A Song of Shenandoah


A Song of Shenandoah

Forever flows her cooling currents

Beneath a too familiar fog

The song of Shenandoah

Still rises to the morning sun


Past naked limbs still shivering

From November’s heavy dew

The witch’s sabbath come and gone

And saints quit trembling as they pray.


Off Massanuttan’s barren cliffs

And o’er its somber face

On pinions of an eagle’s wing

The light’s soon beaten into shards


And down and down in shadows fall

To dance among the leafy troupe

With nervless hands they form a ring

And swirl up to the sparrows


Chattering rumored empty catylists,

They miss the passing evidence of

Broken arrow heads and musket balls

Half buried in their graves.


I once rode on Shenandoah

Hips that bucked me while I plunged

She was naked on that April afternoon

When she seduced me into play


On the sabbath, holy words were

Long forgotton, in her remembered pools

Until blood trickled on her currents

Purging all the innocence just lost.


Spare me from the hornet’s drone

From the strike of copperheads

From the drowning quarry’s blue

Still tinging lips whose brag runs hollow.


I crawled beneath her battle fields

I ignored her warning fence

My bottom bureau drawer yields

Stolen proof as evidence.

I still hear her siren song

Shenandoah haunts just like a ghost

When kisses once left me satisfied

Her tongue’s what I miss most.


Ravens circle overhead 

Warning of the risk to tell

The things that happened in her bed

The danger’s known too well.


Couples never rhyme for long

‘Tis well to last one season

Such mating echoes fill their song

Now sung for different reason.

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Hampton commented on A Song of Shenandoah


A beautiful flowing tribute that contains a hint of erotic experiences in its message.

kmooney commented on A Song of Shenandoah


Harver, my friend, what a magnificent tribute to a majestic river. I grew up in Virginia and tubed down the Shenandoah on numerous occassions. It is a breathtaking experience. Thought you lived in Wisconson? I have been to Harpers Ferry where the Shenandoah and Potomac converge. I have seen the town completely swallowed as the two mighty rivers surged. What a wonder to behold mother nature's rath. Still I wonder if foretold would old John Brown have turned back. As a Civil War buff and Virginian, I very much appreciate this poem. Take a look at my poems Echoes of Mulberry Peak, Recurring Nightmare, Blue Tuesday Morn (the 95th floor) and Falling Moon. Blue Tuesday Morn and Falling Moon are acrostics. I think you will appreciate their worth. Would love to hear your opinions on them. Great write. Thanks for sharing. Kevin

Poetry is finer and more philosophical than history; for poetry expresses the universal, and history only the particular.

Aristotle (384 BC-322 BC) Greek philosopher.

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