"muskets" poems
Look in the mirror
Look at the clock
Look at the time
It never has stopped
It only goes forward
It's a one way walk
See how you have been growing
You ask yourself, "where have the days been going?"
Time can only progress
Yes, the river of life is always flowing
We lived cabins
And castles and caves
We came from Adam and eve
We evolved from apes
From Socrates and Homer
To Napoleon and Alexander the Great
The minds that desired knowing
And the enlightened ones glowing
People can only advance
Yes the river of life is always flowing
Revolutions and rebellions
Riots and revolts
Great discoveries
A key, a kite and a lightning bolt
Great writings and inventions
Innovations from inspiring jolts
Improvement was showing
To the future the world was going
Humanity only began to develop
Yes the river of life is always flowing
Religions and sciences
Economics and politics
Television and radio
Monarchies and dictatorships
Tanks and machine guns
Atomic bombs and battle ships
We went from arrow shooting and spear throwing
The muskets needed reloading
To nuclear weapons
Yes the river of life is always flowing
Exploring new lands
To find the world wasn't flat
To find silver and gold
And buried artifacts
To establish new territories
And expand the map
The searching ship kept rowing
As civilization went on growing
Accomplishments of the past
Yes the river of life is always flowing
Boats and rail roads
Fair trade and industry
World wide markets
Over land and sea
To keep out nations going
And stablize the economy
But now every country has money that they're owing
And the land that they're owning
Is has evolved
Yes the river of life is always flowing
Social reforms
Counter cultures fight
They protest strongly
For equal civil rights
The world's in constant change
Every day turns into night
Every opening has its closing
And then it comes back again
As long as there's someone hoping
Yes the river of life is always flowing
We put people into space
We have fought for equality
Created a world from nothing
And advanced technology
We've struggle to go to where we are
And continue to go strongly
The opportunities fate has been bestowing
We look forward to see what is ahead
The memories and mysteries the hourglass is holding
Yes the river of life is always flowing
Apr 23, 2014
Apr 23, 2014 at 2:40 PM UTC
It is snowing and death bugs me
as stubborn as insomnia.
The fierce bubbles of chalk,
the little white lesions
settle on the street outside.
It is snowing and the ninety
year old woman who was combing
out her long white wraith hair
is gone, embalmed even now,
even tonight her arms are smooth
muskets at her side and nothing
issues from her but her last word - "Oh." Surprised by death.
It is snowing. Paper spots
are falling from the punch.
Hello? Mrs. Death is here!
She suffers according to the digits
of my hate. I hear the filaments
of alabaster. I would lie down
with them and lift my madness
off like a wig. I would lie
outside in a room of wool
and let the snow cover me.
Paris white or flake white
or argentine, all in the washbasin
of my mouth, calling, "Oh."
I am empty. I am witless.
Death is here. There is no
other settlement. Snow!
See the mark, the pock, the pock!
Meanwhile you pour tea
with your handsome gentle hands.
Then you deliberately take your
forefinger and point it at my temple,
saying, "You suicide *****
I'd like to take a corkscrew
and ***** out all your brains
and you'd never be back ever."
And I close my eyes over the steaming
tea and see God opening His teeth.
"Oh." He says.
I see the child in me writing, "Oh."
Oh, my dear, not why.
3.9k
Thunder birds
Feathers made of light
No crashing in the night
Heedless heals shatter the ground
Muskets silencing every warning
Thunder birds
Voices carry out songs
No silence in the oblivion
Hollowed breathing gasping oxygen
Bullets' sonic reverberations
Overpowering every whimpering
Thunder Birds
Witnessing every crime
No veils cloud the terror
Burning images through tears
Weapons of desolation spark
Smoke and fire to blind just eyes
With every burning desire
We were meant to love
But instead fell low
Construing our delirium
As if by predestined design
Without faulting the system
Facilitating issuance of our sickness
Restless voices trivialized
To demobilize their power
Appropriating oppression as ours
Apr 26, 2013
Apr 26, 2013 at 11:31 PM UTC
Out on the marsh on a lonely night
The wind soughs through his rags,
The hat that’s pinned to his painted face,
Flutters and soars, then sags,
His eyes are wide and his mouth is grim
As an owl is put to flight,
And nothing but shadows will venture there
For the Scarecrow rules the night.
