The Legend of Sleepy Hollow by Mike Williams 02/11/2016 @ 9:21 A.M.

The Legend of Sleepy Hollow by Mike Williams 02/11/2016 @ 9:21 A.M.

The old Dutch settlement Tarry Town,
where wild imaginings run rapidly abound.
A secluded glen called Sleepy Hollow,
with entrancing atmosphere and lazy shallow.

In that drowsy small town distills;
the woodpecker taps, the quail trills.
Slumbering minds into the languid gleam,
the dewy nacht of distant dream.

The hypnotic vapors of superstition thrive,
where legends and stories continually survive.
Entered there in a covetous pedagogue,
a crane like figure named Ichabod.

The itenerant teacher had little worth,
passed among the community to berth.
When his green eyes glassened aspired,
the coquette daughter of the squire.

An unlikely suiter indeed was he,
with appendages dangling out of sleeve.
Narrow, and exceedingly lank, and tall;
gigantic ears, hooked nose above all.

The lovely Katrina had another’s eye,
but Ichabod cunningly continued to try.
He lured with instruction in song,
steadfast in opposition against rowdy Brom.

Spurned was Brom Bones by competition,
he pranked and played upon superstition.
An intimidating strong man was he,
using boorish waggery to thwart rivalry.

Ichabod’s insatiable appetites pressed him on;
the round, red, rosy apple obreption.
To capture and win Katrina’s hand,
and her father Baltus’ wealthy land.

Brom enlisted his rough rider gang,
they harried Ichabod’s hitherto peaceful domain.
The schoolhouse was turned over afright,
and Ichabod began fearing the night.

Dark forces at work Ichabod thought,
grieving over what the supernatural wrought.
Shadows and spooks crept in mind,
and further hauntings persisted over time.

One autumn day a letter came,
the squire invited Ichabod by name.
A party and dance to attend,
another chance with Katrina once again.

Dressed his finest that splendid hour,
borrowing the old Dutchman’s horse Gunpowder.
The school master rode far afield,
toward the matrimonial objective he concealed.

Brom Bones atop his Daredevil steed,
charged the party in thundering speed.
Broad shouldered frame and blackened curl,
to persue his long awaited girl.

The house filled with scrubbed farmers,
their wives, washed sons and daughters.
The tables were topped to treat,
lavished many wonderous things to eat.

Music filled the rooms with cheer,
Ichabod and Katrina danced by candleier.
As time passes on and stories too,
the credulous pedagogue heard something new.

Tales of a headless Hessian Jäger,
burried unmarked by the Pocantio river.
The old stone church still stands,
upon Fredrick Philipse The First’s lands.

He fought in the revolutionary war;
his body found, but nothing more.
Upon the field his shattered head remains,
during the battle of White Plains.

His comrads hastily buried him away,
the old Dutch cemetery he lay.
Each night arises a malevolent apparition,
a headless horseman weilding his falchion.

Just north of the retaining wall,
his head decapitated by a cannonball.
Searching for another to claim evermore,
say the old Dutch descendant’s folklore.

The harvest party takes to end,
Ichabod leaves early, denied, and crestfallen.
Tales of legend swimming his head,
what the farmer’s wives had said.

He wondered aimless the haunted spots,
consumed in anguish of his thoughts.
On that deep placid autumn night,
imagining ghostly noises and horrid fright.

Passing the lightning-stricken tulip tree,
haunted by Major Andre’s spirit purportedly.
A cloaked rider appeared his eyes,
with a head nested between his thighs.

Desperately goading Ichabod his plow horse,
he rode across the bridgened course.
The black rider swiftly in chase,
hurled the head into Ichabod’s face.

Without Ichabod astride; Gunpowder wondered home,
over rock and shrub Ichabod thrown.
Morning came and Ichabod wasn’t found,
and a smashed pumpkin lay aground.

Ichabod’s tricorn remained beside the road,
and the legend was repeatedly told.
Hans his landlord burned his books,
gone the pedagogue’s peculiarly odd looks.

Some say the rider was Brom Bones,
others tell tales that Ichabod roams.
Housewives say he was spirited away,
none know with certainty still today.

Brom and Katrina were soon wed,
and Ichabod presumed lost his head.
So ends the telling of haunting sorrow,
and the legend of Sleepy Hollow.

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