Best Burnside Poems
He trotted up to Hamlin’s Bar,
stopping in for a quick drink.
He sat a tall, blue roan Mustang,
with a hide like darkest ink.
He paced into the noisy saloon,
amidst gamblers, drunks, and whores,
walked up to the simple bar,
and ordered whiskey, nothing more.
The burning shot was warming
after a cold night on the tail.
Barkeep tried to sell him another,
but he tried to no avail.
Rider found himself musing about
stopping in a town like this,
leaving behind the endless hunt,
getting out of the prairie winds.
He thought about a warm bed,
about cafes with bacon and coffee,
but as he did the old rage surged
and the thoughts all came to nothing.
In his mind came strangled cries,
the choking smoke and flames,
the dark cackle of evil men,
echoed through his brain…
With that he got on up to leave,
but a figure blocked his way.
A youngish man, vaguely familiar,
though why, he could not say.
The man growled and he said:
“I’ve seen you once before.
I watched you kill my brother Nick,
back east in Pellan’s Forge.”
The rider cocked his head and said:
“You must be young Jack Burnside.
I suppose you want revenge,
so let’s go take this outside.”
Jack nodded and they walked,
the young man’s eyes enraged.
To the street, the men went,
the town watching as they paced.
They stood off, then Jack’s hand
flew down for his gun,
but the Rider was a bolt of light,
and the draw quickly won...
CONCLUDES IN PART II.
“Stroke-a-back
stroke-a-back
someone’s going to touch you
in a moment from now,
I’ll draw the snake
but I won’t end it.”
The old gas light flickers
above the old school wall,
a game of “Stroke-a-back”
To the song of the Swan waterfall.
Pastoral faces full of laughter
innocence disembogue,
a time to relish
this evanescent vogue.
A fall pipe to clamber
a railway bank to view,
our cottage upon Sugar Hill
Where the flowers once grew.
Pea-shooting bobbins
From Town head Mill,
A Burnside clangour
from a spinning shed of skill.
In unison sincere looms clatter
Gates Of head scarves bobbing up and down,
Reed-Hook used with aptitude
a woven piece for “Half-a-crown.”
Eternity for the shuttle
Weft and Warp intertwine,
mortal weaver in traction
for that packet of “Woodbine.”
The mighty Oak and Sycamore
shaking off the morning dew,
mist that mingled undaunted
footprints that followed the view.
For there, where twilight kisses the breeze
behold carpets of Lavender Blue,
The sweet scent of the Honeysuckle
Clement “Nesfield” Grew.
If one could walk within a memory
caress a perpetual dream,
then one would have to believe in miracles
a mislaid youth to redeem.
'Stroke-a-Back' is a hide and seek game'
© Harry J Horsman 1995
Antietam
I lay in the creek my face to the ground
My hand on my musket, I pray I’m not found
The bullets were flying, the soldiers were dying
Antietam; the battle’s begun
I fired on the troops as they crossed Burnside Bridge
Safely encamped up high on the ridge
The bullets are flying, the soldiers were dying
Antietam; the sound of the guns
I hid in the cornfield till I heard the attack
I fired then I charged and I never looked back
The bullets were flying, the soldiers were dying
Antietam; the red rivers run
I knelt by the fence there on Hagerstown Road
Knowing I’d reap whatever I sewed
The bullets were flying, the soldiers were dying
Antietam; the day no one won
I gathered up wounded, I gathered up dead
There’s a lull in the battle; who knows who’s ahead
The bullets were flying, the soldiers were dying
Antietam; it’s now setting sun
I passed by the church as we fled in retreat
I prayed for the fallen, may this never repeat
The bullets were flying, the soldiers were dying
Antietam; the battle is done
Our history club is presenting Antietam this month so I wrote a poem for it.
An old hotel in Portland
Rain hitting street lamps
The buzzer
Click
Surveillance camera
“Can I get a room?”
It used to be called the "Burnside Triangle" back when it was still gay
Bump Bump da Bump da bump
Nightclubs bangin’
Young twinks in their twenties
They chat and drink
The hopeless live upstairs
By flickering neon sign
An old hotel in Portland
“That’s $40”
“Will I be directly above the”
Bar of soap, towel, and remote
“These aren’t already in the room?”
When will she leave!
Needle, syringe, just waiting on
Tar on the street shines with Oregon rain. Back when Stark Street used to be Gay
Waiting in the room
Bulb lacking a cover
Ugly fluorescent
Bed bugs and the dark lady
Getting sick
Waiting on
“Dope! Man that’s dope!
We can get some E in Chinatown”
Twinks downstairs ain’t waiting yet
Their day will come
It’ll come like it did for me and now,
Still waiting on that great fall in the
“Elevator?
Is there an elevator here?”
When will she leave!
An obstacle in the way
I am out of rhythm
I wait! And wait
Arrival
Buzzer
Click
Door
Water
Melt
Cotton
Slam
Ellipses
.
.
.
Okay. I’m rockin’ and rollin and feelin’ human
The rhythm of life has come back
I try not to think about the jones that’s a lumin’
For now, I see gems in this shack
“It’s still happenin’ here on the Burnside Triangle.”
I say to a street urchin bummin’ a smoke.
“I don’t see it no more” the cigs bob and dangle
“Well Scandies is still bumpin’ and the bar’s filled with folk.”
“This place is just a shadow of what it used to be.” he said walking away
Gotta get back upstairs and fold the sheets for the people that work during the day
It’s called Harvey Milk now, which means that it used to be gay
It happened to Union Avenue before gentrification, now it’s call M.L.K.
(This is a brief summary of the Battle of Fredericksburg that occurred from December 11-15 in the year 1862. The American Civil War was raging on and mistakes made by Maj. Gen. Ambrose Burnside resulted in one of the Union Army's worst defeats during the war.)
In 1862, Burnside had a plan of attack.
He marched his army across the river Rappahannock.
It was a foolish move.
He should have known it then.
But he ordered his troops across a field that became known as the Great Slaughter Pen.