Poems By Mary

A chair chained to a routine,
Fingers flying to and fro,
The world, an oyster framed within a screen.

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Virtual travel from the comfort of home,
No need to face the elements—
The wind in one’s hair,
The kiss of the sun on one’s forehead.

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Grass greens the spring in one’s step,
The beauty of nature,
A balm to the soul,
Memories imprinted, banked over decades, accruing interest.

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The gains over time balance the losses,
Life has a plan for us—
A path taken may lead to a mountain’s peak
Or down a garden path.

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The reality is this:
Daily, embrace the ups and downs,
For there are no pockets in a shroud.

—Mary G. Douglas

Some go through life troubled,
Seeking not the positives in others,
But choosing to unearth their flaws.
Does this reveal their own essence?
Who are they to judge, hypothesizing?
Look in the mirror—reflect well—
Do we see another, not ourselves?

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Is this the seed of discontent,
Planted within, rooted deep?
Nourished, it flourishes, unchecked.
The world, woven in social fabric,
Holds beauty in nature’s flora,
Yet close too soon, a barb unseen,
Like jellyfish armed with silent stings.

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The octopus spews a warning cloud,
“Keep your distance,” it declares.
Yet face a tiger or lion, eye to eye,
Unflinching, and they turn aside,
Fleeing to the wilderness whence they came.
But humans, offering friendship’s signal,
Must meet gaze with steady truth.

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If eyes shift, unable to hold,
What troubling soul lurks behind the smile?
The eyes, mirrors of the heart’s depths,
Reveal what headlines and adverts obscure.
Money jingles, notes fill wallets,
But without reading between the lines,
One’s tools of survival slip away.

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The soul, one’s own, must be guarded,
In the jungle of life, where eyes meet eyes.
Do they partner well with the smile?
Troubling souls aim to shed their burdens,
Passing weight to another’s shoulders.
Interdependent, we navigate the wild,
On streets of life or in the wilderness.

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Trouble is trouble, but troubling runs deeper,
Rooted, harder to overcome.
In the jungle or closer to home,
The soul’s mirror reflects the truth.
Guard it well, amidst shifting gazes,
Lest discontent’s seed takes hold,
Flourishing where connection falters.

—Mary G. Douglas

Do you know who I am?
Does anyone truly know another?
A child enters the world,
Innocence in its newborn cry,
Destined to become the adult we are?
The tiger, wild and free, hunts for food,
Nature acts as nature does.

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Preying on the weak in strength and speed,
The cat toys with the mouse, relentless.
A child’s lungs trumpet arrival,
Demanding sustenance, unyielding,
Until mother’s milk brings slumber.
The cry, a gut instinct for survival,
Roars relentlessly until needs are met.

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What then? To know and understand?
The need for nourishment, a tool for control,
If not guided toward enlightenment.
The feral instinct knows no bounds—
In the jungle, the lion teaches its young,
Skills for survival, passed down,
Seagulls dive, teaching their fledglings.

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Fish seek plankton, sustaining their kind,
A chain reaction, life’s endless cycle.
The fisherman casts his line by the river,
Bait lures the salmon, unaware of danger.
Give me the child—will they nurture
Or destroy, without tools of understanding,
The rights and wrongs to protect from harm?

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Give me the child of today’s world,
Where parental rights erode, fade away.
What then? What adult do we become?
The power of rhetoric, wielded for or against,
Shapes family ties, friendships nurtured.
The drive for survival, the urge to control,
Raises questions at home and abroad.

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Do you know who I am?
The instinct to survive, to dominate,
Echoes in the child’s cry, the adult’s choice.
Nature teaches, yet humans falter,
Without guidance to shield from discrimination.
Who am I, in this world of shifting tides,
A soul shaped by nurture or neglect?

—Mary G. Douglas

What fans the flames of devastation?
A careless match, a season of dry heat,
Razing a forest to ash and ruin.
What nurtures a heart grown cold within,
Resentment building over years?
A torch lights a path strewn with debris,
A lifetime picking through storms and joys.

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A chance remark, overheard entering a room,
Sparks a chain of smoldering thoughts,
Nestling deep in a beating heart.
A careless slip or deliberate jab,
A glance of envy from a companion’s eyes,
Plants seeds of doubt—friend or foe?—
Torching the mind with burning concerns.

