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Poems By Poet mary douglas  12/28/2014 12:41:52 PM
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Perfect Christmas Stocking

stuffed with rubies, perhaps
kaleidoscopes made of rose window shreds
a plaster saint made of snow

perfume of birthday candles
from the long ago (the cake, still fresh
and every rose, your own)

a new novel by the Brontes.
I don't know!
enough oranges for all the orphanages

instantaneous homes for the oppressed
complete with cherry wood staircases
dresses in the style and just your size

of your favorite dolls
the Washington Mall in cherry blossom bloom
the skies, too, cherry on cherry piled;

another dress in those shades, moire,
green velvet sash-
a drifting feather from Pavlova

like an eyelash from dancing stars
tears in an emerald bottle from the child you are
a pale green tree house (it folds out)

with perfect bookshelves, sustained
by the music of Time;
sachet of gardenia and

the summer rain

mary angela douglas 18 june 2014
mary douglas



Candy Cane

to Henry Van Dyke, on my grandparents bookshelf
(by the Christmas tree and the living room picture window)

red and white should always taste this sweet
and painted just that way you are
crunched in English perfectly:
candy, candy cane.

a quintessential name, we crowned you queen of the
Christmas candies; such a delight to see you gaily striped
and peeking out from the stocking Christmas a.m.
when our a.m. was very a.m. then.

you kept that secret well.
or caught in smaller crooks between the icicles on the tree
as proud as any of the other ornaments, even the glass ones
in jewel tones from the 1940s,

I'm sure you twinkled
bright alongside them, beckoning us
to the Great Feast.

Candy cane, cane, cane appearing in ice cream as if the
angels folded you in, oh, how can I explain and turning the ice cream pink as palest roses on the rose tree
in our picture book.

how you should spill from the clouds whenever it snows
as from the angel choruses;
when you were porous, we sipped oranges through you
wondering, oh orange and peppermint together

even the dolls had no better wedding;
even the ones in peau de soie and
crystal embedded veiling with mysterious smiles.
and carrying their little paper

bouquets of white violets seriously-
gross grain silver ribbons streaming.
who dreamed you up?

all the ships of childhood sailing on
a golden pond, in a diamond wood
should have sails like these.

wrapped in chocolate and golden foil
I would put you in the offering plate on Sunday:
the brass one with the purple lining=
a treat for God and for the baby Jesus.

maybe the fourth wiseman brought you
wrapped in scarlet silk, a long, long way
even a little late for His birthday
bearing the tang of fir trees

and coated with starriness.

mary angela douglas 27 july 2014

Note on the poem: Henry Van Dyke wrote a little mysterious book, The Other Wiseman and another book I love as well, The Blue Flower.

Also, credit where credit is due, I read a Russian folk tale recently in an English version for children by Virginia Haviland (in the 1950s or 60s) in which the following images appear as belonging to the king: a silver wood, a diamond pond, a golden castle, which I have altered a little bit here, transposing the images...
mary douglas



The Other Side Of The Story

perhaps the thirteenth fairy wept at home
under her polka dot toadstool barely
kept from the monsoons

bewildered and bedazzling; why she cried
to the cloudy skies do I never get invited anywhere?
she used her time like Cinderella, mending their socks.

putting up strawberry, elderberry jams. is that enough,
she wondered? then she swept their stairs and tuckered out,
though she was lighter than fluff, she slept through
their tiptoeing out without her.

then, the Princess came and it was just too much
to be the only one in the Kingdom not there.
so she party crashed the christening; saw the Princess, rose-like, fair.

and thought to do her a kindness.
sleep one hundred years she wished to their despair.
sparing her 100 years of War.

mary angela douglas 28 november 2014
mary douglas



In The Looking Glass, It Began To Snow

in the looking glass, it began to snow

the snow covered up
your eyes your
mouth; your

hands, with their own
snow-like gestures;
you wept-

but not into

the frozen-mirror pond

we struggled through:
emerging into
deeper snows,

but with the same furniture-

and this was the
beginning of sorrows

mary angela douglas february 2008
mary douglas

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Poems By Poet mary douglas