Christmas Standing Still

how I wish it could be Christmas standing still
and etched in crystal
you whispered in the frozen air, perhaps.

with an evergreen sigh
you will remember this after
the angels departed

just as the shepherds did
when standing still
they paused in the music

on the hills
and sought the Glory inside
of them, still ringing.

christmas standing still
we breathed upon the glass
so free from school

and safe at home, at last

the star lingering across the street
in our vacant lot woods
we saw in our sleep

I swear that Christmas

the very same
and now as then as
it shone it shone

in Bethlehem.
and I would trade
the orange and the spice of it all

the revels in the yuletide hall
these many decades far from home,
for the starlight, alone.


mary angela douglas 16 december 2016

Child of Immensity

child of Immensity
you who cry in furtive corners, fiercely, why
do you know

pure gold is showering upon you
in the strangest hour
when you are abandoned, kicked

silently under the tables
of seeming grace.
one day the reel will break

the film not take your image anymore
and you will be at Heaven's door
and you will see with your own eyes

all that you felt inside
and became a bruise
bloom like a rose

bloom like a rose
Eternal

mary angela douglas 15 december 2016

Committee

now you will be afraid, the committee droned
underneath my dream not even out from
behind the woodwork or the old t.v.


they drizzled on.
you will be afraid and we
will not tell you why


at least, not at this time
but leave you with a vague,
a sorrowful surmise


and a mist will settle on you
pervading old clothes.
a klieg light selected


for this purpose
you have been selected
for this purpose


but in the murk
Arise I heard Christ's beacon speak


inscribing light itself with more intricate light
and banish out of sight
beyond the camera's range


the jerks,
the whisperers, all.


you will take flight, committee,
from the green of my dream.
it's you that have much to fear


whispering in the ears of angels:
the reasons not to be glad.


mary angela douglas 13 december 2016

Kind Ghosts

kind ghosts beckon from the gathering blue

or leave behind a crystal shoe

valentine cakes all frosted pink

no Valentine in sight

treasures from the very brink

of sadness melting into dew and overnight,

kind ghosts gather in the deepening blue

when all the shadows

knew you knew

the day was fleeting

so were you

the kite string with its thread of gold,

let go

on a day when the wind was still.

kind ghosts.

will they find your lost jewels

a day in school you missed

being home with a fever

your tryst with antique volumes

illustrated by the Beautiful itself

suddenly falling from behind the shelf

and in plain view...love in a mist

odd recipes, blueprints uncovered

worlds of the once upons discovered

filed out of place

when you were new.

mary angela douglas 13 december 2016

Today A Leaf Fell

today a leaf fell from a tree and was not on the evening news.
this afternoon many leaves fell and there was a sharp wind.
the sharp wind was not famous.

no one knew its name except in nursery rhymes, folktales
an occasional illustration by a child where the clouds outlined
in blue seem to be carried or transfixed

by a blue and stationary wind..
I want to make paper airplanes from the news
and send it all away

and paint the fairy tales into the foreground of

my life my life my life
because today in  a singular ray of light
one leaf fell

and it was blazing

mary angela douglas 12 december 2016

The Constancy Of Snow Is Perhaps Invisible

the constancy of snow is perhaps invisible
as are all things that melt except
in the child's mind

the child whose pink ice cream
is always a possibility
of surprise on any day

or perhaps never
who can say without a smile
April is faithless

when every year she comes tripping
decked all in violets.
then there are, they say,

invisible, before the wakes
the kingdoms of tears
trembling at every brink

the punishments beyond definition
when beautiful time translates its anguish
uprooted, no longer the implorable.

beyond which,
Heaven shines

mary angela douglas 9 december 2016

Song For The Last Interview

'it will flame out like shining from shook foil'
-Gerard Manley Hopkins

for Dr. Robert Joseph Connelly, San Antonio, in memorium


this is for the Word born whole
for the poetry-riven sky
for the strength to recognize a lie

for the breakable language
unbroken still
by the bent word

built for profit,
not for truth.

this is my sigh in the glass blown
air for the glass blown disappearing act of
stars in the last nights

appearing,
disarming, chiming in the wind
that only angels bring

the pause (finally, in excoriating speech,
-your very own-)
where you collect yourself
if not your things

from one last day at work
or home
picking your report card up

in June from the ghost school,
from the ghosts.