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Words of pain and sorrow shared,
Overheard by a colleague’s ear,
Bring beads of sweat, years of regret.
A decision to journey, to bulldoze the mind
With a train of ideas, a point of no return,
A change of direction, grains of passion,
Stories from childhood fueling a book.

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Time’s maturity breeds fears,
A virus halts all in its tracks,
Two years of isolation, a void in plans.
Hibernating, cut off from the familiar,
Emerging from a wilderness, despair fills
Life at home and abroad, a threat to all,
The wonderful career now stirred with doubt.

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Centuries-old insecurity churns,
Lowering sights, joining queues of hope.
Word of mouth, an advert: “Apply within,”
Out of adversity, an awakening begins.
A shock to the system, a deeper truth,
The old adage rings: don’t rest on laurels,
Nest eggs for the future demand rethinking.

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Human ingenuity knows no bounds,
The race is on, hurdles loom ahead.
A community of spirit, ignited, unites,
At home and abroad, a chapter of life.
The book of knowledge, born of survival,
History in the making—today, tomorrow’s past,
Building bridges for generations to come.

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Memories for those in advancing years,
An appreciation of the mundane,
The value of friends, family, and resolve.
Never sit on laurels, the lesson endures,
From flames of adversity, we rise,
A spark of unity, a tale of survival,
Fanning the flames of hope anew.

—Mary G. Douglas

I am a cake for memorable occasions,
Displayed in shop windows, enticing all.
Everyone craves a piece of me—
Divided by four, a generous mouthful,
By eight, a more subtle bite.
One can always ask for seconds,
But caked in mud, I lose my charm.

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Fallen in a puddle, appeal fades fast,
Yet some want their cake and to eat it too.
Greed weaves through all walks of life,
A sleight of hand in a game of cards,
Winner takes all, leaving others empty,
No appetite left for another round,
Caked in fear of facing bankruptcy.

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Vowing to change, no more chasing
The thrill of a slice of the action,
Addiction drives the wish to have
And eat the cake, tossing hard-earned cash
Onto the table, caked in fear of loss.
Now cloaked in despair, he trudges home,
Yet it’s his birthday—he brightens briefly.

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The table set, he opens his door,
Greeted by his loving wife,
A spread laid out, splendid and grand.
His face caked in fear of her wrath,
His gambling addiction carries a cost.
He shows empty pockets, a silent confession,
Her face, caked in fury, turns away.

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She pulls the candles, one by one,
Revealing the cake’s splendid icing,
A message scrawled: Happy Birthday.
The tale’s end, predictable, unfolds—
Gambling all exacts a heavy price.
His aim to have his cake and eat it,
Met with the bitter taste of loss.

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With the last throw of the dice,
He got his wish, standing there,
Facing her displeasure’s sting.
He has his cake, and eats it too,
But the taste is not of victory—
No winner takes all in this game,
Only the weight of greed’s regret.

—Mary G. Douglas

Childhood memories form the bedrock,
The rest, mere grist to life’s mill.
A house built to hold them all—
Joys, fears, and disappointments—
Guides us to acceptance in our senior years.
We own what went wrong,
We claim what brought fulfillment.

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Forgiving our errors of judgment,
We become judge, jury, and redemption.
Aging carries a price, a process unyielding,
No one can turn the clock back.
Time can be cruel or kind,
Yet the child within never departs,
A constant echo through life’s climb.

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The mountain we scale holds challenges,
Yet achievements surpass all, radiant.
Standing at the pinnacle, surveying all,
Forgiving oneself cleanses the soul.
Circumstances can mold or shatter,
Like sculpting stone with tools of the trade,
Childhood, an apprenticeship for life.

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How long it takes to reach consent,
To accept the past and find redemption,
May span a lifetime, an unfinished work.
Perfectionism is not realism—
Knowing who and what we are
Unlocks the key to standing tall,
Surveying all from the peak.

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The road we travel brims with obstacles,
Yet offers respite for recharging.
Leaving behind regrets too steep to climb
Is the key to salvation for us all.
The child within, bedrock of memory,
Shapes the soul, guiding us home,
Through time’s unyielding march.

—Mary G. Douglas