If You've Left It

feted at the place we must be leaving,
will we overstay our welcome so
that the May shadows linger

warning us that the crickets may chime?
gnats gather and the purple skies come down
and where have you hid your crown;

the time is going
and you must be found
or you will be lost

and who will count the cost, then,
of the dreams you would be sowing

under the midnight sun
if you've left it still undone?

mary angela douglas 10 may 2016

The Dowery

[for Sharon,my sister, a million years from today]
and to my mother-

I send you off, my sister
whenever your Time may be
in the little pitch tarred boat

knowing that Love will find you
among the rushes
and gather you in

despite this criminal world of sin,
distress, and unexpected largesse.
and I pray toward that day

you may sail with the winds of Music
at your back and lack for no bright song.
and those who thought wrong of me,

who thought I did not, could not care
we will leave aside and not address anywhere
at all on the day you are dressed

in your magnificence and more beribboned
and petticoat flounced than in the birthday years
you ever aspired to be

may you alight
bringing eagerly in your hands
the silver music that you loved on earth

you will know then, will never disappear,

as dowery for your rebirth
in the Heavenly spheres.

mary angela douglas 10 may 2016

Let Roses Unfold Like Myths Unto Themselves

let roses unfold like myths unto themselves;
their perfumes of the bygone
clear to us now

and ships of mist
linger longer for us in their harbours
of green waters, still.

God may work His will
so that the flowers bloom
all at the same time

and the ships return
like rhymes to their proper verses
with their Christmas sails 

glittering, Home-

on the eve of all eves-
to each of us-
alone.

mary angela douglas 9 may 2016

Party Planning

in Heaven we will wear garden party dresses
all the time I thought you said to me in a dream:
the kind splashed with roses on polished cotton

with sweetheart necklines, full skirts
and you showed me the elegant list you had prepared,
a dream list of pink and gold decorations,

the invitations on cream you showed to me
without speaking.
all this was in the land of no emergencies...

and of no setting suns and I was
so happy to see you Grandmother.
that of course, then I woke up.

why do you always come this way in dreams
imparting mind to mind without talking;
(you who spoke so much on every subject

when you were on earth,
to me, almost from birth)
something I don't understand

when I come to; and why does the dream dissolve
before I can stop and ask you things such as:
does dying hurt and do you like

where you're living now?

and is there something

I should know, somehow,

that you,being heavenly-prescient now
can tell me?
you used to spoon out advice

for every occasion from such a golden spoon

and morning, night and noon;

perhaps you said everything then 

so that you've nothing left to say.

anyway.
you seem to be the same as
on your best days here.

and that alone makes me happy.

mary angela douglas 8 may 2016

The Ice Minted Green Of The Luna Moth

the ice minted green of the luna moth,
moon coloured loveliest pale and
emerald thing

I have seen
and wondered how can anyone
doubt the Artist

who made also the winds
transparent so that she may glide

mary angela douglas 7 may 2016

The President Of Peppermint

I will vote for the President of peppermint,
the one who can't help but be jolly;
who carols constantly,

makes but never breaks the
evergreen promises.
I will elect him King

of the red and green
of festivities proclaimed or hidden;
of happiness unbidden in all seasons

and snows of the lacelike
softly coming down pure ice cream
on the town.

he will be the one

who favors the Nativity,
the astonishing Star;
who furnishes candy jars

all over the Kingdom
and beams on endless bookshelves
wherever we may dwell

and lets us
keep our Dreams

to ourselves in the summer shade
and drift in the quiet parades
if we want to

mary angela douglas 7 may 2016

In The Library Of The Paramount

in the library of the paramount
she kept rose leaves, scraps of summer grass
the overpass of trees

and the violets beneath the leaves
the flecks off the waters.
o sons and daughters she cried

what is it you have lied for
what do you work at every day
oblivious to these

the greatest of the small
while you are walled up

Alive

mary angela douglas 7 may 2016

I Saw The Salient Stars In A Sky Of Flame

I saw the salient stars in a sky of flame.
and the Western wind whispered the name:
Van Gogh, Van Gogh...

and then
the stars sparkled more fiercely
and were brave again.

mary angela douglas 6 may 2016

Cherry Dress From Goodwill

I bought a cherry seersucker dress from Goodwill once
it was too long for me but I didn't hem it.
it was striped pink vertically

and with a wild border of cherries two inches before the hem,
that wasn't hemmed.
I felt wherever I went in it,  I am wearing my cherry dress

and I am happy because of this.
I still don't understand the distress
this caused in certain quarters.