And back in the manse in a window seat
The Parson’s daughter sits,
She stares at the fluttering coat-tails, but
In truth, is scared to bits,
She watches the sails of the windmill turn
And creak and groan in the gloom,
As clouds come stuttering over the marsh
In the rays of a Harvest Moon.
The father is out in the donkey cart
To tend to his aging flock,
He’s left Elizabeth waiting there
By the tick of the hallway clock,
But out on the moors and beyond the marsh
There rides one Highway Jack,
A frock coat topped with a bunch of lace
And a gold trimmed tricorne hat.
He’s whipped the horse to a lather
In a retreat from a new affray,
For the magistrates have gathered
Vowing to ride him down that day,
The redcoats wait in the village Inn
For the sound that they know too well,
When the curate sees the approaching horse
He’s to toll the old church bell.
But the curate lies in a drunken fit
On the floor of the old church nave,
And soon, by matins his soul will flit
From life to an early grave,
Elizabeth sits in the window seat
And thinks of the coin and plate,
As the highwayman dismounts, and ties
His horse to the manse’s gate.
He beats on the door, ‘Please let me in,
I’m weary and faint, that’s all.
I wouldn’t abuse your person, but
I fear my back’s to the wall.’
She leaves the seat and she slides the bar
For bracing the oaken door,
‘I dare not, sir, I fear for my life,
You’re safer out on the moor!’
Their voices echo across the marsh
Like fear, distilled in the night,
And something shudders out in the gloom
And lurches to left and right,
It seems forever, but now a sound
Tolls out, like a final knell,
For something, out in the church tonight,
Is tolling the steeple bell.
He barely makes it back to his horse
When the redcoats stand in line,
Their muskets fire a volley of shot
And his coat turns red, like wine.
They go to the church when the deed is done
To say, ‘You have done well!’
But the curate lies on the cold stone floor,
The Scarecrow tolled the bell!
David Lewis Paget
Jul 30, 2013
Jul 30, 2013 at 10:30 PM UTC
When muskets shattered bones within the chest,
an era slipped from time; new shadows born
where history cast its cape on Budapest.
Their fate entombed in honour; doom the guest.
No haven in their valour, loudly worn,
when muskets shattered bones within the chest.
The sabre steel lies dormant in its quest,
its master slain in scarlet fields of corn,
where history cast its cape on Budapest.
One leader freed; damnation for the rest.
Thirteen there stood; thirteen then shot at dawn,
when muskets shattered bones within the chest.
These Arad martyrs, ever standing lest
long centuries erode the passion borne
where history cast its cape on Budapest.
Glasses do not kiss, by grief’s request.
Laid quietly the ghosts that gently mourn
where muskets shattered bones within the chest
when history cast its cape on Budapest.
Jan 29, 2016
Jan 29, 2016 at 11:59 AM UTC
The Earth trembled
As the rabbits marched down
With strange twisted muskets
and fangs in their Cowles.
You can hear the cry’s of crows lost crowds
who have obviously sent them around
to hop one by one
to lead you into the cold lonely ground
Where you can only watch
As the works of man
Are razed to the ground
Jan 17, 2022
Jan 17, 2022 at 8:18 AM UTC
** I wrote this long ago for a friend with cancer - a small malignancy the size of a pearl in her lung. The hateful thing metastasised to her pancreas after two years in the shadows - she lost her battle last week. She was 73. She was firm friends with my mother my entire life, and her own children Isobel and Craig are like my own flesh and blood. I was unable to attend the funeral due to ill health, but she requested this poem be read out at her funeral - I'm sharing it here as a tribute to her, and I've changed names to preserve her privacy and dignity. **
This kingdom's hewn of time and words
And glances flashing over
Shadows, shapes and silhouettes
And pearls of smoke and ochre.
Rude invaders! Generals!
Who dares encroach our borders?
"Naught but pearls my princess, so
We strike! At dawn! No quarter!".
Set shoulders low and feet aplant
And curl your fingers slowly.
Your enemy is swift and lean,
Ten thousand times below you.
No mercy from a princess who
Instilled in fresh disciples
Wisdom, courage, whimsy, love and
When it's called for... rifles.
Gather muskets! Catapults!
Oh marshalls! Summon nurses!
The game's afoot and outcomes?
Well, who dwells on whom we versus?
For masses swell behind you and your
Gleaming armour guides us.
Swords aflame! We saw! We came!
Wakes of pearls behind us!
Ten years hence, one hundred, more
Louises, Davids, Andrews,
Will sing with you your victory,
Sandy Alexandrou.
