Rebel Color-Bearers At Shiloh
_A plea against the vindictive cry raised by civilians
shortly after the surrender at Appomattox_
The color-bearers facing death
White in the whirling sulphurous wreath,
Stand boldly out before the line;
Right and left their glances go,
Proud of each other, glorying in their show;
Their battle-flags about them blow,
And fold them as in flame divine:
Such living robes are only seen
Round martyrs burning on the green--
And martyrs for the Wrong have been.
Perish their Cause! but mark the men--
Mark the planted statues, then
Draw trigger on them if you can.
The leader of a patriot-band
Even so could view rebels who so could stand;
And this when peril pressed him sore,
Left aidless in the shivered front of war--
Skulkers behind, defiant foes before,
And fighting with a broken brand.
The challenge in that courage rare--
Courage defenseless, proudly bare--
Never could tempt him; he could dare
Strike up the leveled rifle there.
Sunday at Shiloh, and the day
When Stonewall charged--McClellan's
crimson May,
And Chickamauga's wave of death,
And of the Wilderness the cypress wreath--
All these have passed away.
The life in the veins of Treason lags,
Her daring color-bearers drop their flags,
And yield. _Now_ shall we fire?
Can poor spite be?
Shall nobleness in victory less aspire
Than in reverse? Spare Spleen her ire,
And think how Grant met Lee.
poem by Herman Melville
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Death and I
When death comes
I’ll need not love –
Consumed,
No wreath or dove
Could offer me salvation,
Not when I’m no more.
A weathered stone will bear my name –
Identity of once a being
Living out existence in
A world of risk, and never seeing
Sense of why we’re here.
My genes will die away thro’ child –
Hue of eyes and hair, the way of thought,
Will quickly dim with generation –
Bow to future dominance –
Memories of provenance
Resigned to curious few.
When death comes
I’ll need not grace
Below; no grieving face
Will call my resurrection,
Not when I’m at ground –
Death and I so bound.
Copyright © Mark R Slaughter 2011
D eath Crawl
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poem by Mark R Slaughter
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Coffee Courage
The bitter coffee kicked;
I shook and then I licked
My lips and gave a sigh.
Shattered eyes encouraged,
I nearly had envisaged
Waking up an eye.
Another sip; a jolt –
Not unlike a bolt
Of wattage from the mains.
My sockets under strain,
I tried it once again:
Aha! The light, the searing white –
My God, the bloody pain!
Copyright © Mark R Slaughter 2009
Courage, courage, coffee courage,
Courage, courage, courage,
Courage, courage, coffee courage,
Courage, courage, courage,
Courage, courage, coffee courage,
Courage, courage, courage,
Courage, courage, coffee courage,
Courage, courage, courage,
poem by Mark R Slaughter
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The Victor Of Antietam
When tempest winnowed grain from bran;
And men were looking for a man,
Authority called you to the van,
McClellan:
Along the line the plaudit ran,
As later when Antietam's cheers began.
Through storm-cloud and eclipse must move
Each Cause and Man, dear to the stars and Jove;
Nor always can the wisest tell
Deferred fulfillment from the hopeless knell-
The struggler from the floundering ne'er-do-well.
A pall-cloth on the Seven Days fell,
McClellan:
Unprosperously heroical!
Who could Antietam's wreath foretell?
Authority called you; then, in mist
And loom of jeopardy-dismissed.
But staring peril soon appalled;
You, the Discarded, she recalled-
Recalled you, nor endured delay;
And forth you rode upon a blasted way,
Arrayed Pope's rout, and routed Lee's array,
McClellan:
Your tent was choked with captured flags that day,
McClellan:
Antietam was a telling fray.
Recalled you; and she heard your drum
Advancing through the ghastly gloom.
You manned the wall, you propped the Dome,
You stormed the powerful stormer home.
McClellan:
Antietam's cannon long shall boom.