were cherries out of fashion, or seersucker?
or were they simply jealous
that I found it at Goodwill

or just the kind of people who always will
want us all decked out
in power lunch blazers

and Egyptian beads on the Metro,
replicas of those at the National Gallery.

mary angela douglas 5 may 2016

Imbibing The Pink Of The Day

we were drinking in: the pink of the day
(this was more refreshing than you can imagine)
with tiny rosebuds embroidered on our skirts

a faraway look on our faces.
it's peonies breaking through the mists
it's the outrageous colours

like suns in their own right soon
and this is our delight
to color it all in

after the fact or before
like the dream of what she wore
before it ever came to pass,

said Cinderella to the cracked looking glass in the garret
as if it were all, either way you spell it
or whatever the book was about:

a rose leafed jam

spooned out

mary angela douglas 5 may 2016

It's As Likely To Be Found

it's as likely to be found
as a jewel in the eye of a hurricane,
the word you're missing:

the one you long to say out loud
with multifoliate symbols;
its own cathedral.

whether near or far,
it's as likely to be drowned
in an ocean of noise

as anything else.
but a ship in distress
emits a certain radiance

as do certain names;

the silver sounds of Christmas 
as it fades, for instance;
the orient pearl;

girlhood in the garden,

the shade of a rose forgotten;
the notes for a last toccata
as it slips to the ground;

the colours of bartered rainbows
in the Lost and Found.

mary angela douglas 5 may 2016

Soda Fountain Ghost-Dream

it's a cherry phosphate, old fashioned soda fountain
kind of day I thought to myself
in an out of the way place

down a side lane
no one paid much attention to these days;
so it all came back to me.

the generous scoops of ice cream
in the malteds, the stools of green leather
we used to twirl on,

our feet never touching the floor.
coke floats, rootbeer floats, the
world's largest banana splits

and fudge sauce
over all of this.
(don't forget the maraschinos

and the whipped cream...)

mary angela douglas 5 may 2016

Practical English In Three Volumes

[to Funk and Wagnalls]

practical English in three volumes
stared out the bookshop window
where it was always raining.

practical English was a little wistful;
missing always its fistful of diamonds;
consigned to bargain, clearance corners.

how it longed to go across the street
in the slipshod weather and go eat a hamburger,
the old fashoned kind,

with just enough pickle and onion
to give one sustenance in the 1940s.
or automat lemon pie;

it's enough to make one sigh:
admirably dreamed, thought practical English,
tempted to waste reams of paper,gold limned,

if only one weren't so hungry.
please God may the poets not show up
to browse today.

let there be an eccentric, rich collector
who will place me, just so,
next to a first edition of

Hans Christian Andersen
with a frontpiece tissue guard;
near a fine bouquet of april flowers

with the mastiff tied up in the yard.

where life is not so hard;
where mama holds onto the chocolate stained
and keeps one out of the rain,

from nursery school refrains and
the dog eared disappearing.

oh, let me count the hours...
separated by commas.
or semi-precious semicolons-

(in case there's chiming).

mary angela douglas 4 may 2016

Outpost

there should have been zigzags of green
lightening in the skies;
an unfamiliar outpost suddenly felt like home

with copies of the National Geographic
from the early 20th century;
a brown leather chair.

a floral rug.

there I would have gathered the stars like seed pearls
in old rusty buckets
left out all night.

or lingered at the screen door at nightfall in the rains
just breathing the ozone and the ionic plains
in the distances would be mine

though I would never try to own them;
the roses, sodden in the garden
weeping for what they were blind to.

so did I.

it is a velvet darkness
I said to my soul.
the farthest outpost.

all I will do is stare at the night
and remember old ghosts
rattling the bowls in the kitchen

to serve up the cherry vanilla
or radio shows, coming through.

or they will be right beside me
when I do-
pointing out to me again,

with oh, kind hands:
the constellations
as though we all started again.

mary angela douglas 2 may 2016

Once In The Gold Of The Day We Wore Blue Dresses

[to my sister Sharon]

once in the gold of the day we wore blue dresses:
robins egg blue or ice blue
with a superfluity of lace

and watched Sky King on Saturdays on T.V.
and Telstar in the evening sky
from our backyard

and the Big Dipper,
the North Star to steer by
when we were out with our dolls

or on the porch, before ice cream;
and it is the fourth of July
with golden sparklers

rivaling the stars.
and this is who we are
in our blue dresses

in the rose of the day
and loved by those who love us
who can say how much.

