In spring I shall be older, and in summer, older still.
Let me stay here in winter, where I’m young, despite the chill.

The love who betrayed me has a birthday in December.
When I knew Him, He was young. And that’s all I remember.

Youth’s vanity and pride hurts no one. It is the length
Of years and its wisdom that wounds. Love has no strength

In the God who forgives mistakes, though He is deep and wide.
It is not youth’s folly which ruins. Only age. And its pride.







  1. maryangeladouglas said,

    December 27, 2015 at 3:53 am

    The matching of the picture to the poem in this case is really touching. The feeling of wanting to stop time so desperately you would stay in winter as expressed here is eloquent. The heroine of the poem could even be a ghost I felt on reading this several times. Maybe I was slow to pick that up, but I did try. What is the photograph from? Did you take the picture? It is incredibly atmosphere, the poem too, in a more muted way; but then, I guess considering the melancholy in the poem, the muting is what is needed. Something in the poem reminds me of an Emily Bronte poem though I can’t remember it, maybe Remembrance, only a fainter echo, but an echo, nonetheless. I am convinced the speaker is a ghost.

    • maryangeladouglas said,

      December 27, 2015 at 3:54 am

      meant to say incredibly atmospheric; this can’t be brain freeze as there is no ice cream in the house and it’s 70 degrees outside.

      • maryangeladouglas said,

        December 27, 2015 at 3:57 am

        A ghost who doesn’t yet realize she is a ghost; a recent ghost who still thinks of herself as present in the progression of seasons, Time.

  2. maryangeladouglas said,

    December 27, 2015 at 4:11 am

    Cake to banish the ghost or at least, cheer her up; or cheer her up until she realizes, being a ghost, that she can’t eat it. I love making cake poems. It makes up for the fact that I can’t eat desserts anymore and that I never could bake anything that looked like real food.

    The compensations of poetry are great.


    let’s make a layer cake of happiness.
    why not?
    frosted pink, a lot of icing

    a little kid’s dream cake.
    or a trifle, alternating layers
    of strawberry, lemon curd,

    hazelnut, chocolaty choclate
    blueberries, blueberries
    cream o cream

    let us not be hesitant in eating it
    yet, observe table manners
    in case the good fairy is

    whirring by and her good mood
    depends on
    how elegant we are

    at table.
    with our peach linen napkins.
    our irresistible smiles.

    mary angela douglas 26 december 2015

  3. thomasbrady said,

    December 27, 2015 at 12:22 pm

    Thank you, Mary. Yes perhaps it is a ghost. A child ghost?

    Let’s Make A Layer Cake Of Happiness is a beautiful poem. “Irresistible smiles.” Definitely cheered up the ghost.

  4. maryangeladouglas said,

    December 27, 2015 at 1:02 pm

    Glad to hear it. Poor beautiful ghost holding onto Time with increasingly, careful vagueness especially lines three and four. It can have more trifle if it wishes.

    • maryangeladouglas said,

      December 27, 2015 at 1:42 pm

      I realize it’s kind of against Scarriet rules to over explain a poem in terms of things that are not readily apparent in the poem itself as written but I feel compelled to say that the “good fairy” in the cake poem is the cartoon fairy from “Fractured Fairytales (The Rocky and Bullwinkle Show”) and no other. I’m sorry but she made me say that. Her image was indelibly in my head as I wrote the poem and I couldn’t shake her off with a stick or turn her into one of Arthur Rackham’s fairies or even a Walt Disney one. This was a horrible experience.

  5. maryangeladouglas said,

    December 28, 2015 at 11:00 pm

    Thomas Graves, this poem was inspired by both the picture and the poem you have written and by the fog outside, the drippy rain outside the window today; if you do decide to do a piece on my poems I wish very much you would include this poem in full as it does represent one very distinct way I feel (among many) of being in the world. Please consider it, anyway, and if not I offer it as an extension of your possible ghost in the poem, perhaps. I know this poem is also coming from the fact that I live in a town where there is an strange, inordinate amount of fog in every single season of the year, something mystifying to me as we are near no body of water, not even a river or a creek.


    the steps you take in a mist are very small
    like fine stitching she told me
    dressed in her rose red cape

    and I was waiting for the bus on
    a Sunday forgetting it was Sunday
    and that the bus would never come

    and so I started taking fine steps
    silken ones really on the side walks
    I had faith were there

    and began to sing in a kind of snow
    speech under the heavy skies
    I am taking small steps in the mist

    with no one beside
    and the ditch of extremity eludes me
    who am elusive too

    they used to say
    when I was not mist
    and they still spoke to me

    anyway, I am here
    and in my bridal slippers
    as it should be in a mist

    carrying silvered lilies away
    into the vanishing of afternoons
    and I want too much to say if you

    could catch the snow words
    on the way with the moon
    that I do not miss being There

    at all.

    mary angela douglas 28 december 2015

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