"columba" poems
48
Once more, my now bewildered Dove
Bestirs her puzzled wings
Once more her mistress, on the deep
Her troubled question flings—
Thrice to the floating casement
The Patriarch’s bird returned,
Courage! My brave Columba!
There may yet be Land!
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Amica mea columba,
I whisper to Amy
as she prepares my bath.
Domitia has left us
after a long afternoon
of talk and gossip.
Marcus is off
on one of Caesar's
campaigns;
his love making
(as such as it is)
has ceased.
Amy is now
my bed mate,
my love,
my dove.
Puella,
Domitia had called
to Amy,
as if Amy were
her slave girl
and not mine.
Now she prepares me
for the bath;
undresses me,
undoing the sashes
and undoing me
in heart and mind.
Last night her fingers
slid into me,
aroused me
from deep slumber,
broke me in like
a wild stallion is tamed.
Last night
I kissed her *******
lips touched soft flesh,
mouthed teats
as an infant greedily.
I am naked now,
ready for my bathe.
Annona,
she whispers,
the water is done.
She stands
and watches me,
her hands nearby to aid;
her eyes feeding
on my body;
her tongue at the side
of her mouth,
lingering,
that too,
last night,
inside me,
like *********
Feb 16, 2016
Feb 16, 2016 at 3:17 AM UTC
I took the afternoon boat from Oban to Mull
a bus to the far side of the Island
and pitched up my tent for three days.
The rain finally stopped on a Saturday morning.
I took the small ferry across the sound to Iona.
Here pilgrims feet for generations
have walked sunwise around the top a small hill
prayer and incantations, supplication.
St Columbus came over from Ireland
and preached the Good News all over Scotland
Iona where the veil is thin, his abbey stood.
Pilgrims ask the prayers of St Columba.
who pitched up his tent so many centuries ago
Iona, where the veil is thin.
Apr 10, 2016
Apr 10, 2016 at 2:32 PM UTC
Bolted junkyard
and the absenteeism
flits me winding up..
Counting the preumbra of Columba livia
on those marmalade hue of maudlin chillness..
As it commixes up onto wafting airborne:
drifting over the scattered cumulonimbus.
Far flocking flappers .
80° collateral to peeking atomic number 10.
Oh crystalline form of pure carbon..
All mighty massif .
All parallel to 180°.
99 sometimes .
69 and 36 degree.
minus the 13, it sways...
the oscillating stripes.
And the vivid blazing heap of splitting cotton-balls ..
metamorphosing into some voodoo like
Magical. magnetic. amethyst horizon
Devouring the fading dodger wide blue .
Then restoration again.
The alter coequal to dreary cawing
And these paranoiac utterance...
The phantasm.
The illusion..
and
eye..
skidding off-track the reality.
Detaining every grasp of it.
Jun 11, 2017
Jun 11, 2017 at 12:19 PM UTC
the veil between the spiritual and material worlds is thin here
you can feel the gentle touch of eternity reaching through to touch your soul, your soul vibrates with love, a silent song, a dance, a meeting, a homecoming, a setting free, the unlocking of all secrets, the fusion of everlasting peace.
Mar 4, 2017
Mar 4, 2017 at 3:42 PM UTC
So far from home
so far from Rome
and still they comb the countryside,
yesterday's not so far away when you're history.
Celts and Gauls
each widow calls upon a saint to taint your offspring,
each song a dirge to wipe the scourge of Romans and their army from the shores of dear old Blighty.
I confuse these words I use and transcend time
each time another time to tell of conquests.
Have you seen the Book of Kells?
liabhar cheanannais as it's known,
or maybe in Rome,
the book of Columba,
I never did and
I never did the Dublin trail and never noticed
widow's wail about that either.
Each time brings its own tomorrow
a cycle down the paths of joy
where sorrow lurks to catch the unwary,
each time gets more scary than the last until
tomorrow's past and the rest is just the best of history
that we can make.
Some say fake, but I don't believe that either.
Mar 21, 2015
Mar 21, 2015 at 10:06 PM UTC