this is for cornbread heirlooms,
for afternoons of strawberries
and cream -

for the Holy Ghost dressed in pale green
for the whole world seen
through stereoscopic Disney,

Christmas stenciled windows;
the least view of small
pink flowers bordering the front

sidewalk, goodbye...

this is for God
who hears and sees the
honey tinged questions'

finding fault
so that permanent records
continue to reflect
your waywardness in
never having the exact

amount of change
this is for the second you know

you have to leave
the home you love
so much earlier than you planned
with only three dresses packed
in a

walnut, and the Lord's prayer on a dime:
fixing the hall clock in your memory
the jelly glasses
and the willow-ware, the brightness of pennies

over other denominations...

repairing your chiffon shadow
on the way with your personal sewing kit
to honor those who raised you
and read you fairytales

as though from great distances.

this is for
no safe-houses on the horizon
least of all the yellow brick one
across the street

where children climb trees
and eat the whole summer
an entire orchard of homeade

peach ice cream...

this is for the deep-starred journey
undertaken
for the fools errands
for the straw that will never never

ever turn into gold
no matter how the Rumplestiltskins scream.
listen to me:

questionable friends
make the journey a million times
harder and give you the wrong
directions to the castle so
that you never find
the singing bird.
this is for trudging on alone

for crossing the border and
not looking back even when
the person coming with you
changes their mind at sunrise
and runs to tell on you.

this is for living
like the silence of the moon
and soon and soon

you will withdraw from a tiny shell
at the exact right moment in the interview, a
shining like shook foil shaken-
three dresses of compressed splendor
kept against the rain and
wrapped in violet tissue:

the one of vivid stars
the one of ornate flame
the one of cloudless cloudless blue

and, as if on cue, the opal angels move-
scattering the inquisitors;
settling old accounts
in scripts of gold

with not one scintilla of
asking anyone for permission.
for you were watched over
even while crocodiles wept
my child my child at
every nightmare's exit

by the Word unbroken:
by music heard in the wake of angels,
by undetainable Light...

mary angela douglas 30 june 2009 rev.7 december 2016

There Was A Language Before We Came

there was a language before we came
soft gold molten as the summer rains
and formed of mist

of the sough of branches
on a wind burned sky
and shadows in pre

conversation;
whose words were snow
and grew, opal by opal,

storied, and old
the jewels falling out of it
one by one

like something outworn?
have they torn my soul
I cried when I found it,

have they torn my page
from the book of life
that they have consigned my words

to the yellow flecked tides
in exile, every one?

mary angela douglas 6 december 2016

I Remember The Pear Tree

I remember the pear tree
though you would not call it a golden thing now-
or even possible;

the partridge with its ruddy wing;
the swans upon their pond:
that they were spun of fine glass

like my escalating heart into
which God could pour in snow bright radio waves
deep colours

when I thought, it was only you, my late remembered
picture book of days.

oh that you had given me unnumbered ways,
His mirrors, the flocks of the stars.
many dancers danced to my door;

the wreathed singers under the windows
that I flung wide that day
in my amazement stunned.

though the pipers drove me mad at daybreak
till I sent them away to other foundlings.
how glad was I for the singing colours,

the rainbow ribands, floating tides

of some Divine clear victory decreed;
the inner scars branched into a cherry stealing;
the vivid air you christened with crystal.

and merriment, in waves.

now the castle is dun.
the dulcimer dimmed with dusk and
the way is shut to me,

littered with your fantastical presents.

so once upon!...
how will you answer me when I call,
dressed all in silver, caroling to the last;

unclasping the sunset colours.
no gold upon the tree.
with only the mourning doves for company.

mary angela douglas 29-30 november 2015 rev, 3 december 2016

Time And Motion Studies In The Factories Of Light

dream heads upon the chopping blocks
or delved into we manage in the day to day
to hide our tears in the deluge

may the rains sweep sorrow away
and we are the instruments of the GNP
the case studies

in the factories of light.
may we become proficient
they say and they say and they say

in doing what they have for us today
and we are measured incessantly.
somewhere there was a pastorale

where we lived, I  or you
as in the fairy tales of our wits
making the fair trade of the one and only

cow for the magic beans
and freeing the captive harp by degrees
from the giant's clasp.

