Seasons: A Memorial Day Tribute

 

Seasons

It’s like a season passed in the blink
of an afternoon. This morning
I smiled at black-eyed-susies
reaching above the grass and clover.
Bees hummed from bloom to bloom
like politicians knocking on doors,
mustering votes. Breeze carried scents
of earth and honey – sweetest spring day
that ever filled my lungs. Made me wanna
touch something soft, something special –
maybe the hand of a Charleston beauty.

But after a day of trading spit and smoke
with a regiment of Billies, this pretty spot
done shed all its pretty. Blood has a queer smell,
like a bog choked with sour fish,
but it don’t mud a patch of ground
like water does. Blood turns dirt
into syrup – walk in it too long
and you get all gummed up.
And the dead are leaking blood all about.
From here it looks like a herd of fellas
decided to nap, but they ain’t waking up
no time soon. You can see their last thought
carved on each of their faces. It’s never fear or anger.
Mostly it seems like sorrow to me, like they know
they just lost memory and hope all at once.

Don’t seem like spring no more.
What season is it? It’s a season for breathing –
at least while you still can.

_______________

Thank you to all who have fallen.

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Night Terrors

The poem posted below is from my growing second manuscript. It takes he form of a journal entry written by a Federal officer son after his first battle experience. I was hoping to garner some comments from a few Civil War buff, re-enactors, and other history fans. Is the poem legit? Does it represent a plausible reaction?

Night Terrors

July 30, 1861

Each explosion
continues to bellow,
to thunder the caverns
of memory. The clang

when life claps death -
terrible knell.
Blood drips.
Bones splinter.
Boys scream.

These are the gremlins
that filch my sleep
and foul the breath of night.

Related articles

• For young Civil War re-enactor, history is passion (mysanantonio.com)
• We Return to Sip the Blood (thelintinmypocket.wordpress.com)

We Return to Sip the Blood

Although I posted this poem just over a year ago, after reading the article linked to here, I felt it appropriate to post again. It suggests that the Civil War was much bloodier than originally thought.

Headstones at Antietam National Cemetery mark the graves of soldiers killed during the Battle of Antietam in Sharpsburg, Maryland. (Credit: Corbis)

Here’s a link to the article: http://www.history.com/news/2011/06/06/civil-war-deadlier-than-previously-thought/

Blood

The blood smeared on that letter,
the blood smeared on my skin,
on the earth – I knew all of it.
Still do. I know how it becomes

lazy if it sits still too long,
seems to curdle thick
as cream. I’ve watched it puddle
near the broken skulls of men

who dipped their shoulders
and charged against the tide
of hell. It makes dirt
sticky as syrup, invites

the flies to sip its sugar –
but if you step in it, it gets angry,
splashes up, wraps its fingers
around your leg as if it wants

to pull you deep into itself.
Every drop – an abyss:
you can’t swim out of

Commemorating the Death of Stonewall Jackson

Reblogged from Lint In My Pocket - Artillery On The Ridge:

The South loses one of its boldest and most colorful generals on this day, when 39-year-old Thomas J. “Stonewall” Jackson dies of pneumonia a week after his own troops accidentally fired on him during the Battle of Chancellorsville in Virginia. In the first two years of the war, Jackson terrorized Union commanders and led his army corps on bold and daring marches.

Read more… 171 more words

This is an older post, but I felt it appropriate to post again, on this the anniversary of Gen. Jackson's death.

Blue Suit – Poem 9: Everly Joins the Cause

This begins the second part of my new, maturing book. Everly joins the Federal Army becuase many of his students have joined. Obviously, he still sees the world as a poet might. That will change soon.

Ares

 Blue Suit

May 25, 1861

Indeed, burdened
with the robes of war,
I’ve been named lieutenant.

Gold buttons, as bright
as Ares’ eyes – and a sword
hanging from my hip…
a bolt of Zeus’ fury.

I’ve been given a pistol.
It’s cold and heavy – a dead thing,
but something terrible beats
within it, wicked and hungry.

I fear that in some tomorrow,
I’ll be asked to feed it.

Related articles

• Father: I am Lieutenant – Poem 3 (thelintinmypocket.wordpress.com)
• Wife – Poem 8 (thelintinmypocket.wordpress.com)
• I am Lieutenant: the Journals of Arthur Kendall Everly (thelintinmypocket.wordpress.com)
• Classroom: I am Lieutenant – Poem 5 (thelintinmypocket.wordpress.com)
• Charge, Sang a Boy – Poem 7 (thelintinmypocket.wordpress.com)
• Opinions: I am Lieutenant – Poem 2 (thelintinmypocket.wordpress.com)

Wife – Poem 8

Finally, back to my growing second manuscript.

Thus far, my protagonist, Arthur Kendall Everly, has lamented the genesis of civil war. More so, he has lamented that war has encouraged many of his students to take up rifle and musket to fight for the cause without thought to the blood war always and must engender. Always a protector, a teacher, Everly joins the war effort in order to protect his students.

      

Here’s my manuscript’s next poem.

Wife

May 16, 1861

The silence you’ve wrapped
yourself in is loud enough.
You already know. I’ve been
called to war, to rally my students
into regiments. They’ve called me teacher.
I offered them what poetry I could,

pinned it to their minds like a badge,
bequeathed them the power to wonder,
but their stories have been silenced
beneath the thunder of hoof beats,
the clang of cold steel.

I’ll bolster myself with their passion,
warm myself with their pride,
battle to protect the poetry
their lives might have written
and perhaps still can.

I’m sorry. No longer their
teacher, I’m now their lieutenant

Related articles

• I am Lieutenant: the Journals of Arthur Kendall Everly (thelintinmypocket.wordpress.com)
• Charge, Sang a Boy – Poem 7 (thelintinmypocket.wordpress.com)

Haunted White House

“Interest in spiritualism was intense in mid-century (19th century) America, and was considered a combination of scientific investigation and parlor entertainment. On the evening of April 23, 1962 night, a séance was held at the White House, with participants including the President and First Lady as well as many cabinet members. There were reports that after Mr and Mrs. Lincoln left, the “spirits” tweaked the nose of Secretary of War Stanton, and tugged on Navy Secretary Welles’ beard.”

Borrowed from This Day in the Civil War:(http://www.civilwarinteractive.com/This%20Day/thisday0423.htm).

I did my best to imagine what Lincoln might have written about the event described above in his journals. This is what I came up with.

It seems that Mr. Stanton’s pride has been bent, as well as his nose. Had I not retired, I would have enjoyed his astonishment. Apparently, not all the dead are dead, and some exhibit quite a humorous wit. May the ghosts of the boys who died after seizing the gun deal with me as pleasantly as they dealt with our dear Edwin.