02-06-2013, 09:25 PM
Revised edition.
In a grave for the living, I rationed my breath.
Guarding comrades while they fought within themselves
to stay in the tiny sliver of death
we call sleep. Wartime sleep:
close to, yet as far from living as it’s possible to be.
April’s sun peered over the horizon,
it’s wan light revealing life amidst
the shadowy parade of miniature pyramids.
Men reluctantly emerged from all angles,
desperate to shake off this surreal nightmare.
Even so, the sounds of legs plunging into pantaloons
and arms rushing into jackets made me wonder
if they relished these days of wanton carnage.
We were battered, cynical and weary,
but our interception of General Lee, running south
to Johnston’s ninety thousand Army of Tennessee
gave rise to dreams of cease-fire. Peace.
As usual, Sergeant Pawkin bullied hope into retreat
bellowing, “Fall in for roll call men.”
Not, ‘march in;’ not even ‘walk in’ or ‘run’,
The call was to “Fall in”.
We had been falling since 1861.
The mood of each man was clear
from the monosyllabic, “Here!”
he returned from the ranks.
On this day, it felt as if every individual soldier
was in lament for half a million souls; ’til
into our camp galloped
a messenger from Clover Hill.
Hair flowing, sweat flying,
bandages more crimson than white.
Yelling tidings to all who would hear,
“Lee has surrendered! The war is done!”
A trooper, breaking rank, hollered in return,
“Buddy, we’ been lookin’ fer you f’the last four years!
nb. As tectak's away the poets will play! He suggested the original was prose not poetry, with the slightest of changes maybe there's hope for the poem yet... (??)
Original
In a grave for the living, I rationed my breaths.
Guarding comrades while they fought within themselves
to stay in the tiny sliver of death we call sleep.
In wartime sleep is as far away from, and as close
to living as it’s possible to be.
April’s sun peered over the horizon,
it’s wan light eventually revealing tents, where
hours earlier, stood a moonlit parade of miniature pyramids.
Men were emerging reluctantly from shadowy angles,
desperate to shake free this surreal nightmare.
Even so, the sounds of legs plunging into pantaloons
and arms rushing into jackets made me wonder
if they relished these days of massacres and carnage.
We were battered, weary and cynical
but our interception of Robert E. Lee, running south
to Johnston’s ninety thousand of Tennessee
gave rise to dreams of cease-fire. Peace.
As usual, Sergeant Pawkin bullied hope into retreat
bellowing, “Fall in for roll call men.”
Not, ‘march in;’ not ‘run in;’ not even ‘walk in.’
The call was to “Fall in”.
We had been falling since 1861.
The mood of each man was clear
from the monosyllabic, “Here!”
he returned from the ranks.
On this day, it felt as if every individual soldier
was in lament for six hundred thousand souls; ’til
into our camp galloped
a messenger from Clover Hill.
Hair flowing, sweat flying,
bandages more crimson than white.
Yelling his tidings to all who would hear,
“Lee has surrendered! The war is done!”
One of our troop broke rank and hollered back,
“Hey buddy, where ya bin?
We’ been lookin’ fer you f’the last four years!”
In a grave for the living, I rationed my breath.
Guarding comrades while they fought within themselves
to stay in the tiny sliver of death
we call sleep. Wartime sleep:
close to, yet as far from living as it’s possible to be.
April’s sun peered over the horizon,
it’s wan light revealing life amidst
the shadowy parade of miniature pyramids.
Men reluctantly emerged from all angles,
desperate to shake off this surreal nightmare.
Even so, the sounds of legs plunging into pantaloons
and arms rushing into jackets made me wonder
if they relished these days of wanton carnage.
We were battered, cynical and weary,
but our interception of General Lee, running south
to Johnston’s ninety thousand Army of Tennessee
gave rise to dreams of cease-fire. Peace.
As usual, Sergeant Pawkin bullied hope into retreat
bellowing, “Fall in for roll call men.”
Not, ‘march in;’ not even ‘walk in’ or ‘run’,
The call was to “Fall in”.
We had been falling since 1861.
The mood of each man was clear
from the monosyllabic, “Here!”
he returned from the ranks.
On this day, it felt as if every individual soldier
was in lament for half a million souls; ’til
into our camp galloped
a messenger from Clover Hill.
Hair flowing, sweat flying,
bandages more crimson than white.
Yelling tidings to all who would hear,
“Lee has surrendered! The war is done!”
A trooper, breaking rank, hollered in return,
“Buddy, we’ been lookin’ fer you f’the last four years!
nb. As tectak's away the poets will play! He suggested the original was prose not poetry, with the slightest of changes maybe there's hope for the poem yet... (??)
Original
In a grave for the living, I rationed my breaths.
Guarding comrades while they fought within themselves
to stay in the tiny sliver of death we call sleep.
In wartime sleep is as far away from, and as close
to living as it’s possible to be.
April’s sun peered over the horizon,
it’s wan light eventually revealing tents, where
hours earlier, stood a moonlit parade of miniature pyramids.
Men were emerging reluctantly from shadowy angles,
desperate to shake free this surreal nightmare.
Even so, the sounds of legs plunging into pantaloons
and arms rushing into jackets made me wonder
if they relished these days of massacres and carnage.
We were battered, weary and cynical
but our interception of Robert E. Lee, running south
to Johnston’s ninety thousand of Tennessee
gave rise to dreams of cease-fire. Peace.
As usual, Sergeant Pawkin bullied hope into retreat
bellowing, “Fall in for roll call men.”
Not, ‘march in;’ not ‘run in;’ not even ‘walk in.’
The call was to “Fall in”.
We had been falling since 1861.
The mood of each man was clear
from the monosyllabic, “Here!”
he returned from the ranks.
On this day, it felt as if every individual soldier
was in lament for six hundred thousand souls; ’til
into our camp galloped
a messenger from Clover Hill.
Hair flowing, sweat flying,
bandages more crimson than white.
Yelling his tidings to all who would hear,
“Lee has surrendered! The war is done!”
One of our troop broke rank and hollered back,
“Hey buddy, where ya bin?
We’ been lookin’ fer you f’the last four years!”
Stick to poetry, you are good at it.......when you write it, that is