Oct 18, 2016
Oct 18, 2016 at 6:38 AM UTC
In the midweek of twelves months I torched blunts and choked on wet smoke and chamomile tea.
Fretting the niggling giblets of a queasy disrememberance of a sober stroll through your tossed hair salad.
I managed to mangle the marvelous gross lust of our impending
delirium. i farmed bok choy to annoy our local siege. our muskets were polished with misdeeds.
our demons barked, all coy and ravenous in the sweet diffuse of our useless aplomb.
ginger rockets in our thespian numb. you Dis-Oriental surrogate Mom.
You.... flame folding cranes, like a Japanese cancer
with opposable thumbs.
Unstoppable in the dead wink
of an awkward eye
upon your heaving *******
You burn regardless.
May 8, 2013
May 8, 2013 at 11:53 PM UTC
They call the ship 'Burden,'
An indestructible vessel,
Rival to the monsters of the sea.
It's exactly what the people needed,
For you see,
In the depths lurked a beast.
Eighty tentacles, four trade ships tall and wide,
A hundred-thirty teeth when it's smile lied.
They called it, "Kraken."
It was nothing of the likes you've seen,
Emperor of the dark sea.
The Burden could hold fifteen hundred men,
Arming harpoons, cannons, muskets, wit.
The king ordered them to turn the seas red with gore,
Call forth the Kraken,
Strike it dead.
Then to the king,
They would drag back it's head.
So come high-noon,
The ship was in place,
Above the deepest of sea caves.
Letting forth crates of bait,
Staining the waters of the sea,
Until the sailors heard a rumble,
Shake the Burden's iron shell.
Up from the waters came long river's hell,
Tentacles like spires towering well beyond the sails.
But the crew held steady,
"Tighten the ropes, arm our cannons,"
Cried the captain,
"Then fire!"
The seas filled with blood,
The sky filled with gunpowder, fractured shells,
A shriek rang out from the deeps.
The cry of death,
From the Kraken itself.
Tentacles sinking away,
"The head!" Cried the captian,
So Lutenent Lucus dived after the creature.
Tied by a rope,
Pike in hand,
The creature's head,
He began to drag.
Though, glancing over his shoulder,
Through the murk he could see,
The form of a woman swimming away.
Some curse broken, he decided,
A soul freed from grim reality.
Peace.
Jun 11, 2025
Jun 11, 2025 at 10:53 AM UTC
Five Hundred miles deep
where the work has just begun
the sweaty backs of Chinamen
reflect the high noon sun
Their hammers strike the iron stakes
with a sharp resounding ring
and they murmur ancient melodies
to the rhythm of their swing
a hundred miles deeper
in an oaken-wooded glen
rusty-bearded lumberjacks
take up the axe again
every man together
brings the forest to its knees
and grumbles songs of yesteryear
to the beat of falling trees
deeper still, the boys in blue
staying true to form,
pointing with their bayonets
upon the village swarm
they spill the purest blood
over sacred ground
their muskets singing fiery death
with that wicked, wicked sound.
Aug 13, 2015
Aug 13, 2015 at 12:03 AM UTC
A million miles of light between earth and sky.
a million miles of stars before the sun goes by.
A million feet between a line in the sand.
and I'm still not sure where I stand.
A million feet trample the ground. A million muskets like trumpets sound.
this is the moment to stand your ground.
Where a million lives are lost only one martyr is found.
and another star still shines in the sky. A star that stood for good men willing to die.
Jul 6, 2015
Jul 6, 2015 at 8:38 AM UTC
Hissing hydraulic brakes
your face
was hiding.
April wind was howling.
Empty streets at 6 a.m.
A song of dust in squinting eyes.
You hunched your shoulders,
pulled your hood back,
smiled sunrise. Bus doors closed.
We'd always leak away
and trace these city limit lines
'til the night bled into day.
Bend footsteps back t'ward sunburnt lines
that cross the map
of the town we lived in
for all these sun-seared years.
Sat South of love and East of friendship,
but we feared nothin'!
Yeah, we were pirates,
with smoke mouthed muskets
in hand. With full sails. And bold grins
inscribed across each face.
And, back here, I still roll
through days
on waves of
Autumn wind and memory.
Empty streets at 3 a.m.
Walk with our ghosts; still haunt this town.
You took your chances,
and a Greyhound
just past sunset--headed West.
We'd always leak away,
drive out past city limit lines.