and overfond of vanilla,
chocolate and raspberry,
or strawberries over cake;

spumoni, o the pink
and the green of it:
and every wish we make

and the new day
when we wake.
and we pray to.

always.

mary angela douglas 2 may 2016

In Search Of The Myth To Wrap Herself In

in search of the myth to wrap herself in, she went;
the one made of roses, of snow drifted into roses;
the one of fine blue,

the sky myth, the one turning clouds to silver,
the sea from itself; the fine myth that
can't be disputed because, unheard

it rests in the heart
a mere bird in the bough
and quieted from singing.

in search of the wild myth, the pure
that rang like crystal when it did not sing
that singed nothing and yet burned on

like the touch of snow, of rose, of blue;
the one she knew before;
the one that didn't crucify;

the one of lilies and of the triumph
that goes unheeded:
the purple one in the palm of God

extended as life is
beyond all winters.
as hope is

beyond the final blow.

mary angela douglas 1 may 2016

Poetry Is The Gold, Past Deconstructing

is it the gold you might not see at first
flashing through the trees in the cold
of a world that does not recognize these

fragments of love letters
written on the wind
in ancient texts

the texts of dreams part-way
unscrolled and then you wake up.
is it that light foreshadowed, unshadowed

when clouds come
that you would articulate
for no other reason than

that you can or that, otherwise,
it may vanish
from human understanding?

or that, as a child, you still
command your alphabet blocks,
see words in pictures first

and more densely;

densely to expose, partially,
like the light through the trees
spontaneously imploding,

the density of the heart
imposed upon?
what can words impart of

light of light of light

questioned the poets they deride
through impoverished midnights
down to their very souls

awaiting the Unheard.

but light but light
is not easily deconstructed
flitter all the silver birds

at dawn.

mary angela douglas 1 may 2016

Here We Have Thieves of Metronomes, Images

here we have thieves of metronomes,images:
the petty criminals of music
thieving other poet's lines

in sheer daylight.
the tick and the tock of it
down in the valley-o.

may cryptic winds blow
the myrtle off their brows
and the orange blossoms flow

another way,
warned of dreams.
catch the peddlars as they come

all penny bright, on the run;
new sheriffs of Nottingham

here they come
and robin won't defend

peddling the pilfered wares of Beauty
as their own;
ask God who knows the details.

and how the hand painted clocks
we laboured on with care
rebel on the other side

where springs are sprung
and Time counts for nothing;

the filagree of tulips,

devil's flowers.
under their spell-
released,

glow golden in Paradise
in the pink and the green of it
where these aren't allowed in

to even crease the paper
true hearts wrote upon.

mary angela douglas 1 may 2016

She Would Take The Cuttings From The Snow Ball Bushes

she would take the cuttings from the snow ball bushes
vanishing into the green, the pearl, the faintly pink
the lilac as into her own watercolours.

this was early morning and the dews on the grasses
and the snowy flowers, pastels of the pan pipes
unheard, there she turned into

all the ballets, the maypole ribboned floating
above the world and its trembling.
and you with your smirks, your murky asides

your eyes on the bottom line and
the cynical cynosure
what makes you so sure

this never happened

mary angela douglas 30 april 2016

Why Can't We Leave Like Flowers In The Wind

why can't we leave like flowers in the wind
like birds from their sunlit spires;
a turn of the wave and then,

mere vanishing into foam.
why can't we drift and
then begin to dream

where time has bought no seam?
where wandering is a blessed thing and
not a curse;

far from the ravaged earth;
far from the tempests that
have had little meaning

since our birth; we could go on and on
vanishing like moonlight from the causeways
when it is Dawn.

mary angela douglas 30 april 2016

Then

back you will go in dreams
in your dress with the rosebuds,
the wide pink sash

not to the classrooms first,

but to the woods where we all played
whatever we wanted to,
wished whatever we wanted.

kicked up dust storms
as though we were ponies when we ran
and found real arrowheads

on every hand.

there the honeysuckle bloomed
for each of us at noon
and we were filled with pineapple

upside down cake
and did sommersaults in the grass,
played Chinese jump rope made

of colored rubber bands
while the trees waved sympathetically;
the rain clouds held off for awhile

waiting for storytime to boom outloud
while Teacher turned the page
and we looked at the pictures.

golden is that place to me
as though a separate land.
and I will go back one day,

if I can.
and learn to breathe again
the pine scented air

if not, to race with the wind.

