Image result for trees of endless bird song in painting

Now I understand

The endless grains of sand;

I understand why

There is endless sky.

I know why when I walk along,

There is endless bird song,

Why a lake is not the last lake,

And why forever and infinity are not fake.

It is so you can be;

Of all, you a possibility;

And away from all that hurts and kills,

We can walk the endless hills.




  1. maryangeladouglas said,

    July 15, 2018 at 5:58 am


    you sew up the tears in your soul
    as if it were the Hindenberg
    about to explode

    but you don’t know that yet
    you can’t.
    who ever does.

    things happen or they don’t.
    things occur.
    when they occur to you

    you wonder how the sky is still blue
    and why no one else seems to wonder that too
    and you’re on a distant shore

    while they keep buying groceries
    going out their accustomed doors while
    your old door floats by you on the flood.

    caked in mud.

    maybe you’ll stand in line.
    maybe they’ll take their time.
    maybe you won’t recognize anymore

    your own lips moving in the movie
    while you try to find your face
    stretching to say a rubbery something

    for which there is no language, really.

    mary angela douglas 15 july 2018

    • maryangeladouglas said,

      July 15, 2018 at 10:02 am


      I see the poets writing their last songs
      and the trains up ahead in an American clearing
      and the cottonwoods murmur, the poplars planted

      long ago, how, how long till they depart
      who wrote the wounding of the hearts and the balms too.
      feverish in their deeams now and the last winter set

      not much time for their regret except
      when will the listening world awake
      I hear them ask for mercy’s sake

      you weren’t born anyway for commerce.
      commence again the latticed page
      latticed with remaining light though

      the golden age is out of sight
      coming or going in the nights
      that others knew, before you.

      oh watchmen on the fiery towers
      pitched long past grief’s relentless hours
      whisper a word or two for us

      who follow you as it’s said to dust,
      though not our souls
      into the country none on earth has seen.

      that we may bloom on other shores
      remade in the green of our befores
      and take up singing evermore

      and learn what all of this was for
      the music and the chiding.

      mary angela douglas 15 july 2018

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