And we'd drive until the day-
light bent rays back to eyes' red lines
that crossed the map
of the talks we'd lived in
for all those wondering years,
West of white lies and North of silence.
Guess we feared something.
But, now, what was it?
And, now, where are you?
Out West with full sails and clear eyes
inside a sunset face?
Jun 22, 2015
Jun 22, 2015 at 3:03 PM UTC
Memory takes me back to long ago. I can see the deck of the slave ship I came on, smell the salt air and the hot vinegar used to clean away the escaping stench below the deck, hear the sound as male slaves exercise, as crew members play fiddle music while chains thud hard from the dancing amusement of the slaves. My home was near the River Senegal on the coast. The slave traders ships brought colered cloth, beads, *** and cowrie shells to trade for our black flesh. Father raised cattle, rice and maize. This ebony man traded muskets, gunpowder, needles and colored thread, for what he grew. On the day of our capture, we marched during the long day tied to each other, given only thin meal and warm water. Tiredness bore down on our limbs each step. Canoes came on waves toward us. Fear moved down the chained line of men. Women and children were separated. Our clothes were taken. Standing naked, mouths were opened, and muscles felt. We had to jump up and down while moving our arms. Chosen ones were branded on the skin. I screamed loudly until my voice refuse sound. The time for hearing is gone. Rapid waters filled with blood, as some are tossed into the sea, for circling sharks to dine on. The ship offers only sixteen inches to hold me, others have two and half inches if tightly packed. Bodies are in the hold, secured down by chains that are nailed. Faint cries of agony beat on my ears like drums. I try not to breath in the rancid smells of those who have soiled themselves. Air is limited. Mutiny usually takes place within the shoreline. Because when at sea chances are less to escape. Slaves who simply refuse to eat are force fed with the speculum oris which is placed in the slave's mouth, opening the jaws then food is pushed in usually rice or millet. Crew members tried wash away stench of blood from floggings, feces, ***** from between decks until this day the stench still remains. Living as a slave while your soul is dead is a living horror.
Aug 30, 2013
Aug 30, 2013 at 9:32 PM UTC
“Clear the way, boys, clear the way” said Meagher astride his steed.
The fighting sixty- ninth stepped forth, they were not afraid to bleed.
Upon St Marye’s heights Cobb’s Georgians waited, behind a low stone wall.
The lads attacked that stout defense – how senseless was it all.
There were Irish too up on the hill and they saw the Emerald flag.
“Oh God, what a pity! Here come Meagher’s fellows” one Irish rebel said,
But all obeyed the order given; to fill the air with lead.
The sixty-ninth could not reply, they all carried antique stock.
Muskets are no match for rifles at the distance they attacked.
They climbed that rise into a storm of canister and shot
They got as close as 40 yards before their surge was stopped.
Sixteen hundred had started out from the little town below,
They took the fight as far as any of mortal flesh could go.
As darkness fell upon the field there were wounded men and dying.
Some muttered prayers in their foreign tongue, how pitiful their crying.
It was a dark December for the army Burnside led.
Fourteen assaults in all repulsed with eight Thousand Union dead.
With eighty percent casualties Meagher’s boys had it worst of all:
Fewer than three hundred were left to answer the roll call.
Mar 13, 2016
Mar 13, 2016 at 11:16 AM UTC
There’s an old saying that Texas just might swallow the whole ****** world someday. Well it’s an old saying of mine but I can hardly believe the world ending without Texas swallowing a great deal of it considering these canyons, mountain-eaters, big enough to hide every cowboy snake and buzzard that don’t know any better.
The thing about Texas is you can’t see the end of things here and people call it big. The thing about Texas is everybody calls it something big when it’s really something stretched. Texas took a turn for the worse, warred with Mexicans in 1836 and never recovered. All that revolution, rusted muskets, wormwood, spilled into and on golden-brown cattle land, turned it dry-blood red. All that red, and Texas, she blushes. Texas, shy, ravaged, stretched. 1836 and she’s reaching for the Gulf and the East and West coasts and Montana and if we don’t fix it someday Texas just might swallow the whole ****** world.
