The Dancer You Wish You Were (She Was)

[for Suzanne Farrell]

she breaks into flowers when she turns
in tulle of white violet
and Dance itself seems

spun from her sometimes
as if it were honied Spring, only.
it's the arc of white nights, I

softly cried; it's more than gravity defied:
the soul, the soul countering grief
with every instep

a rose
that blossoms, where
no one knows

except if you're the one
turning into it...


mary angela douglas 20 november 2015

I Like Icicle Music, Candy-Cane Cold

I like icicle music, candy-cane cold;
peppermint swirled ice cream: dream
of all pinks to be

and sugarplum lore, frozen oranges.
I like going out of doors
when the almost-snow sharp air

sparkles into you so that you know, you
want to sing in your knitted mittens
your old overcoat;your mouth like a cherry O,

Christ I adore...
but you are hushed,
waiting for evergreen angels

to appear
each time this year
half touching the straw

on the roof of the small nativity in the window
until wishing only this:
that the shepherds under the  Star

would blink to life and all within
to shine before you
Christmas past of all pasts:

and most of all-

that this,
would last.

mary angela douglas 20 november 2015

Impermanent Pressed My Snow Skies Fold

impermanent pressed my snow skies fold
above a line of liquid gold in the chill a.m.
I hear the crank and sighs; the steam rise,

dreams of old radiators; happy at home
to be feeling this alive among
my Christmas greens

no more wandering wondering
under the Star and off from work
because the snow clouds fleece

flies thick as in the fairy tales when
the housekeepers of the skies
beat their pillows so fine into

the sodden crystal that sugar frost my windowpanes
I love you clouds I whisper soundlessly to God,
and freedom.

mary angela douglas 20 novemer 2015

Holy Mary Mother Of The Sequined Light

[to the Lord Jesus, the only once and future, King
and to Poetry]

Holy Mary, Mother of the sequined Light
where Love does not pretend;
casting up roses on the uncomprehending

darknesses again
we beseech you, pray;
for the margins of gold are thin

for the chidren with half wings
who would take flight from this, an
unrelenting night;

from this
tormenting earth where
Love should not pretend.

begin from the alphabet of my tears
to reconvene, sad Years! the
orphaned languages; the fears

that where we turned, dreaming it was His Kingdom, was in vain;
and now the rains have come; o may the floods not engulf us.

Mary, of the tongue cut Light defend

the ravaged who would be gold and glad, again;
bluer than sapphires on a summer day's singing wave;
truer than, to the One, the only One who saved,

who saves Forever.
The ONLY TRUE:

here in the singing, singeing sounds of mystical Poetry
where we would survive to find in a distant Spring
it is we ourselves will burst suddenly into fine

green leaves and the little birds border us round.

mary angela douglas 20 november 2015;29 february 2016

It Isn't So Far, Just Over The Floes

it isn't so far, just over the floes
that she would go
to make you a coat

lined with silver
I sang underneath the table
where we played

that day had turned into night
and she had gone you know
to make us both coats lined

with silver
that winter was never worse
again than then

we wouldn't know; we wouldn't
have known;  just
she's gone over the floes again

and fetching us fetching us

silver

mary angela douglas 19 november 2015

Perfumes Smiled From The Flowers

perfumes smiled from the flowers
on your finer days.
and you were always finding

crystal things to say.
I remember these things
whenever I'm farther away

and when the afternoon subsides
into a winter I can't yet see
because I seem, remembering

perfumes that smiled from the flowers
someone finer then,
remembering how it was at home.

mary angela douglas 19 november 2015

When You've Had Enough Of The Blah Blah Blah

when you've had enough of the blah blah blah
I pray they don't make you sit in the corner;
stay after school-

stay, where they've frozen you outside:
in the swing-a-statue play yards
while they go back inside.

how chill were the early Aprils then,
the see through greens.
and you can see through

the blah blah blah,
in these later scenes

you live where real words live;
trembling, on the underside
of leaves.

