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Best Poems Written by Angela Douglas

Below are the all-time best Angela Douglas poems as chosen by PoetrySoup members

Details | Angela Douglas Poem

Nom De Plume

I feel the futility 
after decades
of my fingers flitting
like dragonflies
over the keys 
my once hopeful heart 
shriveled and shrunken 
as a plum into a prune 
Shakespeare and Miller
Marlowe and Pinter
will never again 
pick up the plume
to pen another  
poem or play
yet they live on today
while my words 
wither in the womb
Stillborn they are silently
whisked away unread
without a funeral 
to the tomb

Details | Angela Douglas Poem

Higher Education

The fancy degree from a world famous school
set in a frame that’s worth more
than the paper on which it’s printed
all the awards
the accolades
none of it has taught you
the lessons I learned long ago
before either of us could even read or had ever heard 
of Shakespeare or Marlowe
Dickens or Carroll or Hemingway
when we were but larvae of what we would become
when you put on your first pair of patent leather shoes
polished to a high shine
before you toddled to the table for tea
at around the same time that half a world away 
I slipped into my sandals
the straps hanging by a thread
the holes in the soles patched with duct tape
before sauntering into the kitchen 
to spread mayonnaise or mustard or margarine
onto a single slice of stale bread 
so I would have something in my stomach 
to see me through until supper 
which would consist of a can of some sort of beans
and a ten cent box of macaroni and cheese 
with slices of cheap hot dogs stirred in
sometimes cut into quarters
when money was even more tight due to a medical bill 
some other unexpected expense
You may be capable of convincing an audience
but you can never really know
You will never understand what that life is
Some things they can’t teach you at Cambridge

Details | Angela Douglas Poem

Stalagmites

I refuse to cease writing these words
though all my bones have been broken
splintered and shattered 
like puzzle pieces
scattered on a tabletop
their pointy ends piercing 
every muscle each time I move
even an iota
I persist as I always do
despite the pain
perhaps because of it
to prove a point
taping popsicle sticks to my fingers
so they stay straight as I type
“Obstinate, stubborn”
my mother used to say
when I dared to disagree 
or stand up for myself
Her insults like a high pitched 
whistle blown inches from my ear
echoing in my malleable young mind 
a cavern creating stalagmites
layer upon layer
with the constant drip-drip of disdain
sharp and spiky that would impale me
over the years yet to come

Details | Angela Douglas Poem

Old Men In Sports Cars

I just finished flipping the calendar to March
I keep a paper one hanging on my kitchen wall 
despite everything being digital 
I’m old school some would say
How is it each day I’m at work every minute I'm there 
passes like an old woman with a walker running a marathon 
while months and years fly by like fighter jets breaking the sound barrier
Life is like that ride at the amusement park shaped like a silo that spins 
slowly at first, the velocity incrementally increasing 
until the world becomes a blur
finding yourself pressed against the wall by an unseen force
unable to move a muscle without exerting extreme effort
My birthday is a little more than two months away
I don’t feel old or look anything like I imagined (and feared) I would 
when I was in my early twenties and forty seemed like such an ancient age
I'm older than my parents were when they became grandparents
making my entrance into this world when they were only teenagers
in the early hours of that late May morning
I was a bit older though too young as well 
when I took up the mantle of mother
When you have no hope you cling to anyone that pays attention 
in order to feel you have any worth
that you matter to someone even if only for a few precious minutes
I’m reminded of men I’ve seen who are likely in their sixties
their silver hair, if they have any at all, blowing in the wind 
as they race down the road behind the wheel 
of a brand new expensive sports car they had aspired to own 
since they were sixteen but can only now afford to buy
who will soon find themselves waking up to the fact 
that some dreams left unfulfilled for too long grow stale 
realizing it isn't the thrill it would have been back then 
when women would have paid equal attention to both car and driver
each complimenting the other instead of such a stark contrast
reselling it a year or two later concluding it’s not worth the expense 
investing those funds in a pre-paid funeral and life insurance

Details | Angela Douglas Poem

Requiem At the River

I stand in the swamp by the riverbank 
clutching a coin I have stolen
as my heart still beats within my breast
It is only my spirit 
that has slipped away
to await the ferryman of Acheron
Charon who
skillfully pilots his skiff
from there to where it flows 
into Styx

He arrives and I pay the price
He places the coin in his pocket
and grabs hold of the pole
pushing away from the shore
as I lay indolent with lament
in the bottom of the boat
the icy chill of the water 
seeping through the wood 
Shivering I stare at the stars
silently weeping
remembering the many wishes
I made on them that went unrealized
unheard
for the Gods must have 
found me unworthy

Cerberus will step aside to admit me
heads snarling
as the snakes on his back writhe
Hades will welcome me
Or he may hand me over 
to be judged by Aeacus
and plunged into the pit of Tartarus 
for my many sins
to be tortured for eternity
starved and beaten
my liver eaten by birds

May he have mercy on me
this sorrowful lost soul
for all I ever wanted
was to dance
carefree and content
to the music of miracles
in the golden flower filled
Elysian Fields forever
with you