At Alexandria, left alone,
McClellan:
Your veterans sent from you, and thrown
To fields and fortunes all unknown-
What thoughts were yours, revealed to none,
While faithful still you labored on-
Hearing the far Manassas gun!
McClellan:
Only Antietam could atone.
You fought in the front (an evil day,
McClellan)-
The fore-front of the first assay;
The Cause went sounding, groped its way;
The leadsmen quarrelled in the bay;
Quills thwarted swords; divided sway;
The rebel flushed in his lusty May:
You did your best, as in you lay,
McClellan.
Antietam's sun-burst sheds a ray.
Your medalled soldiers love you well,
McClellan:
Name your name, their true hearts swell;
With you they shook dread Stonewall's spell,
With you they braved the blended yell
Of rebel and maligner fell;
With you in shame or fame they dwell,
McClellan:
Antietam-braves a brave can tell.
And when your comrades (now so few,
McClellan-
Such ravage in deep files they rue)
Meet round the board, and sadly view
The empty places; tribute due
They render to the dead-and you!
Absent and silent o'er the blue;
The one-armed lift the wine to you,
McClellan,
And great Antietam's cheers renew.
poem by Herman Melville
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Seeds of Peace Were Planted
Serious, Noble Eyes
Color of the Earth - color of Mystery-
Color of Simplicity and gorgeous
human Dignity
From the dirty purity of this color
Sprouts the Green; Color of Life
-Color of innocence
Color of FREEDOM
Gandhi - He looked upon the world
each stranger, his Brother
-Gazed across Continents
and into the Sun(rise)
knowing the wise way of fighting
by NOT FIGHTING...
With round, contemplative skull
he captured suffering
and shook it lose
turned it upside down
until pieces of Hope, Dignity,
and even pieces of Peace
fell out onto the ground
-Seeds of Peace were planted
planted within his very eyes-
And with the nourishment
of Time, India's Spring of Joy,
Spring of Victory...blossomed
-and the whole world
could smell the flowers.
poem by Ray Quesada
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Burning Flags
they're burning flags again....
sit down stand up protesting,
cracking heads like eggs,
yolk running down on hallowed ground....
they're burning flags again...
soldier boys coming home
to no work, living in cars,
no help, without a country...
they're burning flags again...
your sister died giving birth.
your brother-in-law cant get work,
making meth in the tub...
crying at night 'neath a picture
of Jesus hanging on the cross....
they're burning flags again...
small town football heroes
in prison cells learning
to live outside the law....
they're burning flags again....
and the words of Jefferson
fall in the empty rooms
where justice and equality lived....
they're burning flags again!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Strike Up The Band
Let the drums roll out
Let the trumpet call
While the people shout
Strike up the band
Hear the cymbals ring
Callin one and all
To the martial swing,
Strike up the band
There is work to be done, to be done
Theres a war to be won, to be won
Come, you son of a son of a gun,
Take your stand
Fall in line, yea a bow
Come along, lets go
Hey, leader, strike up the band!
There is work to be done, to be done
Theres a war to be won, to be won
Come, you son of a son of a gun,
Take your stand
Fall in line, yea a bow
Come on, lets go
Hey, leader, strike up
Hey, leader, strike up
Hey, leader, strike up the band
song performed by by Ella Fitzgerald
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Stonewall Jackson (Ascribed To A Virginian)
One man we claim of wrought reknown
Which not the North shall care to slur;
A Modern lived who sleeps in death,
Calm as the marble Ancients are:
'Tis he whose life, though a vapor's wreath,
Was charged with the lightning's burning breath -
Stonewall, stormer of the war.
But who shall hymn the Roman heart?
A stoic he, but even more:
The iron will and lion thew
Were strong to inflict as to endure:
Who like him could stand, or pursue?
His fate the fatalist followed through;
In all his great soul found to do
Stonewall followed his star.
