Best Gettysburg Poems
Gettysburg Hauntings
When General Meade met General Lee
At Gettysburg in 1863
Sons of the South battled Northern brothers
And neither side has ever recovered
Fifty-one thousand lives lost in three days
Of a summertime swelter, July haze
Souls rose not to heaven from bodies piled
On blood-soaked battlefields spanning 40 miles
An on-scene photographer moved fallen men
To snap better images with his lens
Hats off to Alex Gardner if you please
Today picture-takers’ cameras freeze
At a large bouldered site called Devil’s Den
Sharpshooter hid, killed unsuspecting men
Travelers at night on Pennsylvania roads
Claim they see soldiers, hear cannons explode
A century after the Revolution
United our states to wage war as one
Virginians were forced to choose blue or gray
Mason Dixon Line divided that way
If only Tom Jefferson’s wise notion
Had not been struck from the Declaration
Slavery, the impetus for war and hate
Would have been quashed before State versus State
Gettysburg might have been a peaceful farm
Where soldiers had never succumbed to harm
But restless spirits, faces pale and gaunt
Never retreat from their Gettysburg haunt
Our nation’s darkest hour plays out each night
And passersby still marvel at the sight
Where sons of the South battled Northern brothers
For neither side will ever recover
This sacred soil that once resounded with the musket's rattle,
Imbued with mingled blood of Blue and Gray spilt in brutal battle,
Now stands serene with only whisperings of the restless ghosts,
Of gallant men who sacrificed their all among the frenzied hosts.
Are those the sighs of vagabond souls heard with each subtle breeze,
As zephyrs rustle the dancing leaves of stalwart, guardian trees?
Is that the winter's wind that shrieks about Round Top Hill,
Or the screams of dying troopers, their fatal destiny to fulfill?
Are those the moans of men left to die, their laurels won,
Or the boles of ancient pines groaning 'neath the searing sun?
The wind wafts tall grasses that on The Wheatfield grow;
Could this be waves of spectral infantry, advancing row by row?
Lightning flashes and thunder echoes across the rolling sectors,
Reminiscent of once roaring cannon, now long-silent specters.
The battle was o'er with the repulse of daring General Pickett;
Thousands of souls lay dead on bloody field and tangled thicket.
Lincoln's powerful address yet echoes o'er that hallowed clay,
To honor heroes, no matter the color of cloth they wore that day.
Do their fretful spirits yet roam, wondering if they died in vain?
Rest in peace dear souls - because of you this nation rose again!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
© All Rights Reserved
Placed No. 4 the Fraser/Devonshire "Dazzle Us With History" Contest - Jan 2011
Unyielding stone, the furniture
au naturel, no dress lace tablecloth
concealing ants scavenging our picnic lunch. Loathe
are we to flick them while they steal our cheese and crackers.
Siblings ensconced, diffused canopy of oak
umbrellas, searing sun bewitches charming shadows;
clover, petals three and sometimes four, meadows
pleasant carpets cradling this resolute rock.
These stones echo cries reverberating past
more than a century's memorializing years
when other siblings set swords upon this grave frontier
in armies blue and gray amassed.
Immortal the crashing clash, bone against bone,
at Gettysburg to keep this nation one.
Faye Lanham Gibson
Walk does he not the specter of death,
His saith raised high, even he himself has had
Enough killing, on the battlefield of Gettysburg,
Satan screams, stop sons of men, truly war
Is hell on earth.
Time's spiritual voices cry out, as the wind
Blows through the tall over grow grasses,
Of this Pennsylvanian State park.
Injured spirits, roam as phantom soldiers,
Seeking salvation's reprieves preservation,
From their damnation.
On the Devil's Den reddened rock, centuries
Still stand guard, knelling sharp shooters,
Fire at will, as the drummers beat, at rhythm’s
Death march.