One Spring I myself kicked around a little dry-blood dirt. By Summer I had my fill. There’s an old saying the only way to leave Texas is dry-throated and drenched, brokenhearted and better if you swing it the right way . 4 O’Clock Texan Suns scream thirsty yet we leave the place drowning if we make it at all. That’s the thing about Texas, though, it sneaks up, an axe and a smile and you can’t trust anything about it and you fall in love too easily and the thing is the axe doesn’t bite so much as knowing the handle came from the same forest you never questioned, where step 1 is breathing and you actually did it; the thing about axes though is that breath might still be inside the handle and it’s just sitting in there dead dead dead and heavy Pine.
Austin at night becomes a family of burning eyes in the desert.
Sun and trees, and it’s green.
I do not think these trees grew naturally.
I think these trees were put there.
Feb 15, 2012
Feb 15, 2012 at 10:09 PM UTC
The night winds sing,
the chorus rings through
the dead hour of the valley.
Hear it, the music of the wolf’s pain.
Against the backdrop of the new moon,
high on an icy blue rocky ridge
with the pine trees stabbing the black sky,
there shivers the weeping wolf.
*This day he has lost
two precious things...*
Hunters came bearing muskets,
bayonets and torches.
They rampaged through the wood
shooting everything that moved.
The air hung heavy with the stink
of the musket shot.
The wolf’s mate,
a beauty amongst beauties,
had been suckling her pup
when a hunter’s sabre silently sliced
through her fur
and cleaved her silky shoulder.
Death silenced her
and snatched away her pup.
Feb 4, 2011
Feb 4, 2011 at 12:30 PM UTC
Let my past be published now,
I care for it no longer;
Look between my righteous things
To see I was the wronger.
Gather all the worries
I'd fret about in winter;
Shove them off the highest cliff,
Make them crack and splinter.
Traipsing in the gardenside,
Dancing in the hollow;
Feeling for a mason's nook,
Sweet Amontillado.
Down within the castle walls,
Down among the relics;
Bearded faces line the halls,
Lilting in Goidelic.
Slowing pace to stop and smell
Of a strange antiquity;
Thinking on a silver day
That happened once in Brittany.
Countrymen with muskets bared,
Bent on fiery shot,
Pounced upon the zealous rogues
Of Napoleonic lot.
Wand'ring mind, drop your guard,
Stop your nagging ways;
Hark! the drap'ry's bold aura
Welcomes warmer days.
Happiness is fleeting,
Sadness is extinct,
So let my every passing thought
Be mindful and succinct.
Feb 22, 2018
Feb 22, 2018 at 1:06 PM UTC
Things that turn purple:
Feet, when exposed to the cold
Food, when exposed to oxygen
My face, when exposed to fear
To my habits
To my past.
The mention of tying a noose brings pictures to my mind
Of how I used to plan my own death
While paging through a magazine in a waiting room
Ready for the doctors to see me
To tell me I wasn't that sick
Because they didn't know the things I did to myself
I covered up the sliced layers of my skin quite nicely
With different grades of fabric
The belts tied in the shape of my neck
Hung like skeletons in my closet
People kept telling me it was his fault I was so distraught
But that did not make me feel any better
They would constantly tell me there were support groups for the molested
That I was not alone
But there is never any solace in being a statistic
Numbers burn across my skin like matches
Each additional time I heard them
The skin would bubble and blister
Forming a new wound for me to later pick the scab off
If the world did not do that first.
Through therapy, I learned that
When I try to carry the pieces of me
That are bigger than my hands can hold
That are sharper than my flesh can take
That are wider than my unwieldy body
Even though I didn't think that was possible
I crumble like the walls of Jericho
When an army came rushing the city limits.
My past is an armada that rushes full speed through my chest
Piercing me with swords and muskets and bullets
Causing me to bleed and rot from the inside out
Causing me to fall away like petal from stem
Causing me to implode silently
And maybe a sign of this disaster
A symptom of this sickness
Is discoloration.
Things turn purple
As a result of prolonged exposure
To their personal kryptonite.
Jan 6, 2015
Jan 6, 2015 at 11:46 PM UTC
Buzzing
cries are muffled
under forests of
crimson flags
that march towards
the city square,
rippling with intent.
Banners are crude
in attacking today
but naive
when dreaming
what could be:
‘Poetry is in the streets’
they cry,
‘Tis forbidden to forbid!'
Granite towers high above
protruding into nothingness,
sheathed in angry cloud as
rulers sit inside,
poker-faced,
pondering
Inevitability?
...
Well-placed muskets
spew forth shrapnel
as white-hot death
enters bodies
that fall to the ground,
their fists still clenched
in unyielding rocks.