and this is still
not far beyond our grasp
if only we could leave could leave could leave

without being seen to
or marked down for it,
the factories of light.

the inhibitors of flight.

mary angela douglas 3 december 2016

And In Their Dreams, The Sound Of Waters

awash in the colours of the befores and afters
we are awash the children sighed
and in their dreams, the sound of waters.

will we pass over
they asked the moon and stars
with the candles lit on the crown

of Christmas first and last 
will we glisten as in the past
but I, how could I more than listen

when dreams had no language
I could intercept
and the children crossed over

who can say how or hold regret
like the princess in the tower
and the children passed under

who can say when
and who was there to defend them,
if not God?

mary angela douglas 2 december 2016

The Colours Of The Tree Of Night

they cheated in cherry gardens of our years
the blind's men bluff and wringing out our tears
under starlight

we made do
with all the stories that we knew,
the ivory towered.

how have they come to raze it to the ground
speaking of peace and the colours of the Tree
of night?

now is the flight of all things holy
to the unseen countries bound.

mary angela douglas 2 december 2016

On The Day After Kingdom Come

(a poem on my Mama's birthday, (Mary Adalyn Young-Douglas, still remembered)

on the day after Heaven opens
perhaps the sun will rise
unshuttered  like a rose so that

birds in their flight are cast
in a light never before seen or imagined
and children on stand by

get the day off from school
and go to the fair of all Fairs
and entwined with the Maypole

ribbons, their slippers petal coloured
dance in the dewy grasses
or in ballerina leaps 

we will succeed in crossing the creeks
as the legendary did in the floods
and there will be candy all around

ice cream to spare from the cherry freezers
dispensed on the porches of gladness
and lemonade passed down in the

surprafosted glasses of time recovered
cool as the bubbling springs and
Mothers in aprons of gold

in new dresses like Spring

will wipe new tears from the babies eyes
over enchanted with all the fairy tales
spilling out at once

and our hearts beating like drums
at the parade of the innocent
at the Kingdom come

set free.

mary angela douglas 1 december 2016

Taken Into Account, Obscurely Dreamed

I caught this morning morning's minion, king-

    dom of daylight's dauphin, dapple-dawn-drawn Falcon, in his riding

    Of the rolling level underneath him steady air, and striding

High there, how he rung upon the rein of a wimpling wing

In his ecstasy! then off, off forth on swing,

    As a skate's heel sweeps smooth on a bow-bend: the hurl and gliding

    Rebuffed the big wind. My heart in hiding...

Gerard Manley Hopkins, The Windhover

taken into account, obscurely dreamed
I caught this morning's Mourning
in its gleam

the text of leaving green
on the milk white skies.
goodbye to the leaves

was scrawled on the evening wind
I have seen this before you murmured soft
and then

you turned to go inside
and from the turret window, despite the
upstair's tenants' noise, the sudden slams

a glimmering sped in the breeze

and we could not answer
was it birds or leaves.

mary angela douglas 30 november 2016

Falling Off The World We Came To See

falling off the world we came to see
the underside of clouds
the breathing of leaves

stars scattering before the storms.
before the storms
we believed in the Golden Age

and did not know that we should pay our way
and that the way was paved with tears
the kingdoms sinking into the sea

merely at an unkind word
we did not know we would be herded
and not heard

and fastened onto a track and measured,
fined for looking back
at the illusory

we did not know these things

and so we lived in dreams
negligent to a fault
still owning our own souls.

mary angela douglas 29 november 2016

It Was What We Wanted To Learn

it was what we wanted to learn,
not only to believe
that one could come to the edge of town

after much suffering
at dawn and live under the shower of gold
or that every word you uttered would

become a pearl
and alternately, a diamond
so that speaking could be only jeweled.

and speaking would be only jeweled
because virtue grew
green leaves in the wintertime

under deep snows
and that is where
we wanted to go

where the spearmint of the air
was truly what we were
capable of breathing

I believed this
I would read this
though I was mocked for it

long summer afternoons
and learn the madrigals by heart,
the Gospels,

and believe in Art
yes, for its own sake

taking up the cause of Poetry
floating above the common world
filled to the brim as it was with bullies

and with ostentation.
so that words became my nation
and beauty spilled from the stiles

of the heavenlies,
from the pitchers of music.
as though it were cream.

mary angela douglas 28 november 2016

We Did Not Dream Of Weddings

[in memory to Mr. and Mrs. Milton B. Young, my grandparents...
and for Sharon F. Douglas, my sister]

we did not dream of weddings,
but of the white gold light
and of the pearl of the skies.

any day now it may snow
the moon and the stars
amd we will stand entranced.

let it be lamplit,
and the snow falling delicately before.
let Grandmother's books

with their tissue guards unfold
the mystical illuminations
of the sweetheart's rose

in miniature.
or we compose on toy pianos
plinking on rainbow scales

the notes we'll sing
in after years
and lift the hidden veils

of Christmases to come:
we knew,
when we were young.

mary angela douglas 27 november 2016

Setting The Table

setting the table
the butter pale yellow on the butter dish
with the butter knife

just so
the stack of wonder bread beside it
oil and vinegar in their casques

for the salad
the pepper mill
bought with S&H trading stamps

the pride and joy
also the willoware or the melmac
kitchen bright

each night
the pastel paper napkins.
these things remembered

50 years ago
predictable as rain
or a windy day in april

oh, if time were more flexible
I would ride, no gallop back
to be in that again

with those who loved me when.

mary angela douglas 24 november 2016

For Dylan Thomas In The Dark Blue Dusk, The Gilded Dust Of Words

FOR DYLAN THMAS IN THE DARK BLUE DUSK, THE GILDED DUST OF WORDS

[for the poet Dylan Thomas, his every word]

as you were singing that the givers of Light
would have no end that the green rills
growing greener would furl in waves

about us ever near and clearer from year to year

and that the sun dipped in the clouds down low
would ever arise

somewhere farther beyond your white roads' chrism
we forgot that poetry is not prose
and no longer gathered the rose upon rose

the once upons.
so that the prismed web broke apart weeping
and with it the human heart my heart and where

and what and how in Art will the angels come
to trouble the springs again my friend

my friend
so that healing descends

when your voice is stilled
when the news is all we know
I cannot comprehend

only that vaguely

blue and darker blue with the dusk
as your disguise the village from afar
you'll view

and weep for Wales and all you knew

the vast tendrils conquered and subdued
for all that meant to you.
and we go casting about in sighs

mere ghosts of ourselves
forgetting what you knew.
that bright words, should not be spare

but myriad, like the stars.

mary angela douglas 24 november 2016;22 october 2021

The Teakettle Rosily Sings On The Hob And Dreams

your teacup balanced on the edge
of the fantastic tea party
only just beginning

will you lose your balance
plunging past the cakes,
the creamed filled,

the ones with plum icing
will they find your manner nice
will you be coasting down

the sugared slopes, the gumdrop spiced
of childhood hopes
your whole life long

and keep alive
your teacup songs
no matter how

you may feel wronged
by the dreamless worlds
around you?

mary angela douglas 24 november 2016

Doll Weddings Made The News

doll weddings made the news
in the Christmas town by the sea
or under the Christmas tree

in the star flecked snows
or what we thought were those;
tree skirts all confetti

and we'll send off in the mail
for the aurora borealis
just for selling Christmas cards

in July to the crabby housewives
without a/c
drinking up all the tea all

summer long and the clinking sound
of ice in the glass was a musical one to us.
as were so many things.

the froth of ice cream shakes
the little bake oven and its spongy cakes.

we lived in dream town
lilacs over the back fence
at least in our readers

and pink flowers clambering too
though you couldn't say for sure
which kind they were.

we'll live there one day
that is what we thought
and pack our trunks with

costumes from the fairy tale plays
on our way
to the town of perfect friendship

having mastered our spelling by then
and all the word problems
in the back of the book.

mary angela douglas 24 november 2016

Farewell To The Legends

farewell to the legends
wove of the boughs of beauty
heft of tapestried moon and

the stars
the pearl waft of evening
the arches of the green.

yet what they had seen
let it remain
in books put by

like the purpling of the skies
that men who are wiser
and yet blind, ignore.

this lore was ours
I hear through mourning grasses sigh
the ghosts of an old surmise

what have you done with it

mary angela douglas 22 november 2016