Gun powers burnt smell fills the air,
As the loud canons echo in the distance,
Mayhem's discord has left destruction's
Bloodshed, these numbers estimation
Of flesh and bone, are guessed yet it's
Resolution unknown.
Blown are the horns of Calvary’s call,
Reinforcement’s sacred hesitating for aid,
But none come to it's deadening's sounding.
Mourn do the orphan's of war, in their fathers
Name, so they do weep in sorrow remembrance.
A war-ravaged companion, lead by freedom
Seekers, the end to release bondage’s salves,
Stain our great country with it's own blood.
Brother against brother, two flags of belief
Striking each other, north vs the south,
Behold it was the American Civil War.
A revolutionary uprising of idealism,
That all man have the right to be free,
And live without the chains of oppression.
It is in this haunted place, at cemetery ridge,
That the final battle lines are marked in
Bloods deadliest charge ahead.
Many souls still serve here, never shall
They know the light of peace.
BY: CHERYL ANNA DUNN
My old friend Gettysburg came to visit me tonight.
He indicated that he has been troubled about many things.
He begins without hesitation to speak to me with passionate expressions. He said that he was feeling both patriotism and pride but also consternation. He thought about how different '4th of July' celebrations might be this year.
He is whispering to me about both freedom and sovereignty.
He is shouting to me in tears about divisiveness and unity.
He tells me of his being ripped apart in every section and direction.
His north is pulling; his south is pushing; his east and west are frozen.
His total being is being disconnected; his pain is unbearably excruciating.
He ponders the complexity of such beauty being on the brink of destruction.
He remembers the Mayflower, Plymouth Rock, and the Boston Tea Party.
Presently, when thinking about Lincoln's Gettysburg Address, he weeps.
He locks his eyes to mine and questions, "Whatever happened to the love of life, love of family, love of neighbor, love of the church, love of country?"
Gettysburg believes in America and thinks we will find our way forward.
He reflects on the Declaration of Independence and the many sacrifices.
The Preamble to the Constitution is weighing heavily on his confused mind.
He prays that the dream doesn't die, and he rejects any nightmarish thoughts.
Gettysburg believes in God, and that He will turn the tides and calm the sea.
He utters his last words to me by quoting the Preamble to the Constitution of the USA. "We the People of the United States, in Order to form a more perfect Union, establish Justice, insure domestic Tranquility, provide for the common defense, promote the general Welfare, and secure the Blessings of Liberty to ourselves and our Posterity, do ordain and establish this Constitution for the United States of ...
061520PS
**
Several years ago, we bought an old farm house.
It was 3 miles down a dirt road beside an old millhouse.
It seems this area was involved in a major war fight.
Sometimes it would last all the way into the night.
The Gettysburg battlefield was north of our lot.
Some nights you can hear cannons firing if the weather is hot.
It's as if the war was still going on and no one had won.
There's been talk of apparitions. I know I've seen one.
This old house was once a hospital for the wounded and sick.
We uncovered many relics as we cleared around the creek.
There were human remains in the cellar, under the old dirt floor.
It was determined to be a Confederate from the Civil War.
As we remolded the house, many artifacts were found.
The ghost who was living here was making knocking sounds.
I know he's not happy as objects would fly off the wall.
This spirit was having a tantrum, throwing objects down the hall.
Things finally settled down. It was early morning, around two.
We heard footsteps approach, clop, clop, the sound of shoes.
The door suddenly opened. It was a man dressed in gray.
An apparition of a Confederate soldier who has come back to his grave.
We were very scared. "Were are not giving up on this place".
We're prepared to cast this spirit out without any haste.
We called in a team of ghost experts to help this troubled soul.
We hope they can help him. That was our goal.
The team had arrived to investigate what was going on.
They captured two "EVPs" just before dawn.
That revealed "GET OUT" and "My name is John".
They respectfully said, "John, you've died." It's time to move on.
The ghost of John still haunts there today.
If you like ghost adventures, you are welcome to stay.
"Beware" John takes tatum's, his demeanor will scare.