He followed his star on the Romney march
Through the sleet to the wintry war;
And he followed it on when he bowed the grain -
The Wind of the Shenandoah;
At Gaines's Mill in the giants' strain -
On the fierce forced stride to Manassas-plain,
Where his sword with thunder was clothed again,
Stonewall followed his star.
His star he followed athwart the flood
To Potomac's Northern shore,
When midway wading, his host of braves
'My Maryland!' loud did roar -
To red Antietam's field of graves,
Through mountain-passes, woods, and waves,
They followed their pagod with hymns and glaives,
For Stonewall followed a star.
Back it led him to Marye's slope,
Where the shock and the fame he bore;
And to green Moss-Neck it guided him -
Brief respite from throes of war:
To the laurel glade by the Wilderness grim,
Through climxed victory naught shall dim,
Even unto death it piloted him -
Stonewall followed his star.
Its lead he followed in gentle ways
Which never the valiant mar;
A cap we sent him. bestarred, to replace
The sun-scorched helm of war:
A fillet he made of the shining lace
Childhood's laughing brow to grace -
Not his was a goldsmith's star.
O, much of doubt in after days
Shall cling, as now, to the war;
Of the right and the wrong they'll still debate,
Puzzled by Stonewall's star:
'Fortune went with the North elate,'
'Ay, but the South had Stonewall's weight,
And he fell in the South's great war.'
poem by Herman Melville
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Disingenuousness
Here lies another box for nature,
Carbon ready;
Black to eyes down here,
Where death is at its job.
Up there you’ll hear a rhythmic sob
Or two from living yet-to-dies –
A humming lacrimoso –
It all but cleans the eyes:
Forget it –
The dismal show of grief –
Life is only chemistry –
Our stay is only brief.
It’s we who hype it up!
Diaphragms jerk again;
The jet monotone of hearses
Feeds the disingenuousness
Of undertakers –
They seem to stare at something up ahead –
For them, it’s in the blood,
To taxi off the dead.
Copyright © Mark R Slaughter 2011
The March of Death
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poem by Mark R Slaughter
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Barbara Frietchie
Up from the meadows rich with corn,
Clear in the cool September morn,
The clustered spires of Frederick stand
Green-walled by the hills of Maryland.
Round about them orchards sweep,
Apple and peach tree fruited deep,
Fair as the garden of the Lord
To the eyes of the famished rebel horde,
On that pleasant morn of the early fall
When Lee marched over the mountain-wall;
Over the mountains winding down,
Horse and foot, into Frederick town.
Forty flags with their silver stars,
Forty flags with their crimson bars,
Flapped in the morning wind: the sun
Of noon looked down, and saw not one.
Up rose old Barbara Frietchie then,
Bowed with her fourscore years and ten;
Bravest of all in Frederick town,
She took up the flag the men hauled down;
In her attic window the staff she set,
To show that one heart was loyal yet,
Up the street came the rebel tread,
Stonewall Jackson riding ahead.
Under his slouched hat left and right
He glanced; the old flag met his sight.
'Halt!' - the dust-brown ranks stood fast.
'Fire!' - out blazed the rifle-blast.
It shivered the window, pane and sash;
It rent the banner with seam and gash.
Quick, as it fell, from the broken staff
Dame Barbara snatched the silken scarf.
She leaned far out on the window-sill,
And shook it forth with a royal will.
'Shoot, if you must, this old gray head,
But spare your country's flag,' she said.
A shade of sadness, a blush of shame,
Over the face of the leader came;
The nobler nature within him stirred
To life at that woman's deed and word;
'Who touches a hair of yon gray head
Dies like a dog! March on! he said.
All day long through Frederick street
Sounded the tread of marching feet:
All day long that free flag tost
Over the heads of the rebel host.
Ever its torn folds rose and fell
On the loyal winds that loved it well;
And through the hill-gaps sunset light
Shone over it with a warm good-night.
Barbara Frietchie's work is o'er,
And the Rebel rides on his raids nor more.
