From Which He Cannot Hide

He is Who He is.
we didnt create Him.
how backwards the story

has become
and inside out
how will we wear our souls

how small are we seen from the other side
seen in the mirrors of our antlike pride
and gnatlike in the frame how long

will we remain

the Ice Queen's tiny puzzle
on a chain, the least

of all that He has made
in our ridiculous disdain.
how large His tears

that could all oceans make
and from all glaciers flow
flooding the stars

who do we think we are to barter him
for anything at all
who gave us everything

and never asked for it back
who flows beyond reason into the stupid cul de sac
where we abide and chide and chide Him

who is only Love
hurling our insults from which He cannot hide.

mary angela douglas 7 september 2019

So Many Singing Birds

I loved the pinwheel breezes, tufting clouds
the clover cream and purple tufted below, the earth,
an echo of the sky

my only country till I die

and then the ones in books
strange geographies, enchantments, look!
alchemies forever turning us into gold,

rose gold, white gold the story told, the myriads
the rose red rose white soliloquies
what are you what are you

turning to be while the windmills grind
the darkness into light
the sands of mystic time run through

Senor Quixote's dreams, the dolorous.

like him, I loved books too,
their after mirages...my affinities
the ones with winding steps and

and their infinities,
plateaus of flowers

the knights and ladies of the hours
upon their fretted stage and page by page
the thick rose borders grew, I cried at the

half steps in music, Grandmother, with you

all castles slept. when will we awaken
what will we awaken to:
when we wandered through, so many vignettes

in a cloudless country far from the neighborhoods
we knew

and yet so clear in notes of blue on the staff line:
mazurkas of the printed word

how can it be so much is still unheard;
there are so many left
within us in the waning light:

so many singing birds

mary angela douglas 7 september 2019

I Was Writing In The Book Of Trees

I was writing in the book of trees
about the memory of clouds
the explosions out loud

small flowers at the base of the seeing roots and refuge,
the foliation of stars, the dreaming boughs.
concentric circles sparked to the living ground.

I want to live in forest shade seeking the words
of shade this is foremost in my mind
and in green handwriting deepening

the darker greens in pools the forgotten mosses
we will count all losses negligible
from the branch ourselves falling lightly

as the leaves, the leaves on a lost wind
weathervane crumpled in the end
there is no end

there is only branching farther out...

mary angela douglas 5 september 2019

Linger For A While Yet In the Ghost Blue Dawn

to my Grandfather, Milton B. Young

they lived until the cup ran dry
as it to the lees, I think it was said
and my grandfather showed us the Big Dipper

does it dip out the everlasting waters
for all the sons and daughters
I wish I could have asked him then

when he put out his pail after supper for the meteors,
meteor showers he said would come.

I dont know about that.
but they should have.
he loved the stars

the idea of them.
and lost Orion best
so, I did too;

so many years later
walking down the service road to the bus
and in the bright darkness

I saw angels by the hydrants
the ghost of his face, his smile.

mary angela douglas 3 september 2019

I'd Rather Be Warm Than Trendy: A Cheerful Winter's Tale

I want a winter coat that sweeps the ground
no matter what they say to me in town
when they dart out in shirt sleeves

even though they're freezing;
endow me with their fasionista frowns.
well, it's alright.

I want a hat that covers up my ears so tight
though I will not be counted as your peer.
two hats, or three and I'll be filled with glee

and then I'll be a happier me
though you think I look so absurd
and then a scarf that winds around the moon, the earth,

or could, woolly, woolly
good good good  good good
I'll be warm as toast

confident in the Holy Ghost
with cherry mittens on and then some.
warm all day.

no matter what you say!
jingely jingle all the way.
as if Im in the month of May.

mary angela douglas 3 september 2019

The Autobiography Of Small Flowers (Final Version)

children came across them first

pink and starred with dew

and bent down entranced

to see their reticent sparkle

as if they knew they were made

for them

lemon butterflies dart near

it is clear it was clear to me then

this was the playhouse of outdoors

the azure ceiling

the sprigged grass

the trees arching over

a lake of glass

and pine cones scattered

where nothing else mattered.

