Lovesong

15681861 Peter Sutter copyright, Old Church Peter Sutter photo (the old Urquhart Church in Scotland)

“Lovesong”

Among the trees where humming bees
and blush, red roses hang so low,
a stranger came from out the West;
his kilt and weaponry in tow.

O’er Scottish moor , our gallant roams,
his tartan and his bagpipe thrown
o’er shoulder ’til at Urquhart Church
about the Old Beech tree he searched.

He came upon a maiden, Oh
with love so quickened by her sight.
Her honeyed hair is heather bright.
She is the fair Caledonia

With ardent look, the maiden shook;
she is a chaste and timid soul.
Her father came to question her
and caution her of love too bold.

“Oh, father, cast me to the moors!
My heart is his; I’ll not deny.”
She glanced at Michael, gave a sigh.
He touched her palm and both did cry.

“We cannot wait for marriage bands;
I will not seek your dowry grand.
I’ve journeyed from the far, far West;
yet father disapproves my hand.”

And so, the two with transfixed glow;
they held each other; tears did flow.
It was at once he reached for her;
so gathered in his arms, they go!

No! ’tis a story, old but true.
Their haste gave her sweet father strife
so sad his heart which takes his life.
So, in her thoughts, her heartache grew.

Upon a mountain flows a tune;
upon a stack of stone; a rune
amid the flower’s constant bloom;
her haunted heart is withered soon.

Wisteria; it waves and sighs
among the trees where sing the bees;

Beyond that stone where Michael lies
a lonely, withered hag we see.

 

Hemingway’s Haunted House

ernest-hemingway-front-gate-key-west

When Sloppy Joe’s moved onto Duval Street
the bar was never closed. With drink in hand
old Hemingway and friends waltz to the beat;
a Puerto Rico rum danced with the band.

His house on Whitehead Street, when viewed, demands
to know just where he might be writing now.
They say Pauline’s old typewriter still stands
and breathlessly awaits what he’ll allow.

Some say, a figure can be seen, aloft,
through window high. As morning sun sweeps night
away, he may be writing stories oft.
To have what he may hold would be delight.

Oh, Ernest, in this world, you’re still at home,
they say, on old Duval Street where you roam.

(Hemingway did not use a typewriter (wrote everything with a pencil), but he made sure his wives knew how to type!)