I told my love I'd be there with bells on, I rang my love I did, I asked my love to please just hold on, swinging limbs under oaken trees, she'd know when I was comin' by the brassen' echo through the night and out the holler to her ears dear to me and my love said she'd wait, for she loved me deeply, though I was never too sure just what her parents thought of me.
There’s a resturant around here called Anna’s Taqueria where you can get mexican food for cheap. But it’s also really good (much better than something like Taco Bell). As a friend once put it, “They don’t always get your order right, but whatever they give you is probably something you’ll enjoy anyway.”
I like the direction your art and poetry has taken of late. Good stuff. Not sure I can pin down exactly why. Maybe it’s just the dusk-lovin’ country boy in me (if there is one).
Hope those parents end up liking him.
Thanks good buddy. I had fun drawing it, even if I got it wrong. As for the other picture I didn’t quite get right – I’ll get on it.
i think her parents like him…whether he has bells or bulls on his feet. boys never think their sweetie’s parents like them. i don’t get it.
Well – I hope you are right 😉
You have the country ballad feel exactly right with matching picture. I read the poem before I saw the picture and was very satisfied when I scrolled down to see the rustic chap (hillbilly) in the hollow (holler). I think Pete is recognizing the integrity of your return to your roots!
Megan: Oddly, I never suspected that my wife’s parents didn’t like me. Except maybe for that uncomfortable moment at the Johnstown flood memorial when I mentioned that it might be cool to see all those tons of water rushing down the valley. Gene Mitchell seemed to question my empathy for fellow man for a few minutes after that.
On the other hand She Dragon feared that my parents thought of her as sort of spastic or slightly insane or something. At least until my dad reassured her that they not only loved her but actually preferred to have her around. Now I hear She and dad are working on some Narnia-themed web page together. Go fig.
It reminds me of Frost a bit but more folksy and slightly more 19th century. There is no modernist conceipt here and the human, love, and concern the poem expresses rules out the playfullness with meaninglessness of post modernism because it isnt undercut. Its as I suspected, you are a romantic at heart my friend.