to my sister, Sharon F. Douglas
we'll write on the snow in cloud languages
no one will know the poets were here
that someone pushed the swings from behind
so that we landed in different countries
that's where the angels snowdrift through red roofs
or through the yellow skyscrapers
on a blue background
as though you said
as though they were sistines.
we wanted a ceiling of roses
bearing down hard on our old crayons
red and pink, occasional blue green leaves
rococo as the day is long, we laughed.
rococo sipping cocoa.
I pack them up with my tears
remembering sad years,
seraphic, your piano.
its silver blue plink plink.
the rain falling on taffeta.
she plays the music of the spheres
I cried in assembly
no one believed me.
we went on from year to year
surviving adjoining kingdoms
the mustard coloured jester popping out
from the jack in the box of our worst dreams
you wrote on a postcard in pink ink perhaps from Siena
how would I know
the pines are too beautiful to live on here
let's turn them into far
green angels
mary angela douglas 10 october 2018
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem