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Posts Tagged ‘Sherman’s march to the sea’

different

I’d like a different sky before I die
The southern cross, the magic northern lights,
A tropic moon through palm trees, like a pie,
The jagged blue left by Mt. Everest’s bites.

And from a distance, on the Kansas plain,
I’d like to see a rope descend and swell.
And somewhere in the Rocky Mountain chain
Sit watching while a blizzard works its spell.

I’d like a different path before I die –
Boone-blazed, through Wilderness, his road;
Or tread where elephants against the sky
Crossed Alps with Hannibal their brazen load;

Or march scorched earth – Atlanta to the sea
Where Sherman and his locusts laid all waste;
And contrast that with Paul’s first ministry
Till all his journey I have then retraced.

A different place to stand before I die
Would let me see the world through others’ eyes –
Where first Balboa did Pacific spy,
Where Cook stood looking at his North Pole prize.

I’d like to stand, considering man’s fate
Where Jesus wept o’er doomed Jerusalem;
And look to Earth, and heaven contemplate
From where stood Armstrong on his podium.

I’d like a different me before I die
A little less of all that’s cold and hard,
A serving more of love and humble pie,
A softer me that’s nothing like a shard.

In living then, I must be on my way;
I have no certain schedule like a train.
Tomorrow is not promised, just today.
The now of Time as king will ever reign.


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© Dennis Lange and thebardonthehill.wordpress.com, 2016.

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At Griswoldville, Blue’s Howard left behind
Rear guard to watch as his men moved away.
Some Rebels sniffed them out as hounds will find
The wily fox who is the hunters’ prey.

In close formation, Gray made its attack
With courage, but without a bit of art,
Straight toward the waiting guns which drove them back,
To charge twice more, and failing, then depart.

The Union soldiers went into the field
As victors, cheering loudly with broad smiles.
But what to them had till then been concealed
Froze lips – the fallen Gray in many piles.

As Southern cause was close to its last breath,
Youth and the age-ed for the war were grist.
Six hundred lay, in agony or death,
So green, these Gray, that Blue troops rarely missed.

At Griswoldville, one viewed the grisly scene
And grieving, said, “There is no God in war.”
And thinking of a mother’s mournful keen,
He said, “War’s what the devil wishes for.”

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© Dennis Lange and thebardonthehill.wordpress.com, 2016.

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