The Joy Of The Bird Soaring From The Ashes Poem by Mary Angela Douglas

even as a child I knew the fairy tales were real
before anyone told me, one way or the other
they comforted me and not because I expected life
to be the ultimate game show prize
there is a misreading of fairytales I dont know why
as though to love them were to be in flight toward
that which is not real; to strive to live on a cloud.
I contend they are more real than what is deemed
reality, facing reality; reality is light overcomes the darkness
somehow we put blinders on made of the Snow Queen's
unfeeling puzzle of ice whereby what is beautiful and winsome
is held captive

fairytales in the true sense are life itself
rife with deceit and the triumph of the truthful, rhe kind
and yes, the visionary.
the careful, shuffling off the name of simpleton
willing to see the heart of things not to be deceived
by mere appearances, showing courage before the dragons
singing on the road of penury and lighthearted
knowing redemption is real and today, whatever there is to find
we rejoice in, whether the sun is out or overclouded
Divine Love shines, in us, in us who won't deride it.
to believe the fairytales risks also being taken for a fool
therefore I persist. to be a fool in this overly jaded world

to believe what is not possible and yet the not possible is
all around of. the mystery of having arrived in this world at all
the joy of the bird soaring out of the ashes.

dont believe in fairytales the screaming message of the
sophisticated

world
in its witchy wretchedness
and o, they lie who do not understand
tribulation is only a searing moment;
redemption is always ar hand.

and the beautifully transforming eye.

mary angela douglas 27 april 2023