and then the picture books,

with their may apples.

and clouds would pass

like fleece of angels

time, what was time then.

coming across wild violets

on the walk from school

and the violets understood

who we were too.

in their small dignity enwrapped,

enrapturing

and perfumes.

and everything after the rains

making us silver inside

as if we were made of stars

and we were.

we are.

mary angela douglas 2 september 2019

The Autobiography Of Small Flowers (Earlier Version)

children came across them first
pink and starred with dew
and bent down entranced

to see their reticent sparkle
as if they knew they were made
for them

lemon butterflies dart near
it is clear it was clear to me then
this was the playhouse of outdoors

the azure ceiling
the sprigged grass
the trees arching over

a lake of glass

and pine cones scattered
where nothing else mattered.
and clouds would pass

like fleece of angels
time, what was time then.
coming across wild violets

on the walk from school

and the violets understood
who we were too.
in their small dignity enwrapped,

enrapturing

and perfumes.
and everything after the rains
making us silver inside

as if we were made of stars
and we were.
we are.

mary angela douglas 2 september 2019

Used That Way (Final Version)

I would like to be treated as an individual

and not as an anecdotal source

written up in a magazine a journal

of great repute reviewed by someone's peers

making the career of someone

far younger, even brilliant

or shown upon the screen

of the ultimate power point presentation Machine

making the scene as a sliver of the pie chart

though it's art Im sure of that, of a certain sort

to undergird someone's mission statement

so the voiceless can be heard and really

when does that ever happen but snap to it

to applaud the populations sewn in half

and magically restored ; or those who manage them

final theses by the score on the subject full of buzz.

my life having furnished details on the above

in places I myself would most likely

not be welcome, much less hired.

to earn another praise is perhaps the

action of saints. to use another's lifetime

to grind out statistical reports so you can

visit all the resorts

I cant have any mercy for.

or fellow feeling.

forgive me if I am wrong.

but all of us here not so collegially

really don't want our anguish mined

so you can flourish in the daily grind yourself

while we're on parade:

clear examples of everything

wrong with our country

so some say; or props of the progress you've made

while given props for throwing shade on us

in turning our lives around but

in the wrong lane. forgive me if I complain.

and may I just say, having found my own voice by myself

we just dont want to be used that way.

mary angela douglas 1 september 2019

Used That Way (Earlier Version)

I would like to be treated like an individual
and not as an anecdotal source
written up in a magazine a journal

of great repute reviewed by someone's peers
making the career of someone
far younger, even brilliant

or shown upon the screen
of the ultimate power point presentation
making the scene as a sliver of the pie chart

though it's art Im sure of that, of a certain sort

to undergird someone's mission statement
final thesis on the subject.
my life having furnished details

in places I myself would most likely
not be welcomed much less hired.
to earn another praise is perhaps the

action of saints. to use another's lifetime
to grind out statistical reports
I cant have any mercy for.

or fellow feeling.

forgive me if I am wrong.
but all of us here
clear examples of everything

wrong with our country
so some say
just dont want to be used that way.

mary angela douglas 1 september 2019

Ruling

one rule for me

one rule for you

this is what they never teach you

at school

once you're out working

you'll play the fool

following following

being their tool.

one raise for me

one raise for you

gold bricks to pennies

how fair can that be.

you do the work

and ill supervise

filling out evals

full of big lies.

one life for me

one life for you

earthly existence just

eating our gruel

while they are out feasting

on rare cordon bleu

you'll eat bologna

thankfully too.

cause when we're all waiting

at Saint Peter's gate

the one with bologna breath

will wind up with steak.

one rule for me

one rule for you.

God is not mocked

when you cheat in His school.

he's got the time clock

he's got the keys

blessed are you Who

with whom He is pleased.

mary angela douglas 1 september 2019

He Thinks That His Paper Boats...

he thinks that his paper boats will all
float out to sea.
I help him fold them.