mary angela douglas 19 november 2015

DIY Instant Christmas Snow

[for Lanie Pope local weather lady supreme and sparkling team]

there should be a toy with many windows.
behind every window a silver sun.
it's foil said somebody's little

brother,
from chewing gum.
there should be a toy

that, when you wind it up
all worries are gone
or tons of snow immediately appear

so the school bus just can't get here
hooray they all say
in their best confetti voices.

on the way! says the so cheerful weather lady
on the t.v., in love with clouds in the upper atmosphere.
let's be home all day, and DECORATE ALL YEAR

even if I did
just make the whole thing up.with cocoa...
(with tiny marshmallows on the top)

mary angela douglas 18 november 2015

Other People's Horses Stream Milk White

other people's horses stream milk white
in the clouds so far from here.
you dream they will come to you

but then their morning fades.
they disappear.
tomorrow other riders will come

to the same glass mountains.
they will think they've won.
and who will dispute them.

its hard to feel where you will be then.
no longer waking up in the same room
ghost or spectator

merely a child again
where none of this seemed real
when you stepped from dream to dream

turning your head
when they called you-
or is it you, they mean?

mary angela douglas 17 november 2015

Poetry Is Not A Contest

poetry is no contest I cried unto the living skies;
but the flickering of images lit by electrical storms;
with no warning,

the telegram from God
hidden in snows, the windswept;
the crystal breath of angels,

who knows,

at the windowpanes
where small children barely stand
after letting go

of
the word between here and there.
the table where the roses were;

the room where the table was-
in Shining, long ago;
the shaken pillars driven further

underground,

away, away from sound,
nearer to glaciers.
poetry is not a contest

a competition of herds.
of who deserves or not.
where, in any of your shadows

could you ever find

its resemblance
clutching at the grass
you used to know

while hurricanes pass
over you
or the unnamed stars

mary angela douglas 17 november 2015

In The Forest Of News I Pray

in the forest of news of the nearly complete devastations
this I pray: you find the fairy tale clearing;
that you get away from all this

as one poet said, if not one thousand,
too much for us
somewhere where the far cathedral candles of

the stars will not

burn down the inner landscapes holy; wholly
where you are, on every hand
the kaleidoscopes breaks forth;

their call not to jeweled alarms
in darkness careening but

only into singing
and Radiance, unforestalled.

mary angela douglas 16 november 2015

My Poor Poems Or Yours

my poor poems or yours
cast up on illusory shores
will they be mermaid pearled;

will they vanish suddenly?
turning aside in the wake of proud prows.
will they sow hard winters

one day becoming roses
for a child in a summer garden inexplicably
who turns her head to feel

the rose showering winds
begin?

begin from the beginning, again
my music teacher Grandmother said
from the  lavender living room

and I did.
and I will now,
missing those measures.

will they sail again?
the flower ships in the wind
of Time past curved toward the

eternal
now,
perfumed somehow

where we'll resume my friend, my friend
in pearl stitching, careful pedaling
outside the rim of Beauty counted and lost;

on the gilded sidewalks where
no fragrance ends

mary angela douglas 16 november 2015

Play Money Christmas And More

in the play money days we thought ourselves well off.
Monopoly money, bills of every candy coloured denomination.
thinking ourselves rich one Christmas tide

of board games galore unwrapped

my sister and I ran down the hill the day after
thinking we could buy every chocolate drop and more
at the corner candy store of a neighbor.

and actually came back home with a few that day
where no one had the heart to tell us, right away
the money wasn't real.

same thing with the Claus when we understood
the Eve my grandfather hammered his thumb at midnight
putting together a lovely gunmetal green desk

for us- who was the real St. Nicklaus.
and that not every tick tock comes in
all the colours at once.

gradually these things fade.
then come back into view
without the red plastic View Master.

without even, trips to the Store.

in fresh giftwrap
delighting once more.

mary angela douglas 15 november 2015

Foresighted Christmas Too Late For The Time Machine

we piled the tiny oranges high
in the produce section:
ripe, bright, of molded plastic.

the steaks, fine cuts that couldn't be
eaten with knife or fork ever.
there, on the meat counter

where the smaller dolls shopped.
ringing it all up,
and the canned goods with colourful labels

finger nail sized-with nothing in them but
doll air.

