SEVENTH SEAL LIBRARY

God's Truth Not Smooth Words

A Royal Wedding ~~ poetic heritage

©copyright 2004 Bonita M Quesinberry, R.C.

 

One of my grandfathers, thrice great or more, 
came from Britain to America’s shore.
British aristocrats, he and his wife, 
quickly gained rich ground without any strife.
They were English, this Questinbury clan,
whose own slaves worked their Quesinberry land. 

Soon there were daughters catching young men’s eyes,
and handsome sons: tall, strong, ready to ride.
The youngest set out to see this nation,
slave driving not to be his vocation.
He rode rugged, wild southwest trails;
weathered hardships and never got frail.

Then one day, he met the girl of his dreams—
and, he must have been made for her, it seems—
for with her father it soon was agreed:
“A royal wedding to be,” was decreed.
She was a princess with long silken hair,
graceful in stride with features fine and fair.

Young Quesinberry started his new life,
wrote that he would bring home his special wife.
Slaves rushed to clean and dust the plantation,
planning many gala celebrations.
That royal bride must see them at their best,
and it’s highly polished family crest.

The long awaited day at last arrived:
two riders rode up the long, tree-lined drive.
Rejoicing turned to dismay and alarm:
there was an Indian on this son’s arm.
They never would receive a Cherokee:
forgot Questinburgs had fled Germany.

Thus, this his youngest son, father disowned;
 him and her sent from family and home.
The name’s spelling again would get a change,
Cherokee blood would subtly rearrange.
There are only a few Quesinberry’s,
and some of those spell it Quisenberry. 

My staunch grandfather asked about my thoughts
concerning this tree his forefathers wrought.
Fearing my boldness, my aunt held her breath;
sure I’d anger him, even cause his death.
“They were a bunch of snobs,” I bluntly said.
His laughter roared as his face turned bright red.

So, I’m a little Cherokee princess,
Then another bit of German empress,
And a wee bonnie lass of Irish cream,
together with some French and Brit, it seems.
Oh, and a Castilian Spanish quarter.
All these should just about set the mortar.

Of course, they did have that big plantation;
so who can say who are my relations?
Who and whatever, I do love them all.
They were a bunch of snobs! That is my call.
Perhaps, she’s why I love nature’s features:
trees and flowers, and all of God’s creatures.

 

 

16 November 2006 Posted by | Birth, Christian, Fathers, Geneology, Humor, Love, Mothers, Parenting, Poem, Poems | 5 Comments