Honor to her! and let a tear
Fall, for her sake, on Stonewalls' bier.
Over Barbara Frietchie's grave,
Flag of Freedom and Union, wave!
Peace and order and beauty draw
Round they symbol of light and law;
And ever the stars above look down
On thy stars below in Frederick town!
poem by John Greenleaf Whittier
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Desperado (for Henry David Thoreau)
It is moral courage
makes the woman
or man.
Conversely,
physical courage
is quite common.
While he has never had
the moral courage
to take a stand against
'might makes right' itself,
the same man,
raised never to restrain himself
from resorting to force
as a first, and only, option,
still finds himself
hailed a hero
in an inversion
of moral law.
And the woman
with the courage
to live outside the confines
of the kitchen,
the bedroom
and
the nursery
still faces a lingering
label of perversion,
seen as usurping
mman's rightful place
at the apex
of the pyramid
of oppression.
Woman or man,
to take a stand
outside the boundaries,
to color outside the lines
of the stick figure confines
of the rigid roles prescribed
for male and female inmates
of capitalist culture's
insane asylum
runs the risk of committing
cultural suicide.
Girly men.
FemiNazis.
Real men don't cry,
have hearts or any emotions,
while real women
have been defined
by only those
obvious displays
of devotion.
Lonely
is the INDIVIDUAL
who dares to live as an outlaw
outside the ordinary
where character insists
consistently
on the courage
to be
contrary.
'It is curious - curious that physical courage should be so common in the world, and moral courage so rare.' - Mark Twain
The Few
so few have
the courage
to stand up
and speak
the truth
and we make
martyrs of them
so few have
the courage
to be human.
so few know
the freedom
that lets them
give all
without asking back
so few have
the inner strength
to walk naked
before the world,
baring their bruises
and scars
so few have
the guts to
lead, not follow
so few dare
to live
but it is
these few
that give hope
to the many
and make love
the art of living
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Death, My Friend
Death, my friend - so good to see you!
Stand aloft and view my soul!
I have to say you’re looking frightful -
Bony chum, you affable ghoul.
Death, my friend, so charmed I’m sure!
State your case and tell me straight -
Am I worthy of reward, so
Venture I to Heaven’s Gate?
Death, my friend, a new acquaintance!
You're always welcome in my home -
Though the stare from empty sockets
Indicates to Hell we roam!
Death, my friend - my bosom buddy.
My! your finger points at me!
Be you tired of my frivolity?
Aha, I see - Oblivion, we!
Copyright © Mark R Slaughter 2009
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Death death death death death death
poem by Mark R Slaughter
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The Proof Of Worth
Though victory's proof of the skill you possess,
Defeat is the proof of your grit;
A weakling can smile in his days of success,
But at trouble's first sign he will quit.
So the test of the heart and the test of your pluck
Isn't skies that are sunny and fair,
But how do you stand to the blow that is struck
And how do you battle despair?
A fool can seem wise when the pathway is clear
And it's easy to see the way out,
But the test of man's judgment is something to fear,
And what does he do when in doubt?
And the proof of his faith is the courage he shows
When sorrows lie deep in his breast;
It's the way that he suffers the griefs that he knows
That brings out his worst or his best.
The test of a man is how much he will bear
For a cause which he knows to be right,
How long will he stand in the depths of despair,
How much will he suffer and fight?
There are many to serve when the victory's near
And few are the hurts to be borne,
But it calls for a leader of courage to cheer
The men in a battle forlorn.
It's the way you hold out against odds that are great
That proves what your courage is worth,
It's the way that you stand to the bruises of fate
That shows up your stature and girth.
And victory's nothing but proof of your skill,
Veneered with a glory that's thin,
Unless it is proof of unfaltering will,
And unless you have suffered to win.
poem by Edgar Albert Guest
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The Two Armies
Two armies stand enrolled beneath
The banner with the starry wreath;
One, facing battle, blight and blast,
Through twice a hundred fields has passed;
Its deeds against a ruffian foe,
Stream, valley, hill, and mountain know,
Till every wind that sweeps the land
Goes, glory laden, from the strand.