Details | Angela Douglas Poem

An Empty Vase

No one seems to see me  
as if I’m a vitreous vase
standing empty 
upon a table 
before a picture window
of transpicuous glass
bright sunlight 
shining through the white 
diaphanous curtain
like the sheer gossamer 
shroud of a silent ghost
passing through the crystal 
of which I am constructed
rendering me nearly 
invisible as if I don't exist
as if I have no substance
my presence overlooked
waiting patiently 
for someone to bring me 
a bountiful bouquet 
so I may fulfill my purpose
casting no shadow 
on the solid oak floor 
as I would if I 
were full of flowers

Details | Angela Douglas Poem

Stormy Night

The sun slides as do fingers on the smooth surface of satin
below the horizon in silent surrender as surly clouds creep 
across the scarlet and purple sky from the south
their mumbling and grumbling reverberating off the rooftops
Tonight I will see no stars twinkling like a billion fireflies in jars
Lightning resembling the forked tongues of serpents taste the air
Bursts of bright white like the flashes of photographers’ cameras
capturing a moment frozen forever in time illuminate the walls 
through the single window of my bedroom while I write 
wondering what the weather is like in London at this hour
if you might be dreaming of a storm somewhere

Details | Angela Douglas Poem

Whitechapel, London 1888

Wanton women of Whitechapel
Desperate and destitute
Weakened from want
Shrunken stomachs barren of bread
Dying from disease in dingy dosshouses
Selling themselves on the streets for shillings
to buy beer, a bed for the night
or a bonny new bonnet
to enable them to appear more
enticing to men with money to spend
A woeful and wretched existence
worn down by the world
envisioning escape

Evil born and bred in that cesspool of sin
unleashed upon the East End of London
Dwelling in the darkness
that deplorable demon
Swallowed up by the shadows
Propositioning his prey
Whisking them away
Where he wouldn't be witnessed
as he went about his work
would not be disturbed as he
did the dreadful deed

A single swift stroke
of the knife he had
kept carefully hidden
our of her sight that
he now held in his hand
Slicing through her throat
severing the throbbing vessels
that sustained her life
sending blood spurting
She would soon succumb to
exsanguination
Laid out like a slaughtered lamb
Eviscerated
Entrails slung over her shoulder
like a bloody boa
her body left lying there
for those who dozed as she died
to discover as a new day dawned

Two in one night
filled all females with fright
Yet with scant choices
save to starve or forego shelter
they continued to seek clients
taking their chances
of drawing the death card
from the deck
well aware that they
were destined to die
no matter what they did
for the felony of poverty
There was more than one
murderer in their midst
What difference did it make
if that dark angel came calling
to claim them due to drink
sickness, starvation
or the malevolent mind
of a madman?

Scotland yard stymied in their search
forensic science far in the future
descriptions differed
clues were few
A letter scribbled in scarlet ink
addressed "From Hell"
accompanied by a small cardboard box
containing a kidney
that they could not verify came from the victim
A message scrawled on a wall
that made no sense at all

Mary Kelly mutilated
Found in the morning
dead in the bed
of the boarding house
where she was behind on the rent
Sheets stained red
Her carcass carved to the bone
The flesh of her face filleted
what was left of her
hardly appearing human
A heinous and horrendous
gruesome grand finale
disappearing after her demise
as if he had been but a bad dream
vanishing into vapor like a vampire
in the morning light
his moniker and motive a mystery


To this very day
no one knows
no one can say
Who was Saucy Jacky?

Details | Angela Douglas Poem

The Race

I have been homeless and hungry
abused and abandoned
beaten bloody
but I never once asked anyone for help
not a single dime or a second of their time
I didn’t want to be a bother 
as I was led to believe myself to be by my mother
whenever I needed anything as children often do
No one ever offered it either
It’s probable many had been burned in the past
by those who had benefited from their generosity
their largesse repaid by betrayal
That seems to be the way of the world
Nice guys (and girls) finish last
as I did the year I volunteered 
to join my junior high track team
though I wasn't very good at running 
I chose to challenge myself signing up for the mile
That’s who I was back then when I believed 
such a mindset might get me somewhere 
yet here I am today a grown woman 
still struggling to survive and going nowhere 
I continue to wait for it all to work out as some assured me 
It was easy enough for them to say 
since in their experience everything did
It usually does when you have money 
a fact I took note of even as a kid
I was without fail the final competitor to cross the line 
though I knew it was over halfway through
There would be no trophy or ribbon waiting for me 
I’d be going home empty handed once again
I could have saved myself the exhaustion quitting then 
but I always finish what I begin

Details | Angela Douglas Poem

Seed

The tiny seed wasn’t certain it wanted to sprout
It had been through such trauma above the soil
winds buffeting it this way and that 
striking sign posts and trees 
bouncing off them before being whisked away
once again with no idea when or where it would end 
everything out of its control
Finally the gusts died down and it had landed 
where it now found itself
trampling feet and the activity of animals
pushing it down into the ground 
buried where it was safe and warm 
but it knew it had a job to do 
so it sent the first small tendril creeping
out of its shell and took a look around
only to discover it had come to rest 
at the base of a big oak tree which
shaded the sun 
its roots spread in an extensive network all around 
selfishly soaking up all the water when it rained
I came across the brown and suffering little shoot
identifying with its plight
as I had experienced much the same metaphorically
since the morning I had emerged
from my mother’s womb
Retrieving a trowel I carefully transplanted it
to a sunnier spot where it might have a chance
to survive and thrive