The Ghostly Poets Gather Their Writing Supplies Poem by Mary Angela Douglas

to Kate Greenaway
Lucy Locket lost her pocket,
Kitty Fisher found it;
Not a penny was there in it,
Only ribbon round it.
-Old English Nursery Rhyme


when we run out of paper we will write
on violet scraps of clouds, on autumn leaves,
the red and gold, the earliest cherished,

last to wave good bye when the winds blew through;
on steppingstones in brooks we lept when we were
lily pad new or on the backs of

old eviction notices, torn off by the storm;
in-between the cake walk music, tisket tasket,
drop the handkerchief games we played; in the margins of

the grocery flyers advertising this week's specials:
cubed steak, gold streaked mangoes;
on old report cards, brought up in the fishermen's nets

by boatloads, along with the tuna
and on the foolscap of barely inhabited libraries
careful of their Gutenberg

illuminations with their gloved hands
and no parties we're invited to;
no worries, they won't hear us

clambering amidst odd land-filled sighs,
your old Tinkertoys, inscribed
on the unused space of medical charts; on the manifests,

and on the cargoed dark where fairytales were stored
and on the raveling of the hem of the favorite dress
of the Princess in exile trailing the earth in our worn-down

shoes, her silk parasol;
with the hummingbird sewing notions
of a ruby throated day that has gone;

on drifting bells of evensong;
in invisible sea foam crayon on purpling hatboxes
stacked in the afternoon's warehoused suns

the skies kept trying on while we just worked

and in the pockets of the lucy lockets and on the florists'
cards when the yellow roses have faded
have faded have faded away

mary angela douglas 19 august 2014