Out leak scarlet legacies;
The blood is striking
against the snow.
...
A forgotten placard sits,
buried half in mud.
Red letters still visible
it reassures
that two and two
no longer
make four.
Jun 15, 2012
Jun 15, 2012 at 11:08 PM UTC
The 19 murdered and martyred children and the 2 murdered and martyred teachers who taught them in Ulvade, Texas were a collective Christ. They, like, Christ, were crucified, but by an endless stream of raging bullets that pierced their hearts and souls, killing all of them. **** Trump, Cowards Cruz and Abbott, and other members of the American Fascistist Party (formerly the Republican Party) also used the same trigger that has now murdered and martyred thousands and thousands and thousands of Americans. Indeed, all other members of the American Fascist Party have implicitly been pulling the same trigger. The Second Amendment was drafted and ratified to protect the right of all citizens of the United States of America to possess legally muskets, not AR 15s. America is now apparently not only dumb, but also, and most egregiously, numb.
TOD HOWARD HAWKS
May 26, 2022
May 26, 2022 at 12:09 PM UTC
In mettle, in pure gallantry
They storm by foot to war
Muskets set, blades sharp and strong
To fight in blood and gore
The tyrant entices them with gold
Chance anew at life
But those poor souls, they never knew
They’re in for woe and strife
With pride inlaid within their hearts
They bid their wives goodbye.
In agony, in shadow black
They’ll soon fall and they’ll die
And ask themselves on verge of death
What was it worth it for?
To march away and give their lives
Away to death at war
Sep 6, 2013
Sep 6, 2013 at 8:35 PM UTC
The telex caster flickers on
and the chap from the BBC, states
the last of the balloons are erected
we are ready for lift off
Slowly the land pulls away from the earth
time to rule Britannica most glorious
going where the winds takes us
and where we land, we will take as ours
Using only sound weapons
and the whispers of cold winds
we are so ready to take seizers
for this is airship Britain, full of lunatics
All don their red jackets
men, women and even children
no more muskets or marching
for this land is made for fighting
We are the now the Kunstprodukt
so ready for war, and so wanting
ready to take back what we have lost
this is battle of airship Britain
Only the elite will attire in black
for they are the hard core warriors
and they will jump into action
before we land, and play dangerously
We will rule where the wind takes us
for Britain is not on the map
and soon we float over to you
and land on your ****** lap
By Christos Andreas Kourtis aka NeonSolaris
By NeonSolaris
© 2012 NeonSolaris (All rights reserved)
Nov 27, 2013
Nov 27, 2013 at 7:43 PM UTC
My armies are in full retreat:
the cannons cold,
boots worn down,
muskets jammed and rusted --
Well fought and ready for rest.
My men seek shelter deep,
deep enough that hands cannot reach,
and they shall stay there for, perhaps, ever.
I was always told "no,"
that money ran the world
and a passion for words will not be enough,
that I will fail...
So my army is in retreat,
tired of fighting a constant defense,
using our last resources to build a keep
to lock away every imaginative flutter of golden butterflies,
and hide away any stray flicker of a thoughtful flame.
The oak trees of my mind's forest have been cut down,
nothing but stumps and leaves
and the smell of industrial smoke
from the bark of my oaks.
This time next year,
I hope not to be completely dead inside
that, somehow, deep in the keep of my soul,
a willow will weep beautiful tears
for lost soldiers and fallen oaks.
Perhaps the keep will thrive,
fighting off the countless sieges
and housing pilgrim dreams.
Perhaps the conquerers will be kind,
offering mercy to the innocent
and a quick death to the ones who deny "no."
It breaks my heart to call retreat,
but a small, crumbling, wounded dream
is better than no dream at all.
Jan 2, 2015
Jan 2, 2015 at 9:30 PM UTC
Postmortem thoughts raced in his head
The wet-blanketed machinery post war over-head
Tassels in the stream wave lengthened and abated
Left under wrought iron, muted and latent
Grave-full the wondering over hills
Smoke ridden skies play fiddles for thrills
Marked a deserter a coward to-be
Stave joins the uniform woe is the helmet free
Consumption as the assault forum
Malaria under tent field wounds
Strategically sound mortals woven and bound
Orders on muskets, send out the hounds!
Bought for the trade ore a plantation plow
Burned to rubble soot and sow
Family mantle abandon its urn
No food for the season now is their turn
Jul 24, 2019
Jul 24, 2019 at 5:18 PM UTC