This poem, which appeared in a college journal,
was adapted to a short story which some may recall.
With your indulgence. I prefer it this way.
Tracing an ancient Kikotan Indian trail
English settlers seized and called
Queen’s Way, I pause at the midtown corner
of King, linger in the shadows of an Ivy
covered brick church, lamplight revealing the
British cannonball lodged in its wall, fenced
in wrought iron spears and locked in time
between the darkened county courthouse
and newly restored Red Crown Tavern.
Drawn to obelisks towering above the fence,
weathered tombstones flanked by tiny flags,
I kneel to study a cluster of granite stumps,
run my fingers over born and died artifact
reminders of eighteenth century Virginia.
On the plaque bolted to the cruciform chapel,
I note that General Washington worshipped
here on his march in pursuit of Redcoats
from Chesapeake Bay to Yorktown.
I sight a fossilized tree, its fork having grown
around the handle of a spade discarded perhaps
by a midnight robber of graves frightened by
the clop of hooves on the cobbled street, fleeing
to his purloined horse tied to the tavern post.
In my mind he gallops into darkness, pulls
a metallic flask from the saddle bag and
swallows a belly full of dandelion wine,
throws the empty flask into the bramble
paralleling the Kikotan trail, loosens
the reins on his charger, bounces blindly
past a row of dilapidated shanties, sings out
to any who will listen, God save this night
the soul of Black George Bunker.
Overriding the chorus of crickets, the haunting
whispers of willow shadows and the muted
slap of Sunset Creek washing the nearby shore,
he can hear the clop clop of his stalker.
Glancing back in terror, his vision blurred
by brandy, he barely makes out a headless
horseman swinging his severed head
on a stake, the evil eye on his bearded face
illuminated by the glow of candles that ring
the brim of his hat like miniature torches,
the pursuer’s left hand thrusting a long sword.
Take pity, cries George, hooves throbbing
in his head, brandied bile in his throat.
‘Tis the pirate Black Beard himself
closing tonight on this old black man.
He tumbles from his horse,
body paralyzed in pain,
his back cut deep by the slaver’s lash,
looks up at the phantom head,
its beard tied in braids with ribbons,
crooked teeth flashing flames.
He watches the pirate dismount,
eyes a brace of pistols below the scarlet sash,
remains immobile as bent legs straddle
his torn body, waits for the sword
to nail him to the road.
Stand up you black rogue,
growls the voice behind the beard,
jump to your saddle,
back to the graveyard we go.
This night by Satan’s command you dig,
unearth the treasured coins
buried these many years
since that diabolical Spirit of the Sea
wrecked Blackbeard’s sloop
on the banks of the Chesapeake.
In tandem they ride with the wind,
retracing the trail to the church.
There Black George takes a spade
and digs by the flickering light
of Blackbeard’s hat,
shoveling his way half way to Hell
until at last he reaches
the rotted lid of a wooden chest.
The pirate waves his suspended head,
a demonic grin on his bearded face,
as George Bunker shoves and heaves,
shoulders and grapples, to lift the chest
from its grave, dripping molten wax
of an underworld spell.
With an impatient jerk,
George Bunker tears away the rusted lock,
pries open the heavy lid,
feels Blackbeard’s grasp on his neck.
Leave it be, the pirate says,
the coins are cursed,
bring you nothing but misfortune.
The black man shrugs,
his wasted life a misfortune,
gropes inside the chest,
sifts the yellow coins through his fingers,
singing all the while,
George Bunker be free this night
to buy his soul from Hell.
When he turns, the candlelight
and damnable benefactor are gone,
retreating hoof beats
dissolving in the clammy night.
I observe George Bunker rub his sodden head,
fill the saddle bag with treasure,
leave the spade in the fork of a tree,
pull from his pocket a runaway poster
ripped from the auction block,
smile at his black face
and ride off to claim his freedom
with satanic gold.
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i was so caught in this.. .
a tangled sticky beautifully tricky and intricate weaving; arachne's knees would bend in prayer over this..v.. . .so. . .. .quietly epic. stoic and stately conceived. .. .with a breeze of ayres gone by.gone. .. .. master spinner, you.
again.
ness
A great tale, and I half expected Robert Louis Stevenson's Long John Silver or Blind Pew to come swaggering into view:
Ahoy, me shipmates!
Always,
M
Love,
Sage
Thanks, Gene. :)
Haunting sounds inside
As I reach to tighten up me boot straps
An eerie shrill can be heard from winds echo
Spooktacular Gene!
Peace, Love & Inspiration
Vickie
And...unearthing gold coins will make any gravedigger very much happy!
Georg
Kudos!
John