and learn to care again-
for what I cared for, then.

mary angela douglas 29 april 2016

First Day Of Summer's Nightmare's The Worst

they walk on their stick legs awkwardly
but even so, I know those frowney faces
are coming after me

for having drawn them that way, day after day:
crunching off the chalk board, peeling off
like colorforms with no color

just the outline oh God now it's brining
the cucumber time and "Not It" I want to yell
or find the house key rapidly, but pell mell!

they're catching up with me.

if only they would talk but I didn't draw
bubbles over their heads like in the cartoons
in the lazy afternoons and now with

forwney faces creased in the summer suns
of the multiple planets also doodled in the margins,
kingdom come couldn't be more frightening

and now, there's red inked lightning, penciled
thunder clouds over the sidewalks
and where's the Mr. Tastee Ice Cream truck

with the little bell when you need it,
I could use a fudgesicle right about now- 

and I try to scream outloud a chalky scream and just then
plip plop! the raindrops come to life, too
the ones in evergreen ink I scratched in over their heads

a little absent mindedly and
the dream dissolves...
and I'm in bed with the covers over my head;

the mockingbirds singing in the June sunshine
in the yard and my sister says, what's wrong with you;
there's no school today, remember?

mary angela douglas 29 april 2016

Apricot Sunset, Vanilla Lamplight, Bright

apricot filled the spaces in the lingering clouds.
it made you wish you had apricot jam on hand
to spread on the breakfast toast

only it was midnight with the blinds down.
we imagined reindeer then.
the tundra lit up with the borealis fireworks.

Don't you have homework, Grandmother said...

ah, it's pink and green streaked with lemon
we would sigh, pretending we were there.
and when we flick on the lamps

bought with the S&H Green Stamps
pasted laboriously every Saturday by
my sister and I-

I promise, the lamplight would
put you in mind of
golden vanilla ice cream,

every time!

mary angela douglas 29 april 2016

Did It Make Our Happiness Less

did it make our happiness less
when looking at the stars through childhood's curtains
that we didn't yet know the name of Galileo?

would spelling Copernicus have made them more beautiful
to our eyes?
when falling in love with prisms then, with rainbows

suddenly everywhere, there being no rain
was miraculous and set our souls shimmering
in our bare feet on the newly waxed floors.

To read in a book later that there are no colours really
it's just the dust in the air reconfigured by the brain
and to know this seemed to me a thing of poverty.

I will revert to richness, to the glow in the air
the feeling of green for the leaves, and the rose tinted
skies that echo the gardens,o kaleidoscope

of my dreams I will not deny deny deny
young or old, my bare feet sunken in the newly washed sod,
there is no colour without Light

there is no sight without God.

mary angela douglas 29 april 2016

I Thought They Had Stolen The Skies

I thought they had stolen the skies from me
dear Lord the way I stood at the window
and dreamed into them:

they had taken this and signed off on it
in the galleries or the sunlight on the green leaf
as I loved it, as it crumbled away.

this is mine, they say but I know it isn't.
I remember feeling that way
and telling no one,

the feelings that well up in me
at beauty's wells. somehow they ferret out;

they sell without compunction
and the plagarism astounds
as if they had torn a page from my soul

on a calendar I had marked in gold
with the very day circled-
and made a reputation for themselves.

mary angela douglas 28 april 2016

Beauty Set at Naught;The Colourless Skies

the carts roll on, the tumbrils, 
over Imagination's slain in the stain
of the sunset of Beauty itself

sad angels exclaim oh who
remains to count them all
in the twilight of the Stage,

remaindered.
how will our children judge us,
by what moons;

the ungilded compasses 
of the ruined?
all those left fending 

in the Flood arkless and wounded, wounding
the rainbows, having been bartered
and sold for nought.

and what have they got
to show for this
when they've gotten it?

(the accusers).

mary angela douglas 27 april 2016

I Have Been Where The Masques Are No Carnival

I have been where the masques are no carnival;
where the canals will not reflect the sun.
ah no shimmering on the waters;

the heart, said Emily, like a loaded gun.
how false above all false things seemed to me
the murmurings behind the rigged scenes of the world

and I am not dressed in cloth of gold by God himself
for this,I sang unheeded to the carousel's whirl.
there is the hissing of snakes and the dried up floods

of tears and the waning, wasted years
and this I will not, did not celebrate;
solitary, on the pale blue hills; surveyor

of the wreckage.

mary angela douglas 26 april 2016