Poems By Mary

The sky is bleak,
Sleep eludes me for the howling winds,
Trees with branches cloaked in leaves,
Uncertain which way to bend.
Winds at odds, battling the elements,
The day dawns, night withdraws its blanket,
Litter scatters, empty cans and bottles strewn.

The packaging, discarded, lies forlorn,
Morning’s blue facade masks grim reality,
The day makes its entrance—will the sun appear?
To envelop all with warmth beyond the horizon,
Outward and onward, where small boats,
Canoes, or dinghies cross the Channel,
I sit and ponder on the edge of my bed.

Why are our shores so alluring?
What horrors are left behind?
Questioning, I recall being told,
From nine to nineteen, by Father’s side,
“The front door of home, when opened,
Reveals the world, your oyster.”
Memories flood of trotting to the library.

Massive doors swung wide,
The sight of books, shelf upon shelf,
Sparked awe within my heart.
Father’s words of wisdom rang:
“The world beyond our doorstep
Lies behind these library doors.”
My eyes shone, heart beat with joy.

Wandering that vast interior,
The world indeed was mine.
But the modern child, with laptop in hand,
Sits in their buggy on the bus,
Eyes down, thumb texting with rapid speed,
Their world confined to a screen,
Programmed with cartoon images.

What memories will they bank?
Decades hence, in senior years,
Another door opens for reflection.
What then of childhood’s tapestry?
The world unseen, speeding past a window,
A child’s hand reaching out,
Their world a screen, not shelves of books.

We reap what we sow in aging’s softening,
Our banked memories shape us.
The library’s awe, the world’s vast oyster,
Or a screen’s fleeting glow—
What will their future hold?
The world beyond, once opened,
Waits for eyes to see, hearts to feel.

—Mary G. Douglas

One can take a ruler and measure
Material to suit a purpose,
Task completed, satisfaction gained,
A goal achieved, precise and sure.
Yet time waits for no one—
Is the work unfinished, more to do?
Seize the day, or lose it to idleness?

​

Time frustrates in the sleepless night,
But dawn breaks, the train leaves at noon.
A leisurely shower, a moment to dress,
Breakfast savoured, but what then?
Time waits for no one—hat, coat,
Briefcase, umbrella, the clock ticks on,
The train departs within the hour.

​

The hand on the clock, the watch’s pulse,
A steady tick matches a quickened heart.
An appointment made, now cancelled,
A day of frustration, plans undone.
Homeward bound on a timely train,
Hills and horizons blur past the eye,
The journey tedious, tasks incomplete.

​

A longing for home’s warm embrace,
The key turns, the kettle hums,
Yet water takes ages to boil.
Peace erodes as the mood frays—
Meal preparation steals the evening,
Dishes pile, time slips and slides,
The sun gone, the moon now rising.

​

That important letter waits for tomorrow,
Tasks linger, demanding attention.
Bedtime beckons, the day spent with speed,
But if sleep evades, the night stretches long.
The bedside clock mocks, minute by minute,
Hour by hour, with relentless vengeance,
Sleep eludes, the conundrum persists.

​

Fast forward to a day of reflection,
Aged eighty years and more,
The night lingers, a longing for dawn
To bathe the home in rising light.
A book half-read, cocoa, then coffee,
Cup after cup, bleary-eyed, time escapes—
The rising sun denies a chance to rest.

​

Time waits for no one, the day must be valued,
Seize it, lest it be wasted.
Time marches on, relentless,
The conundrum endures, unyielding.
Goodness, is that the time?
Thankful for moments to catch up,
Yet time waits for no one, ever.

—Mary G. Douglas

Truth is controversial,
Lies a balm to the soul.
The world spins on its axis,
Wrong is wrong, with right tagging along,
Seeking a haven of truth
Beyond our blanket of warmth.
“I am right, the world is wrong.”

​

Look in the mirror—what do we see?
Only a reflection, not the core.
Set one mirror against another,
A true reflection, stark, no balm
To soothe the soul’s quiet ache.
Caring for others, yet holding back,
Silence is golden, but screams within persist.

​

What is wrong? What is right?
Centuries come, centuries go,
Truth, lies, half-truths, selective memories— From time’s dawn, a fact of life.
Wisdom from a life lived whispers:
Always be the keeper of your own soul,
The eyes, the mirror of the soul.

​

The paradox is the stumbling block:
Truth can be cruel, lies a soothing veil.
Betwixt them lies the pain of admission,
Lies soften truths too harsh to bear.
Ambivalence sways left or right,
The badge of honor weighs heavy,
Where lies the answer?

​

Acceptance of this fact of life
Takes guts to walk the fine line.
Centuries come, centuries go,
History’s lessons teach us well:
Always guard your inner sanctum,
The eyes reflect the soul’s truth,
Amid the spin of truth and lies.

​

Truth, lies, half-truths, selective memory—They weave the tapestry of history.
The world spins on, regardless,
Centuries pass, yet the paradox holds.
Accept what we can change,
Embrace what keeps spinning,
The soul’s truth endures.