The other, with a narrower scope,
Yet led by not less grand a hope,
Hath won, perhaps, as proud a place,
And wears its fame with meeker grace.
Wives march beneath its glittering sign,
Fond mothers swell the lovely line,
And many a sweetheart hides her blush
In the young patriot's generous flush.
No breeze of battle ever fanned
The colors of that tender band;
Its office is beside the bed,
Where throbs some sick or wounded head.
It does not court the soldier's tomb,
But plies the needle and the loom;
And, by a thousand peaceful deeds,
Supplies a struggling nation's needs.
Nor is that army's gentle might
Unfelt amid the deadly fight;
It nerves the son's, the husband's hand,
It points the lover's fearless brand;
It thrills the languid, warms the cold,
Gives even new courage to the bold;
And sometimes lifts the veriest clod
To its own lofty trust in God.
When Heaven shall blow the trump of peace,
And bid this weary warfare cease,
Their several missions nobly done,
The triumph grasped, and freedom won,
Both armies, from their toils at rest,
Alike may claim the victor's crest,
But each shall see its dearest prize
Gleam softly from the other's eyes.
poem by Henry Timrod
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Death’s Too Near
Death, you’re standing rather near!
Don’t you understand the fear
You trigger deep within my soul–?
The terror sprung by such a ghoul
Of dark and hideous hue!
Now you’re rattling on my door!
I’m sure I threw you out before –
Methinks you really need to learn!
So leg it please and ne’er return
To haunt me ‘gain, now shoo!
Gain a sense of social pride, and
Keep your bearing far and wide –
Perform the deed when I am done –
Be free and loose to have your fun
When I’m too frail to turn and run,
But now I’ve living to do!
Copyright © Mark R Slaughter 2010
Death, death, nearing death, death, death nearing death
Death, death, nearing death, death, death nearing death
Death, death, nearing death, death, death nearing death
Death, death, nearing death, death
Death, death, nearing death
Death, death, death
Death, death
Death
Death, death
Death
poem by Mark R Slaughter
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In Equal Sacrifice
Thus of old the Douglas did:
He left his land as he was bid
With the royal heart of Robert the Bruce
In a golden case with a golden lid,
To carry the same to the Holy Land;
By which we see and understand
That that was the place to carry a heart
At loyalty and love's command,
And that was the case to carry it in.
The Douglas had not far to win
Before he came to the land of Spain,
Where long a holy war had been
Against the too-victorious Moor;
And there his courage could not endure
Not to strike a blow for God
Before he made his errand sure.
And ever it was intended so,
That a man for God should strike a blow,
No matter the heart he has in charge
For the Holy Land where hearts should go.
But when in battle the foe were met,
The Douglas found him sore beset,
With only strength of the fighting arm
For one more battle passage yet-
And that as vain to save the day
As bring his body safe away-
Only a signal deed to do
And a last sounding word to say.
The heart he wore in a golden chain
He swung and flung forth into the plain,
And followed it crying 'Heart or death!'
And fighting over it perished fain.
So may another do of right,
Give a heart to the hopeless fight,
The more of right the more he loves;
So may another redouble might
For a few swift gleams of the angry brand,
Scorning greatly not to demand
In equal sacrifice with his
The heart he bore to the Holy Land.
poem by Robert Frost
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The Banner of Union
Bring the Harp of the West, and the Pipes of the North,
When our Trumpet note calls to the field;
Let the men of old Scotia and Erin come forth,
And our foemen shall see who must yield.
Side by side in the battle, like granite we'll stand,
With a will and a might none shall sever;
For Glory or Death, we will twine in one wreath
Rose, Shamrock, and Thistle for ever.
Our Banner of Union shall float in the wind
Over hearts that have never yet quailed;
The sword shall be drawn and the banner be borne,
By hands that have never yet failed.
