Bartholomew Meech

This one is a little off my beaten path...

There lived a man named Bartholomew Meech

He roamed about from town to town

His crooked gait and halting speech

Was known by everyone around

 

A dreadful sight, he could be

His cloak too large, his hat askew

A beard which stretched from chin to knee

Two feet that never knew a shoe

 

His right hand held an oaken rod

On his left shoulder perched a Raven

Bartholomew, indeed was odd

As was befitting his vocation

 

To make his way and earn his bread

He’d sell charms and enchanted stones

If asked to have a fortune read

Bartholomew would cast the bones

 

His skill was great, his knowledge vast

Of healing herbs, elixirs and potions                       

Scorned was he, by the pious caste

Esteemed by folk of superstitious notions

 

For years he wandered helping those

With aches and pains and lovesick hearts

Never a threat did he impose

On those who scoffed and mocked his arts

 

In one small hamlet on Bartholomew’s route

A hard, austere vicar abode

Who did his best to keep Bartholomew out

 And toward him seeds of hate he sowed

 

He’d quote red-faced, arms in the air

“If you buy his wares God won’t forgive!”

“This man is one of Satan’s snares!”

“Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live!”

 

The vicar had enough, so a letter he sent

To an important Bishop of high position

By fastest messenger it went

‘Twas a request for an inquisition

 

Two weeks later, the order came

The vicar smiled when he read the reply

Meech’s fate was his to name

The vicar now could watch him die

 

He was seized and scourged and put in stocks

While the Raven watched from a naked tree

Even those he helped ridiculed and mocked

And joined the sinister revelry

 

Though whipped and beaten, Meech never spake

They could not break this gentle maven

They sentenced him to burn at the stake

All under the watch of a vengeful Raven

 

It was to happen in center town square

They set the stake and stacked the wood

Every soul in town was there

To catch a glimpse of gore, if they could

 

The vicar asked for Meech’s last words

Bartholomew said with his crooked smile

“None from my lips, just ask the bird”

“She’ll come to call in a little while.”

 

Three nights and four days, after Bartholomew died

The Raven remained in the naked tree

But at midnight of the fourth moonrise

She took wing the vicar for to see

 

The bird began her awful feast

As the vicar slept embracing hate

By the Dawn he was deceased

The Raven, his heart and liver ate

Reviews

[Helen Crutchett]

Oh, I am a ninney. I forgot to leave my review here. Just as well I checked!

Not to worry, you have already been placed in the 'final' votes, so that says how much I truly loved this. Excellent write, bravo!

Thank you for submitting this beauty of a gothic to my contest!

Good luck!

Helena :)

[Veronica Chandler]

Exquisitely frightening and I am chilled to the bone...Very well written piece that flowed off my tongue as I read.

[Coyote Poetry]

A very good tale in the poem. You brought me in and held my attention to the last word. I like the characters and the very good ending. I like the use of the Raven. Thank you for sharing the excellent poem.
Coyote

[angelina neves]

wonderfully done.
a sad, so many times repeated story in our history...

[Nick.B]

Interesting write you managed to write here, it flows very well, and the story behind this write is simply amazing...a great write indeed, great job

[MOON]

Poignant write you told a short story in poetic form. Lovely.

[Corset]

amazing. what a story weaver you are , tight rhyming scheme, plot all excellent, it may have just been me, but I am blown away by the story and the entire theme, excellent , a pure delight to read, top to bottom genius!