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Poems By Poet mary douglas  10/21/2014 10:07:53 AM
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He Keeps The Stencils Of The Living Day

He keeps the stencils of the living day
the crimsons and the evergreens
the snow washed opals o vast expectation,

feelings on the eve
where time cannot squander,
eat away the edges of the gemstoned stollen
ways, the giddy sleds and sleighs the

bells glazing deep silences.
hushed between the wars we find
He is reborn.not on straw or in bleak cold but within

our secret cherishing, rubied caroling cradled
brightness of brightness all else, concealing.
there is no praise of angels we won't find

burnishing the clouds as in old paintings
rich with his interior velvets, crownings from
afar and opulent as the multifoliate rose

long longed for, the Star enlarging the skies
that breaks our darkness and the ache apart revealing
the snowflake enterprise again

the wishes standing still
before the Gates

mary angela douglas 1 october 2014
mary douglas



Brightness Is Brighter

to e.e. cummings

brightness is brighter
gold on gold ever gathered
falling out of creases in the clouds
beckoning from the quartz glints
unexpected, on crummy sidewalks

flung flower filled through twilight skies,
not penny-pinched, the seldom truly glimpsed,
wildflowered out the windows of the proud
and drawing room banned; of little note

between raindrop and raindrop
pierrots weeping into the sequined suns
whenever sommersaulted nothing's won-
still, musical without the audition-

muddled, opal-puddled
it goes on gardenia-gleaming
in a basement atelier

sweet columbine spinning tulle graced
into God's best guessing games
there is light there is light
sang the child in early spring's
white violet arias
forgetting the scales oh not the halos,

brightness is lighter than all aureoles,
orioles in the auroras
tangerine sectioned out of sight

you can carry it in the corner of
your eyes, in any disguise
cloud shaped piano
drifting, dreaming through the droning:
multicoloured, even after Christmas
goes away and I have loved Your
multifoiled winds their infinite snowing

invisibly valentined reprieves
of the non-descript days
crowned queen of the
maybe something lavish will happen...
who can say,
rose-trellising the drizzle.

you can ferry it no matter who
they think you are in the day-to-day,
clandestine, marveling in the thought of it;
cramped in dim corners but otherwise,
cherishing the faintest ray

you're that regally ragtag
though they shove you
out of their way.

whatever else you're lacking
even with no packing on each
dress white eviction day-
pearl punctuated, bride ghosted
brightness goes with you
mere dragons dare not slay

mary angela douglas 26 march 2014

Note on Poem: cloud shaped piano - this is the second time I found a way to allude to that wonderful image in Chekov's The Seagull referencing the writer writing down each
thing he sees without respite including a cloud shaped like a piano...
mary douglas



Dress Code

weaving the fabric made of clouds
and of the retreating armies-
I whisper to myself, again-
maybe it's not too late

for the new-spun colours in my head-
the cherry velvet ravels swept aside;
a silver tack of wondering again,
never setting sail-

who lost the Age of Rose?

I count the last gold
in the corners
and count again, sweet
polished cotton dresses with no seams:
the sprigged details
for the diffident day
on a simple field of honour.

not knowing the pearl of minutiae
as You do, oh God-

I'm turning this inside out to find You-
and twining the dreamy-treadled thread
that keeps on breaking yet still shines

in tiny roseate crystals stitched on snows.

piano music's sateen on the wind
and seems to disappear, pure lemon verbena.
but sparkles do not dwindle, lily-of-the-valley mine
though I'm so small and slide off of the bench
never reaching the pedals by the chiffoniere

where it's always almost spring;
you won't disturb
the shawl of dappled roses on the doll crib-

the childhood fortitude so pear wept
twig by twig, the same;

remember me, and, if not-
the pale green earrings-
my geranium gown...

I turn the diamond spackled key
of an antique conversation:
who lost the pockets of the
children filled, the little sashes made of
white violet velvet

mary angela douglas 6-8 november 2011
mary douglas



Pink Candles Flare On A Rose-Decked Cake (Before Dripless Candles)

pink candles flare on a rose decked cake
how quickly you must wish so the buttercream
roses won't taste like wax.

looking back, under the duress of this
how could you know what wish to make?
maybe the way it's all turned out

depends on that
as much as on anything else.
let fresh cakes be ordered thundered

the king or queen
in a diamond anniversary epiphany
trying to make up finally

for all the wishes made imperfectly
just to not ruin the frosting.

mary angela douglas 24 october 2013
mary douglas

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Poems By Poet mary douglas