if I had known how many in-between times
there would be;
in-between jobs, in the future,

hardly tiding us over, maybe
I would have traded that Christmas toy in,
that shiny grocery store with its white

plasticine counters

so darling, built to scale-
for shelf stable groceries
a twinkie or two and

astronaut food; whole

boatloads of Tang
breakfast drink
with the concomitant fruit filled

toaster pastries;meek
doughtnuts powdered with sugar snows;
mercury dimes for the Operator

for calling Home.

but I don't think so.

mary angela douglas 15 november 2015

Another Alicean Song

and you are plummeting though
you don't yet understand why
and your skirts billowing out

like summer clouds in the sky
but you're not falling upward.
why o why do you think;can you think?

not yet prompted to take the drink
to shrink into the beatific garden;
to snack on the snack with the

arrow pointing toward it:
this side.in gemstoned italic.
you should have paid attention in

geometry but that won't matter here,
where homework never ends oh dear
and your answer's bound to be

wrong.
go ahead,
find the tea parties

you never were invited to at school
and you just dressed for the riverbank,
not in a party frock;

in the colour of Chartres bleu

will still have manners
better than theirs.
though still faced with the dilemma

of how to beat the clock;
the false charge charged
in your honour

by the rose raving Queen.

and when the dream
gets a little crowded to bear
you can always

wake yourself up:

you with your red gold hair;
your way of making peace,
well sort of,

with the fantastic.

mary angela douglas 15 november 2015

Think Of A Small A Lilac Cloud

think of a small a lilac cloud
that rains down lilac presents
tied with a silver strand or

merely iridescence.
and will you open them?
what will you find, then?

more lilac laughed the child.
more lilac inside
and then inside again

more everything raining down
and lilac and it's Lilac's Holiday
and we wear Easter clothes

and perfume made from rose petals
and are happy always

mary angela douglas 14 november 2015

Clavier Dream

clavier tempered of stars and other suns
on piano practice afternoons...

I remember you at the picture window's
piano or when the moon floats into view
and she falls off the bench so small

but large as music already she will be
as if music were this April sheen
we would see no Spring ever died but feel that

pale green branches touch across the

avenues
of the Eternal and
this is Music,too, my sister smiled...

mary angela douglas 14 november 2015

The Wind Was Writing "the leaves, the leaves"

the wind was writing "the leaves, the leaves"
in scriptures of gold the sun arose
the rose of the rose of the rose of

the mirroring heart was closed.
and then the snows came
to the child at the windowpane

writing in frost is Christmas when
the night the night descends
having written its one

Star

mary angela douglas 14 november 2015

The Ink Has Faded From The Summer Night

the ink has faded from the summer night
where you had stenciled the stars
in remarkable silver;

different than before,
who can say how?
not now,

your mother whispered
only, sleep though light fades
from the crib

and from the Deep
the bough that breaks forever
still may keep through God's rich grace

the small boat cast ahead
into far years
made of a music you had

glimpsed through tears and
stenciled with the stars
in remarkable

remarkable silver...

mary angela douglas 12 november 2015

A Diary On The Underside Of Light

[for Andrei Tarkovsky]

a diary on the underside of light
the blizzards inside the ruined cathedral
of the soul

the balloon cut free
is crashing on the underside of light
of light of light

neither daylight nor is it the moon's shading;
in the gardens of the child is it a rose of light?
as if it flowed from Dante then was

interupted, almost musical, to the point of tears?
is it the curvature of angels broken apart
from great distances;

a light,
barely comprehended in a dream

from which you don't want to
you don't want to
Awake

mary angela douglas 12 november 2015

Beautiful In The Post World To God Above

beautiful in the post world I may bloom
said someone undistingished we thought
little of perhaps;

in the aftermath of all their afternoons
in the Kingdom they were too afraid of
left alone on earth

to believe

and where there was no atmosphere to breathe
suddenly we will be in the high the starry winds
and no more alas and everything, reprieve,

beautiful in the after worlds aglow
and branching out in light toward Light
though thought so little of on earth

there we will be loved

mary angela douglas 11 november 2015

If We Have Written In Sand

if we have written in sand
if we have spoken in snows
if we have died like roses die

and come back blossoming
in a farther Spring
or sung in between the lines

in the play that was never ours after all,
a subtext of sighs-of prayers that are heard
the instant they understand

how lucky it is to be here on earth
suspended on this blue and green pendant;
on a Tree of stars.

