her 100th rehearsal
confetti coming down
little bells going off.

and you, will you hold aloft
as carefully as you please
in your school

cherry coughdrop reveries
her sequined train trailing
the clover-starry grass, or will I?

while the Queen stares into
her looking glass a little distracting
in a cherry trimmed gown

breaking the clasp on
her favorite jade necklace.
alas! you cry in your sleep

where all afternoon you practiced scales
up and down, up and down
in a sing-songing, silvering sound,

faintly in daylight
tracing through music
your very own

Milky Way

mary angela douglas 25 june 2015

Today The Small Birds Have Flown From My Poem

today the small birds
have flown from my poem;
the ones that wanted to be silver;

that kept me company
through stolid hours.
small leaves are weeping in the winds

the ones that wanted to be gold;

and that, forever
whispered the girl
on the balcony.

or merely on
Lorca Street disowned
and made of moonlight.

will it always be this way?
sighed the small breezes.
that is more than I can say,

the poet sighed;
their sighs together: a small
parachute of flowers...

mary angela douglas 25 june  2015