Toccata Conn

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Poetry  |  House: Poems
A fable of a man, a throw-back to a earlier time in man's history.

Submitted: January 18, 2017

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Submitted: January 18, 2017



Along the Colorado River

Lived a man, --- Toccata Conn,

And the only things he owned

Were the gifted clothes that he had on.


He slept in the Cottonwood trees,

On any summer's starry night,

Or in the clefts of cliffs, protected,

From the winter's chilly bite.


He ate what he could catch,

Be it fish, foul, or critter

And he seldom strayed too far

From that Colorado River.


No-one knew from where he came,

That man with the weathered skin,

And no-one understood his name,

(Was it White or Indian?).


He was Toccata Conn, the river ghost,

That spirit that haunted the winding shore.

He was the essence of what man had been

So many, so many, eons before.


Over the years Conn grew old,

His days were gravely numbered,

(Would he survive another winter?)

Many rightfully wondered.


But all their wondering ceased,

At the beginning of a spring,

When green was seen and flowers bloomed,

And the mating birds began to sing.


Toccata Conn climbed a tree

That overhung the river

And for seven days he did not move

Not a sound or a quiver.


At the rise of the eighth day's sun

Toccata Conn was gone;

His body hung from where he sat

But his soul, it moved on.


Some Indians were quick to act

They prepared his body, then and there,

Some local folks had brought the wood

And a preacher said a prayer.


As the smoke rose towards the sky

The strangest thing occurred,

Out of the smoke a spirit flew,

(Or was it just a bird?).


After all these years a story might change,

But that's not so with Toccata Conn.

His spirit still haunts that winding shore

Because his story lives on and on.





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