Columbina

IMG_2116.JPG

 

Columbine,

Columbina,

dance with me through the streets of beaded windows

and wine washed cobbles.

Tie a string of sorrowful songs into your hair and let them flutter as the wind

washes us with spice and gold spinnings,

catching on the pearls of your mask

and shining like dragonfly wings.

Columbine,

Columbina,

a night of magic and a day of wonder

with jugglers of butter-yellow suns

and a waltz never played before

because, at its merest tone,

the weeping would overrun the rivers.

But still we dance,

my Columbine…

my Columbina and I.

Little dove in the starlit alley with the incense wrapping you like a burnt sugar cocoon.

This carnival,

this pageantry,

a stage for you to shine like the moon,

like the secret chamber of a nautilus shell.

These sinister diamonds

all in velvet laid out like a carpet

of finest Persian to tempt your touch,

to tease your flashing feet,

and we pirouette in the rosy dawn.

We unravel the clouds and weave them into portents to drop like crystal balls in the gypsies’ tent.

I will play for you a mandolin of sighing zephyrs,

dark winds and skies that do not flicker,

do not lighten

but only deepen,

infused in ancient and delicious sin.

Columbine,

Columbina,

My Columbina….

©jayetomas2015

 

*original artwork by the incredible Sorell Matei*

https://www.facebook.com/Sorell.Artist

 

Advertisements

About chimerapoet

I write. I write a lot. A. LOT. There are times I am half blind with a sentence ricocheting off the walls of my stupid, cant be shut off to save my life, brain. I am miserable until I get it down on paper. Punch it up a bit. Usually cross out half of it. And then breathe. Relax. Only to do it all again..... But I just thought that was me. How I am. Not a writer....noooo...not me. Writers are.....writing people. People Who Write. REALLY write. Write things that matter. All grown up very important things. Not.....me. I am just a scribbler of sorts. And I was/am content with that....if it's true, well then....a scribbler am I. Until the thought wormed its way in to my brain (the furtive sneaky bitch) that maybe...just maybe...that is writing. My style. My strange way. But....still writing. So here I am at the dance. Not sure I know any of the moves and the music is entirely mine. But.....only one way to find out. Would you care to join me?
This entry was posted in Uncategorized. Bookmark the permalink.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s