mary angela douglas 11 november 2015

Someday When The Crooked Mile

someday when the crooked mile
becomes a little too much-
and wild strawberries are just

not enough to get by on anymore
not even by candlelight;
may you pull from your best locket

the one with the clouds in it,
the right shade of pink.
and when you think

to yourself oh far is too far to
walk now
and how can I measure the

immeasurable and when your diamond thimble
rolls out into the raspberry shade
so you can't you just can't thread the needle,

please.
sing a song of windowpanes
frosted all in holly

and try to be what rhymes next.
(hint: starts with a "j"),

o.k.?

mary angela douglas 11 november 2015

Directive

consider carefully the warnings in fairytales;
they mean it.
in the cove

you will see two bird cages:

one with the bird of gold; 
the other, a poor swallow.
one in a jeweled cage

all pave splendid;
the other in a flea market wicker.
pick the plain one, not the dazzle.

oh yes, you say. oh certainly,

to the sage.you're not like the others.
you'll follow directions.
but do you?

the gold glimmers and the jewels entwine
and you'll forget everything in time
the neighbor says, falsely comforting.

but not this.

pay attention to what I'm saying.
your fortune's lost, suspended,
on the instant,

princess and castle gone.
and you back there where you began;
your belongings tied up in a kerchief;

the little you had before wishing.

mary angela dougas 10 november 2015

Old Christmas Revisiting

[on the Nativity of Christ the King]

dream sequence sequined you return again as
in old movies, to a harp glissando
to this drift of leaves

and this year's calendar
in red and gold comprising all others

or to old houses with the pantry stocked
and the cherry preserves falls unexpectedly
as if the angels announced their joy

not that mysteriously, entranced by
heavenly provisions here on earth;
or your pause, on entering a room

in this nativity

in a few steps descending a few stairs as
if you were eurydice
on an unseen stage still

capable of turning back
where there is Light
at the sheer beginning of  your myth

to rearrange the lines inside
your head and hope

that poetry will lead you
like the Star
to the more than decorative

silence, shine! out! from the dark
from the corners of your eyes
espied, the lilt,

the vivid Heart
of all things:
standing still

before-
in a hushed and snowy Hour,
this Miracle

flowering

all over again. Jesu.

mary angela douglas 10 november 2015

Penultimate Fairy Tale Collection Or Is It

you must have read all the stories by now you tell yourself
(or They do)
but something wistful says, there's more

as there must be since there's more of anything else,
more clouds, more ice cream, certainly, more rose bushes
and the Princess sighs almost distraught, self taught

in the King's own libraries.
whenever I rise in the morning mist
(she lived there, too)

I think there must be more than this

an ending more surprising than the last
with more fantastical pictures
as I want a dress to match what Will Be

additionally to What Was
be "if" velvet or not; oh, if you must
repeat yourself

then let it be yards of cherry velvet
or the shade of creme de menthe

spilling over into
little, silk lined poems.

mary angela douglas 9 november 2015

Strange Clouds Over Cape Town

[to CNN for a beautiful headline]

strange clouds over Cape Town the headline read;
and Christmas lights too early over Los Angeles
and it seemed to me the news had become blissful

instead of dire as if they had just run out of disasters
and turned to cloud journalism instead.
or else, certain poets had infiltrated the news feeds

of the world so that the news from now on would
be: POETRY POETRY POETRY on all the marquees
or allusions to it; or perhaps the ghosts of poets

are the ghosts in the machine or is it angels, skywriting?
however it may be I am so glad I got to make
without being in the way on a beautiful sci fi day

a poem with the mystical title:
Strange Clouds Over Cape Town...

mary angela douglas 9 november 2015