"aspergillum" poems
The old monk
with Parkinson’s disease,
bug eyed
through thick lenses
spectacles,
his fingers
shaking the host,
is unable to find
the tongue
in sick monk’s
static mouth.
I weeded
the cloister Garth
flower bed,
back aching,
God
at my young
bent shoulder.
The youngest monk,
squat and black robed,
holds the ewer,
while the abbot
holds between
knobbly fingers,
the aspergillum,
to bless the monks
in the choir stalls,
after Compline,
before
the Angelus calls.
Jun 1, 2014
Jun 1, 2014 at 2:14 PM UTC
Mine skeleton conveyed
Through the slope's of death's cave;
No longer incarcerated
Free from being a worldly slave.
I hadst to absquatulate
As I needed to escape the afreet;
They reached out their talon's
Hooves wrapped around their feet.
An amphisbaena was awaiting me
To taketh a bite from mine soul;
Yet God was mine deliverer
He carried me to his abode.
The anguilliform couldst not grab at me
As they called out mine name;
"Brandon, cometh here they saidst"
As I saw the rising flame.
Though tis mine creator kept them back
As mine lifeform left the dust;
He sprinkled the aspergillum
As mine spirit was drenched in heaven's musk.
©Brandon nagley
©Lonesome poet's poetry
Aug 6, 2015
Aug 6, 2015 at 10:43 AM UTC