I make the mast of gold.
he thinks that the sun is a hive
full of amber and amber bees

and sunlight is honey, on our table
someday if he is  able he will rule
all of the kids in school.

I raise the lid he pours the magic in
whenever we pretend
our days will never in any weather

ever ever end.
he thinks that his ships will sail
and everything in the mail

is a wish coming true.
I tend to think so, too.

mary angela douglas 1 september 2019

They Have Not Left Us

who prayed that our hearts would grow wise
and sprinkled with stars, rise in all darkness
I leave it to you to surmise

I know who prayed for me.
how odd we should start out at sea with them
and then find ourselves alone.

so that all men, even the most fortunate must grieve
must grieve.

oh pray for them who were taken from us
into their Heavenly home that they may know
our love is undiminished

and in new sight we know
they have not left us.

mary angela douglas 1 september 2019

The Social History Of The Last Star

the social history of the last star
twinkled on pages none had marred
at the dubious library

or on snowy leaflets sent from Mars.
all ruby red agitation. 
what socioeconomic forces did it in.

how could anyone even pretend

to apply that limp theory to a star.
much less, to men.
twinkle twinkle silver silver it said

and went to sleep in God.

mary angela douglas 1 september 2019

I Can't Tell You What It Means

I cant tell you what it means
in crystal balls when numbers gleam
I never want to know the facts

and seal them up in sealing wax
I only want to catch the breeze
and pray to God for what I need

and what I need is very small
to have a place with roof and walls
and quiet quieter than leaves

asleep in moonlight on the eaves.

mary angela douglas 31 august 2019

At The Agency Again

the simulation of manners breaks the heart
the kiss on the cheek by torchlight and
there you are. the last one on the list 

and isnt it just bliss

to get acknowledged by a machine

that has a wish to be seen helping the poor, even
winning awards for it

how are you, they ask your category
whatever its name is; homeless, deranged,
an aging pop in the population

never a friend, someone they'd invite in for tea.
someone they'd call a colleague
someone less than me, they think.

and they don't even blink when you talk

about what happened to you. really.
and you feel a curious fade
and know they've ended their working day

and they want you to leave

buh bye you representative of homelessness,the
disadvantaged, over bandaged wounded
walking whatever you say

they look away bored or glazed you feel worse than ignored
even when they look straight at you
later they'll laugh at you with their friends

at  the sidewalk cafe and talk about leaving their job
to get away from the scurvy mob.
here's what we owe you they confide

in a personable manner killing your chatter
thin as a candy coating on a chocolate
leftover from last Christmas no one would want/

you pay their bills with all your ills and they get their fill
while you eat scraps, and get a gloved pat on the back
because they're so sure you must have the plague

when all you really wanted was a real conversation

with anyone from the nation
but you get a nod and a wink
while they're thinking how brilliant they are

when dealing with folks subpar

they dont care what you feel

to them you're just not real

to them you aren't even you
you're just part of the zoo
they curate

too late on scene
to be anything
they take your name

and file the claim
and make the file
and then they smile

but they don't really see you.
their cell phone rings
from someone they really want to talk to.

and you dont mean a thing to them.

mary angela douglas 31 august 2019

Miss Havisham

for Charles Dickens...

it's the way the dress has folded into dust
as it hangs there that makes you feel
all time is rust

even the air you barely breathe there
where the seed pearls have gone grey
grey as the seas that washed up then

the dubious fortunes of men, their proclivites...

as before on forlorn shores made ever more desolate
Miss Havisham whisper the ghosts
and the whisper of it winters everything

though outside in the gardens it is early spring
all inside belies it.
you want to pick fresh bouquets in the melancholy

sunshine of her shipwrecked days

of myrtle, the kind of roses shown
in ancient valentines, with the clasping of hands
the coat of arms

but the wind whispers chivalry is dead

and the tinny music turns in a music box instead
with broken amethysts in the sky, rely on God
You try to say to her.

dreary is the way Miss Havisham

and this is where the sodden road lies
after long interminable rains.

