The Long Goodbye To The Horse Thieves Poem by Mary Angela Douglas

(my sweet doves, leave the cults in droves)

{after Dante]


'the grass withers; the flower fades…the word of our God shall stand forever.'

-Isaiah, the Holy Bible


'And call no man on earth your Father.'

-Jesus


no more cattle drives, as I recount:
I was walking too close by the edge of the sea
that isn't anymore;

weren't you?

at least, that's what they said,
among other things, before they shot the
horses out from under us…

I was counting vermillion angels
floating on silos at sunset; shining
apple- blossom clouded,
and listening to 'Appalachian Spring'.*

somehow, they said, not so
pointedly at first, making me feel at home-
you're not enough-

how it is with all of us now,
I couldn't say. Too much
Stolen time…the circuitry's been changed.

who let these people in here?
do you know?
they think I don't know.

I know enough:
when blankness descended,
they called it music.

they still do…

they don't like what's in your head.
they don't like that you have a head.
perhaps they're waiting for the headless horseman.*

who could explain the beads they
bartered or why they shone like jewels so long ago;
thinking ourselves among friends, soothed by their guitars we were led away:

no rodeos left for the horseless riders.
no lemonade poured for the thirsty, anymore.
but there's a porch in Heaven wrapped thrice around the moon,
tree-house balconies on pine-needled air,

where Bradbury's grandmother serves us coconut cake…*
(the kind with dark cherries on top) .
where we say Grace and mean it.


you're not that far from where you were before…
in this world, this is no small accomplishment-
let us leave the kitchen chair pushed back from the table
consulting the dish-cloth calendar towel-the gold edged Psalms

with the purple ribbon-marker.


scarlet sparkles on the spiced apples
from your last summer studio day
when you left your Coke half-finished on the piano
thinking you'd drink it later…

and green- golden shadows guild the picture
you leaned against the wall at a king's command,
not a king at all as some of us found out-

only a millennium later-

come help us save the world, they sing
with periwinkle flowers in their eyes
but it's the last you'll see of your childhood home
and the people who raised you-

and blts made by hand, finished off in your very own Munsey toaster…*


mimosa splendor
ermine tears
your thistledown sob

where are you, grandmother-
holding my string of pearls, my
necklace of the mustard-seed…

the gold signet ring of your favorite brother
who died at 12-

surely God will help me find
the dustless corner where I stashed
the Schirmer's olive folios-
the ivory keys scented just like snow.

the color of my eyes.


beauty wavers, losing her pleats
looking for lost pinwheels;
scanning the wrinkled linen of the skies-

oh, but we're still on the fairgrounds of the Free
where the Laughing Lady's laughing just as long as
you've got a quarter and a lime snow-cone-

and Christmas marionettes in show windows
dressed in special plaid velveteen for this occasion
pour and pour their Victorian tea not spilling an amber drop

all gold beribboned, glistening under - my Deportment Store sky.

Listen…they're moving their doll mouths:
'It's still not too late-run away; we wish we could.'

Pink thunder sounds above the Orange plains…
the buffalo clouds turn restive
above old cattle-rustled friends who think en masse and not like me;

the stars are broken ornaments above their Christmas tree farms…
I'm leaving this- dear Christ and your Christmas, tree-top Star, go with me!

I will rummage in fragrant dresser- drawers
for the pure precognitions
I know - were mine- before
the spiritual carnies came to town-

selling candles and sucking out
with borrowed straws
the ice-cream from my soul-

content to find in confetti tissue still
all my lost visions folded fresh
with gardenia sachets and
by such a kind hand….

I'd bring you the frosting rose unmelting
from my festive birthday slice, Grandmother, remember?

I'm almost very young again: with gifts done up in glossy pink and blue-
on 45 rpms, the music of the great composers-

In love with holy freedom with the raspberry finish of the sky
and the blackberry night shining down and down

the blessedly pathless woods-


mary angela douglas 15-17 january 2012


*Ray Bradbury, great American writer of real American dreams

*Appalachian Spring - incredibly lyrical suite by Aaron Copeland, expressive of the American Heartland and Appalachia

*The Headless Horseman, ghost story by Washngton Irving early Americn writer who lived and worked around present-day Tarrytown, NY


*blts - bacon, lettuce and tomato sandwiches on toast