—Mary G. Douglas

Are we cultivating a climate of frustration?
Anger unleashed, no longer satiated
By a torrent of words, bottled within.
When anger festers, no longer diffused,
A swear word risks being taken to heart.
Now laws protect, the suing culture descends,
A barrier or a tempering release?

​

A powder keg of emotions simmers,
Containment breeds seeds of rage.
There must be a way to communicate,
To release the pressure from simmer to boil.
The pendulum swings in full motion—
Is this a panacea or a suffocating trap,
Stifling the natural flow of release?

​

The media screams, headlines shock the nation,
Aggression suppressed, resentment builds,
No escapism for the boiling heart.
Guns hidden under clothing, easily drawn,
Rage stoked, engulfing the senses.
Words once freed injustice’s simmer,
Now silenced, guilty by law’s decree.

​

The might of the law descends on an expletive,
Verbal abuse, from light to heavy, forbidden.
The bung pulled, all well on life’s streets?
Trading insults now outlawed,
Have we opened Pandora’s box?
A gun fired at random, unplanned,
Claims lives—toddlers, passers-by.

Headlines mourn the loss of life,
From fistfights to guns drawn in haste.
Have we created walking time bombs,
Unable to vent through fiery words?
An expletive, a derisory jab,
Once turned the air blue, now diffused,
But gunfire rises to settle scores.

​

Words as weapons wound the soul,
Yet guns hidden in clothing take lives—
Children, teens, adults fall.
From rare occurrence to daily phenomenon,
Violence festers where words are barred.
“Sticks and stones may break my bones,
But names will never hurt me”—a lost chant.

​

No one maimed or died by words alone,
Yet resentment, unrelieved, churns within.
A pressure cooker, unable to vent,
Drives some to carry guns, their grievance
A cauldron of rage, burning unchecked.
Have we traded words for bullets,
Fostering a climate of unending frustration?

—Mary G. Douglas

There is within us all
A sadness deep, surfacing unbidden,
Unexpected, misunderstood,
No rhyme or reason to its rise.
Searching for answers proves futile—
Why, when, or how eludes us,
Alone, yet not lonely in our thoughts.

​

An undercurrent of troubling memories
Permeates silently, unpierced by thought,
Yet we settle comfortably in our content.
Is this a guilt trip, this quiet unease,
Awareness of discomfort stirring within?
Life for millions, near and far,
Lies beyond the shores of our own world.

​

On the other side of our front door,
The streets of Edinburgh lie quiet today.
The puppets and puppeteers of the Festival,
Packed away for another year,
Leave behind a much-loved celebration.
Walking the length of Princes Street,
A lonely figure sits, unseen, now seen.

​

Purse opened, thoughts turn to why—
Sanctuary offered to those crossing the Channel,
An aura of dignity cloaks the lone figure,
Awaiting the kindness of a passing stranger.
Once, hostels stood—grand mansions,
Rooms abundant, a roof overhead,
Clothes on backs, food on tables.

​

From one among the group,
Leadership springs, giving purpose,
Meaning to lives adrift.
Sanctuary closer to home lifts a step,
Then another, leading to leaps and bounds.
Sanctuary should embrace all—
Those on the streets, uncomplaining.

​

Deserving of refuge, equal to those
Who land upon our shores.
This gives sense to the stealth of sadness
That envelops us all, privileged
With contentment, alone with thoughts,
Yet not lonely, hearts open to the world,
Carrying the quiet weight of empathy.

—Mary G. Douglas

The grandfather clock
Tick tock tick tock
Generations come generations go
The birth of a child
A new beginning
The death throes of those
Whose lives have reached their ending
Second by second ,minute by minute , hour by hour
Our destiny is mapped out for us
The iPhone is now our Master
Demanding an answer
Take care ? Pause ? Time for reflection
The Brain is wired
The trust broken
No connection
Do we notice the changing of the seasons?
The leaves of trees green
Flowers bloom a myriad of colour ?
The child in its pram?
Parent on its iPhone
One day the thumb will develop
pain and discomfort
Synovial fluid the giver of life
Will dry up and wither
The hand clawed
Peripheral vision to the left , to the right
Seeing no more
The beauty of Spring , Summer, Autumn, Winter
Hark thee ? Take note ?
The wheel of life turning
Relentless and cruel
Memories of What?
A walk in the park
A seat by the river
The scent of growth in Spring
The bloom of nature in Summer
The March of time descending upon us
Winter knocking on the door
Memories are stored to give balm to the Soul
What then? Sightless and deaf to the passing of seasons
Eyes down, thumb with the speed of lightening
The hand held high with iPhone aloft
In a hand curled into a ball
The river of life lubrication dried and spent
The elderly of tomorrow with back bent
Not by toil on the land and sea?
Neck protruding at an angle
Eyes down focused on its Master
What then?
Will Nature or Nurture evolve us beings ?
Are we going backwards to the age of walking on all fours ?
With a fifth for holding aloft ?
The Master programming our lives?
Mary G. Douglas