Mary Angela Douglas Poems

the word poetry does not exist
it is a flame
or it is nothing
...

[in memory of J.T. Little as beautifully profiled by Mary Guiunca in the Winston Salem Journal some years ago:

J.T., quiet friend of many, loved by his family, coworkers, secret wonderful poet and writer known only to God, died age 48 under mysterious circumstances but not more mysterious than his articulate soul]
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
...

[for Lucy W. Young, forever.]

hibiscus flowered the late sun tints
the cream of clouds outside
...

no one will know now how you looked at clouds
when they turned pink; how you could sink
into books as into your own dream.
...

first of all you'll wear the same thing every day;
poems come first. one raincoat; a snack.
fold the red leafed ones on the bottom.
...

how to look at a painting the course title read
while other fireworks in my head went off
from a sky lark's point of view
...

[the fairy godmother's song to Cinderella at the beginning
of enchantments {as I imagine it}]

is it quaint to you this braiding of
...

they imagined that numbers were beautiful
and in imagination, they were
and lines intersected the arcs of cloudy
...

oh little tree that seemed gold with grace
even when you were leafless and iced over.
how the little birds chimed in
...

in your wide satin skies o Lord
I find delight so that
I want to gather clear lilies
...