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That day was brutally hot, and the cannon incessantly roared
It was the twenty eighth of June in the third year of the war.
Mary Hays was with her soldier, John, as he fought against the King.
Men would call out “Molly Pitcher” and she brought water from a spring.

The action began badly; Cornwallis pushing back Charles Lee.
Who’d have bet a continental that this would be a victory?
Then Washington brought up fresh troops and held Cornwallis back
Rebel cannon from Hays’ battery stalled Cornwallis’ attack.

John Hays , at his cannon, had succumbed to wounds and heat.
But his gun must not go silent or we would go down to defeat.
That was when Mary Hays decided she would take her husband’s place.
She ran to serve his cannon and kept up the firing pace.
She narrowly avoided death when the Redcoats returned fire
But bravely stood her ground and fought, and a legend was inspired.

Mary Hays survived the war and lived a ripe old age.
She was honored for her service and a State pension was paid.
That day at Monmouth Court House, we proved we could stand and fight.
The British army left the field in the darkness of that night.
The date is 06/28/1778, the place is Monmouth Court House and Mary Hays, one of several "Molly Pitchers" bringing water to the Embattled Americans mans her fallen Husband's cannon and fires a shot in the cause of Liberty.
i'm living in the gist
of a
cold shiver,

wondering,
"what, why, and for how long?"

is it really for forever,
as the burning
insisted
before?

or is the tyrannous void,
in some muscle somewhere,
the truth
i should
remember?

count your blessings,
you foolish girl.

diamonds aren't always
found
on this ruff side of
town.

--

solar eclipse,
lunar harvest,
my soul is ripened
for the
taking.
You carried me,
fed me,
but no debt I owe.
Centuries cradled,
King of your dank filth, bearing upon me the power to change a world.
And then came the day I raised my eyes to see your nations quail amidst the ruin of your flesh.
Perhaps one day again I'll bring to thee
Hell carried long in the belly of a flea...
As told to me by a wee rat
I consumed your agitation, drew it from your lips.
As i felt the round edges of your aching desire.
You held nothing back as you took my love
And led me to an ocean of burning fire.
Our love consulted with our hearts
And they all agreed,
This love we have can't by others be acquired.
Another love poem For y'all
Hope y'all like.
 Apr 2014 Judy Ponceby
Fox
Why is hellopoetry.com black and white? I've always wondered about this... why my colorful photographs are required to travel back in time. How does this effect the poetry in any way, shape, or form? But I understand the wisdom of this design now. And it sets a great metaphor for all of the people of the pen involved in this truly noble motion, this secret society for people with passion, talent, and troubled minds and souls. Hello Poetry is black and white not because it has to be monochromatic and modern, but because us poets fill these pages with enough inovativeness and color already with our words, ideas, thoughts, songs, senryus, ballads, heartbreaks, insecurities, that adding literal color to this website would be overwhelming. These soft undertones of gray, black, and white may be considered drab and depressing to some, but to us poets it represents timelessness. And this is probably why we are all here. Hourly, daily, weekly, monthly, or even yearly publishing poems. Because we all know we are not going to live forever, and we are so entirely insignificant in the broad scheme of things and of the universe itself, that it is a bit comforting and helpful to have this coping mechanism or soft blankie to calm our fears, that this literature we write, however insignificant it may be, is absolutley permanent. And that maybe someday it will be remembered so a small bit of us may live on. Tom Riddle knew the needs and wants of man kind before anybody else realized it. Maybe he was just trying to cope with the fact that he is insignificant. These poems are all our Horcruxes so *viveamus per camenam nostram.
^^^let us live through our poetry
She's dark, yet
moonlight glows
inside her soft-eyes
& despite her
tragic-aura,
I still want
her blackness,
to taste her magic,
to kiss
the devil inside her.
 Aug 2013 Judy Ponceby
Helen
we've fought over so many things
the reason you won't come home
how the rock in the ring is a stone
how your beady eyes like to roam


we've fought over so many things
like how the meal is not ready
like how the chair upon you sit, unsteady
like how each conversation is thready


we've thought over many things
like how you think I'm a mistake
like how I think you're rake
like how we both would love to make


a new start
with a different heart


we've fought over many things
we've thought over many things
we've cursed a blue streak that's royal
but I'll never let you have the one thing
that has only ever been to me
*loyal
Imprisoned inside a house
With photos and mirrors
A kitchen table with apples in a bowl
TV's and electronics to fill silence with sound
Windows to view a different world
With bushes in the yard and mailbox in the front
But beyond that scenery lives a world changing immensely
I lay alone imprisoned in a timeless world
Seems could lay for hours and no one would even know
Somewhere beyond this I imagine I wouldn't feel so alone
In a place that lacks noise that fills every moment with tortuous sound
Not every foot step with a place to go
Not every mistake rubbed with rough alcohol into the wound
A place where I might enjoy the breath I breathe and the time I have left
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