Poems By Mary

My home, my sanctuary,
Cocooned by a fire in the grate,
Hot coals, black and seared,
Fiery red eating into their heart,
A lump of coal from deep within the earth.

Scant thought while sitting,
Wrapped in warmth, watching, waiting.
My letter to Santa, not yet time.
The flames leap upward, red tinged with yellow.
I was promised, a believer at eight:
"The fairy will take your letter."

The flames lengthen, the moment arrives.
Yellow and red drawn up
Into the dark chimney’s recesses.
"Quick!" I throw my letter
Into the heart of the dancing flames.
My heart beats wildly—yes!
The Christmas Fairy carries it upward.
I see her red shoes vanish into the dark.

I yell to Mum as she passes by,
"My letter! I saw her red shoes!"
Her reply, puzzling:
"Are you sure you saw those shoes?"

Now in my senior years,
The memory burns bright.
On Christmas Day, all I wrote
Came true, gifts beneath the tree.
Of course I saw her red shoes,
Leaping, flying up the chimney
With my letter to Santa,
Written in my best handwriting,
Clear for him to read.
How else could he have known?

Where is the humanist within us all?
To lend an ear to the troubled in life,
An oasis in the desert, not on the streets,
In cities or out there in the suburbs.
When stones are upturned on the unsuspecting,
No heart is found beating.
 
The cold, damp earth awaits us all.
In life, around us, hearts are beating,
Ears not listening, eyes unseeing,
To the troubled at home and abroad.
With outstretched hand, a plea within them:
“Listen to me, give me your ear.”
 
The world can be a lonely place
For those with a troubled mind,
Unseen, a soul within, filled with desire
To be heard, succored, their burden shared.
Out in the wilderness, there lies a jungle—
In cities, in suburbs, as once described.

A concrete jungle, the scream within,
“Listen to me, give me your ear.”
“Not my business,” say the wind and the rain,
Embers in a grate, remembered well,
Lie awaiting to be stirred, a flame with warmth
Springs forth from ashes, hope eternal.

Yet hope is dashed when the flicker fades,
As ears are closed, eyes are glazed.
“Not my business,” say those passing by,
Streets packed, crowds rushing past,
“What will we have for our meal tonight?
That dress in the window, I must buy.”

Going out tonight to the local, meeting friends,
The streets of life, no more inviting
Than the wilderness, the jungle, dangers afoot.
Through years, with roads twisting and turning,
The odd cul-de-sac, no way forward,
A blank wall, one left to retreat.
 
With heart heavy, limbs tired and weary,
Within the human, a beating heart,
Loving and caring, in the main.
Who lends an ear to the troubled in life,
To those on the streets where none will hear?
“Not my business,” as they rush by.
 
Yet pain stirs in their hearts by the grave
Of a loved one lost in the cold, damp earth
That awaits us all. The good Samaritan,
Found in the Bible, is not in the jungle of life.
One moves through life, unsuspecting,
Out there, a tiger waits.

In the jungle of life, the end is quick.
The cat plays with the mouse till its heart stops,
With cold indifference, moves to another,
Ready to pounce on the unsuspecting.
Where is the human within us all,
Whose needs are wanting in this jungle?
 
No one listens as the pain within, unseen,
Grows in a world hurting without our hearing.
Eyes unseeing, “not our business,” until it’s close,
Then we listen, then we see.
Hope springs eternal, an awareness:
The world does not stop at the end of our road.
—Mary G. Douglas

The night is long as sleep evades me,
Tossing and turning, left then right,
A few bicycle kicks of flailing limbs,
A constant stream of music from a collection—
A welcome gift from my granddaughter,
Two hundred favorites from decades past,
Voices of singers long since gone,
Leaving legacies for eternity.
 

A cup of tea might do the trick,
A snack or two, munch munch,
Crooners’ soothing voices sing of heartache,
Love lost forever, poignant words unrequited.
My own past races through unforgotten thoughts,
Fond memories of childhood,
A birthday treat, a bar of Cadbury,
Scoffed two days before the special day.

​

Five years old, it seems like yesterday,
Time is transient, yet the child lives on—
Eighty years plus in my heart and head,
A milestone two days ahead.
The day of reckoning, the wrapping undone,
I sat on an army blanket with five friends,
A sense of resignation, but troubled? Not a jot,
The memory of chocolate, balm to my soul.
 

World War II, an unknown barrier,
On that grey blanket, Mother unwrapped
Layers of newspaper, wartime’s loo paper,
Hanging on a string in the communal.
“Mary, did you eat the chocolate?”
Inside my head, I thought, Of course I did,
But denial came, the inevitable arrived,
Off I trotted to meet my fate.

​

Led to the large bed with brass railings,
A haven in the dark of night,
Now a seat of learning, I awaited Mother’s voice.
“I won’t be angry if you tell the truth,” she said.
A deal, I thought, and confessed,
“Yes, I ate the chocolate.”
Her eyes met mine, the mirror of the soul,
A light tap on my derrière, hardly felt but undignified.

​

I had no fear of my loving Mother,
Yet she crossed a line, saying one thing, doing another.
I stood, hands on hips, and declared,
“I told a lie, but you told a bigger one!”
With that, I stomped off,
The twinkle in her eyes my get-out-of-jail card,
Knowledge is power, and back I went
To the grey blanket of World War I.
 

Was this the beginning and end of my party?
Mother’s voice rang out:
“Children, Mary ate all the chocolate.”
Handing out tiny glasses of lemonade,
Did I feel guilty? Not a jot—
It was my birthday, not theirs.
We played the games of that era,
Fun was had, despite no chocolate treat.
 

Mothers came to collect their daughters,
Met with a chorus: “Mary ate all the chocolate,
And all we had was lemonade.”
Did I care? Not a jot—my birthday, my treat.
I recall climbing onto a chair,
Lifting the Cadbury bar from up high,
Its luxurious wrapping, a beautiful sight,
In the silence of the kitchen, 1945.
 

World War II ended, rationing lingered,
The milk chocolate bar, a rare delight.
Decades, seven plus, have passed,
Yet the memory of that Cadbury bar,
Scoffed two days before my fifth birthday,
Remains fixed, a balm to my soul.
Would I have this memory today
If I’d had but one square?
 

In my head and heart, I know I would not.
Now, in a supermarket, passing rows of Cadbury bars,
The child within me smiles.
Decades come and go, with ups and downs,
A fleeting memory of my fifth birthday,
A walk past a shelf, and I smile—
Decades, seven plus, and still I smile.

—Mary G. Douglas