Wilmer McLean’s Farms by Dennis Allen Lange

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Along the banks of Bull Run lived –
…At what became the scene
Of two Manassas battlefields –
…A farmer named McLean. 

The fighting was so near, a shell
…Crashed through a window pane.
It did not kill a man that day,
…But Wilmer’s hopes were slain. 

Then, Wilmer had enough of War
…And he moved far away
Where battle’s sounds would never reach,
…Untouched by Blue and Gray. 

‘Twas Appomattox Court House where
…He chanced to choose a farm.
No bullets flew to chase men there,
…In its calm rural charm. 

But Lee, outnumbered by Grant’s men
…Like fox by many hounds,
Fled to the new place Wilmer chose –
…Onto its very grounds. 

At Appomattox Station was
…The nearest shot and shell.
And Lee, surrounded, his men starved
…Gave up the Civil Hell. 

Into the parlor first was Lee,
…And Grant soon took a chair.
War-weary Wilmer hosted them,
…And Gray surrendered there. 

McLean fled War, but following
…It acted with caprice.
Though War came to his farm’s door, it
…Became a house of peace.

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© Dennis Allen Lange and thebardonthehill.wordpress.com, 2019.

 

 

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The Silent Treatment by Dennis Allen Lange

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The battlefield is cloaked to deaden sound;
A struggle waged upon a sullen ground.
The bullets in this war are silent bees
That bump a bloom without apologies. 

The cry to “charge” in this war’s never heard,
Since all the world’s a battlefield – absurd!
A truce is never called to clear the field
The wounded, thus, are never healed. 

The pouting silent did not get her way
And he who was the victor’s made to pay
For what he won so he will next time know
That he may win but price is high in woe.

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photo by Marcelo Mokrejs at
http://www.rgbstock.com/photo/miyqLHO/Chairs

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© Dennis Allen Lange and thebardonthehill.wordpress.com, 2018.

 

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The Empty Victory by Dennis Allen Lange

 

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The guns of Truth upon the battlefield
Are such that Error cannot e’er resist
Because it can but faulty weapons wield
That weakly fire, and ev’ry mark is missed. 

Then Error, in embarrassment, retreats
And finds a vacant lot in which to camp.
There, firing guns to not admit defeat,
It trumpets to the wind that it is champ.

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photo by Michal Zacharzewski at
http://www.rgbstock.com/photo/mhiDUcu/Flag

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© Dennis Allen Lange and thebardonthehill.wordpress.com, 2018.

 

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Under A Spreading Tree by Dennis Lange

…………..Under A Spreading Tree

Was there a shade at Gettysburg or Waterloo?
At Marathon, was there a spreading tree, a view
Where one could set his chair and watch the battlefield,
See flash of swords – while from the sun his own face shield? 

Beneath the safety of a branch, with drink in hand,
Was the advance of one against the other’s stand
Watched as an act within a play upon a stage,
Or read as if one’s eyes were on a distant page? 

Did one e’er watch and hear the mighty battle cry,
The call to charge across the field, and there to die
And be at ease as if the hounds were at the fox,
While men were shedding blood on grass and hollyhocks? 

Perhaps there is no one whose heart and blood’s so cold
That there could sit as if he’d bought a ticket sold.
It’s easier to be detached from agony
While safe at home and sitting ‘neath a spreading tree.

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photo by Kevin Tuck at http://www.rgbstock.com/photo/nbZdcvA/Autumn+park

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© Dennis Lange and thebardonthehill.wordpress.com, 2014.

 

 

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