Sons of heather! your fame in the fight
Is as old as your glens and your valleys,
Men of Hibernia! let Right ask for Might;
And where is the spirit but rallies.
Side by side in the battle, like granite we'll stand,
With a will and a might none shall sever;
For Glory or Death, we will twine in one wreath
Rose, Shamrock, and Thistle for ever.
poem by Eliza Cook
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Songs of Battle
Old as the world--no other things so old;
Nay, older than the world, else, how had sprung
Such lusty strength in them when earth was young?--
Stand valor and its passion hot and bold,
Insatiate of battle. How, else, told
Blind men, born blind, that red was fitting tongue
Mute, eloquent, to show how trumpets rung
When armies charged adn battle-flags unfurled?
Who sings of valor speaks for life, for death,
Beyond all death, and long as life is life,
in rippled waves the eternal air hs breath
Eternal bears to stir all noble strife.
Dead Homer from his lost and vanished grave
Keeps battle glorious still and soldiers brave.
poem by Helen Hunt Jackson
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Chattanooga
November, 1863
A kindling impulse seized the host
Inspired by heaven's elastic air;
Their hearts outran their General's plan,
Though Grant commanded there--
Grant, who without reserve can dare;
And, 'Well, go on and do your will,'
He said, and measured the mountain then:
So master-riders fling the rein--
But you must know your men.
On yester-morn in grayish mist,
Armies like ghosts on hills had fought,
And rolled from the cloud their thunders loud
The Cumberlands far had caught:
To-day the sunlit steeps are sought.
Grant stood on cliffs whence all was plain,
And smoked as one who feels no cares;
But mastered nervousness intense
Alone such calmness wears.
The summit-cannon plunge their flame
Sheer down the primal wall,
But up and up each linking troop
In stretching festoons crawl--
Nor fire a shot. Such men appall
The foe, though brave. He, from the brink,
Looks far along the breadth of slope,
And sees two miles of dark dots creep,
And knows they mean the cope.
He sees them creep. Yet here and there
Half hid 'mid leafless groves they go;
As men who ply through traceries high
Of turreted marbles show--
So dwindle these to eyes below.
But fronting shot and flanking shell
Sliver and rive the inwoven ways;
High tops of oaks and high hearts fall,
But never the climbing stays.
From right to left, from left to right
They roll the rallying cheer--
Vie with each other, brother with brother,
Who shall the first appear--
What color-bearer with colors clear
In sharp relief, like sky-drawn Grant,
Whose cigar must now be near the stump--
While in solicitude his back
Heaps slowly to a hump.
Near and more near; till now the flags
Run like a catching flame;
And one flares highest, to peril nighest--
_He_ means to make a name:
Salvos! they give him his fame.
The staff is caught, and next the rush,
And then the leap where death has led;
Flag answered flag along the crest,
And swarms of rebels fled.
But some who gained the envied Alp,
And--eager, ardent, earnest there--
Dropped into Death's wide-open arms,
Quelled on the wing like eagles struck in
air--
Forever they slumber young and fair,
The smile upon them as they died;
Their end attained, that end a height:
Life was to these a dream fulfilled,
And death a starry night.
poem by Herman Melville
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Stonewall Jackson
Mortally Wounded at Chancellorsville
The Man who fiercest charged in fight,
Whose sword and prayer were long -
Stonewall!
Even him who stoutly stood for Wrong,
How can we praise? Yet coming days
Shall not forget him with this song.
Dead is the Man whose Cause is dead,
Vainly he died and set his seal -
Stonewall!
Earnest in error, as we feel;
True to the thing he deemed was due,
True as John Brown or steel.
Relentlessly he routed us;
But we relent, for he is low -
Stonewall!
Justly his fame we outlaw; so
We drop a tear on the bold Virginian's bier,
Because no wreath we owe.
poem by Herman Melville
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