Winfield Scott Hancock
“They used to shoot bison on the trade line,
A thousand mouths to feed,
A hundred newborns afraid of the crusade,
They whine.
Driven to extinction by the same kind that preys on the land,
Bison babies hid their heads,
And stayed crying.
Ruthless hunger,
It’s hard to blame those who raped as the combine,
How were they to know that the population was decaying,
‘Were the bison not already dying?’
Probably trying to shift the blame,
History recounts a thousand men on New Hanover plains,
Guns rattling and their bodies blockading babies,
The population was confined.
Slaughtered every last one,
Then they retired to their camps,
Where celebrations were toasted over full plates with ‘swam-over’ wines.”
My quill and ink tickles the parchment,
Leave the page for many days,
And return to it still drying.
Every word filled its proper place,
My painting garments’ many stains stared at the page,
Even they knew I wasn’t done trying.
“The sword was slipped from the belt case and spilled crimson tears,
And long after the body was left lying,
The slit was still crying.”
It was warped reflections in the ink,
Maybe similar thoughts crossed my mind as those of the Sergeants,
Who condemned many boys to dying.
Remember the blood shed of the bison,
Mass graves littered the American frontiers,
Tales tell of confederate ghosts who remain behind,
Still hostilely occupying.
Post Comments
Poetrysoup is an environment of encouragement and growth so only provide specific positive comments that indicate what you appreciate about the poem. Negative comments will result your account being banned.
Please
Login
to post a comment
Turn off ads, get more exposure for your poetry, and get more features with a
Premium Membership.