oh take your cloak the one once lined with violet blue
see no visitors today in the oistritch feathered hat
all weddings now have melted into that

decrepit cake and the feast in cobweb ruin.

only the lilies remain. Miss Havisham
the yellowed pearls the tintype of a girl
whose dream was shed without a summer murmur

in the long ago that glacial snows revered.

dressed in mulberry you'll go out again some year
and drift between one sphere and another
whose ash had burnt out, no doubt 

Miss Havisham. you'll still search out

the infinity surrounding pointless souvenirs.
debris of all the years.
of all the years.

mary angela douglas 30 august 2019

Those Who Identify Diamonds

there are those who identify diamonds
inspecting them under a spectral light
so that they may more freely

crush them into diamond dust.
should we go quietly 
summoned under moonlight

or should we pray
all night on our knees about the new Gethsemanes
that we may be delivered

from such as these
should we leave overnight
the unbaked bread

the droning words they gave us to recite instead
of the ones that well from our own hearts
should we allow and allow and allow

the kingdoms of the dark.
how can I know
when my own crushed soul

is bleeding continually
God save us from the unseen petty tyrannies
from those who slaughter and yet

we are still alive.
my God how long all saints have cried have cried
under His crystal throne

sometimes I think the world is on the brink
and Jesus will come to see it all
hidden behind office walls

in the schoolroom, in the hall
everywhere the wolves devouring the sheep.
everywhere beleaguered people

failing to fall asleep for dread of the next work day
while those with invisible truncheons
wield their power

every bloody second of every hour.

mary angela douglas 30 august 2019




f

I Dreamed Of Colossus (Final Version)

(This is not a political poem. this is against the political throttling of the individual, individuated beauty of each human soul; imago dei, for those who think they were born to engineer it, on both sides of the aisle. who lie and lie and lie...

It is, in fact, a nightmare and not a dream though as for Alice in the horrid wonderland, the key is on the glass table, if you only look for it; and the Door to the beautiful garden as I do not believe in leaving the reader stranded)

-----------------------------------------------------------

I dreamed of colossus and a marble stair

where I looked out on everywhere from the last landing

on the same blank scene

and I woke up and I said I will mean

more than the vastness of snow over the empires

of no soul. those selling even the moonlight for profit and

control

and the view from the empyrean

that outranks God.

all these greek names.

what they reign over now.

sadness the myth of sadness

I can see, all its golden apples

rolling down the hill. the Princess, in name only.

distress and the case for myrrh

and the crystal devastations

of the king's will; Cassandra and Antigone

perhaps for a little while I'll be

but never never the chorus

for the song is not good

that hammers fate, determinism home

like a nail through the heart

to rule in God's stead.

Only Christ is free.

let it be understood.

there's a tyranny in dreams

that lord it over others.

their sisters and their brothers.

though I am a glass harp

and not the timpani.

still, I dreamed of colossus.

and I wish I never had.

mary angela douglas 28 august 2019

I Dreamed Of Colossus (Earlier Version)

(This is not a political poem. this is for the political throttling of the individual, individuated beauty of each  human soul; imago dei
for those who think they were born to engineer it, on both sides of the aisle. who lie and lie and lie)


I dreamed of colossus and a marble stair
where I looked out on everywhere from the last landing
on the same blank scene

and I woke up and I said I will mean
more than the vastness of snow over the empires
of no soul. those selling the moon for profit and control

and the view from the empyrean
that outranks God.

all these greek names.
what they reign over now.
sadness the myth of sadness

I believe in, all its golden apples
rolling down the hill. the Princess, in name only.
distress

and the crystal manifestations

of the king's will Cassandra and Antigone
perhaps for a little while I'll be
but never never the chorus

for the song is not good
that hammers fate, determinism home
like a nail through the heart

to rule in God's stead.
not good. let it be understood.

there's a tyranny in dreams
that lord it over others.
their sisters and their brothers.

though I am a glass harp
and not the timpani.
still, I dreamed of colossus.

and I wish I never had.

mary angela douglas 28 august 2019