The house is now a B & B. We can no longer live there.
Written on 1-7-2022
** Fiction**
A STRAND (1071) Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Brian Strand
~ 1st ~
[Note: this poem was inspired by a strange and terrible experience I had at 17 when I first set foot on the battlefield in 1965 after an interview at the college there: physiologically, it was like being mortally wounded. I was an agnostic then and so shrugged it off, but after I had an NDE 7 years later, I started thinking it may have been something else.]
Now the happy soldiers
go to fight again the battle,
marching bravely forty abreast
with heavy muskets shouldered,
yelling their cries of pain and glory
as they face the cold cannon
barking like a pack of mad dogs.
Down they go in ones and twos,
and sometimes in little bunches,
collapsing together as though
put to sleep by the fairy dust
of long forgotten dreams.
Both sides feel the urge
to kill, to step the victor
o'er their bothers' bones.
Grown men playing-- yes,
even perhaps a bit silly--
but maybe, just maybe,
some of them are unaware
of their own anguished deaths
there on that sweating day
not really so very long ago.
At seventeen I went to that town
to talk of my education and
in the warm afternoon
I meandered mindlessly
amidst the boulders named
fearfully for Satan's lair.
There, suddenly, terribly,
while walking between two
of the giant stones, my body
shuddered in anguish and sweat,
my heart raced like it might burst,
as fearful dread seized my mind
and rattled me to the very core
of my soul; but back then, I did not
yet know I might have lived before.
['Satan's lair' refers to Devil's Den, near the base of the Little Round Top where some of the battle's fiercest fighting took place.]
Lincoln and Gettysburg Haiku
Lincoln Memorial
Now in Washington D C
For us all to see
Gettysburg Address
That was told at Gettysburg
By our President
Four score and seven
Years ago our President
Brought to new nation
You complete the rest
As you thing that it should be
Many years ago
James Thomas Horn
Retired Veteran and Poet
Battle of Gettysburg day two.
My hands are numb and my shoulders shake with the cold.
I sit on my **** in the cold damp grass,
the campfire does nothing to warm this situation.
It just cracks and spits at the damp wood.
Hardly a word is said and yet my
mind is full of screaming and shouting.
If I pissed myself once this day
I did it four or five times,
never has my cock leaked so much
yet I haven"t sh@t in days.
Food is low but moral is good
and we all have high hopes
for tomorrows battle.
I am under Pickett"s charge
yet my mind is wild
and my heart seems to over beat,
there is a knot in
my stomach the size
of my fist,
so I think
of home
to calm down.
Virginia.
I watch my mother
hanging out
washing with
her thin hands.
I gulp and wonder
if I shall see her soon.
She died three
years ago.
I have stood upon, The hallowed ground
Where so many souls had perished,
That ugly war between the states
Their memories, I will cherish,
I have seen the cannons, on the hill
Of Seminary Ridge,
Those balls of fire, that rained the sky
So they could cross the bridge,
I've been the place called Devils Den
It no longer holds the fire,
However, I still hear their cries
As if a funeral pyre,
Upon the top of Little Round
The regiments in place,
Told to wait and hold their fire
Until they see their face,
The smell of sulphur, fills the air
Amid the smoke and flame,
Of fifty- thousand there that day
Forty-three thousand yet remain,
General Pickett, led the charge
With all those valiant souls,
When Pickett's day was over
He counted up the tolls,
A Century, four decades past
Since that famed address,
Of my heart, I can only say
Mr. Lincoln said it best.
" The world, will little note, nor long remember what we say here.
But they can never forget, what they did here"
- President Abraham Lincoln
The Gettysburg Address
This is a Tribute to my Great Grandfather Major General George Edward Pickett
And to the Men under his Command. Taz
In Gettysburg, the soldiers fell
In shock, in pain, in death,
As thousands from the North and South
Cried out with their last breath.
Their bodies lay in bloody fields,
A vista grim and stark;
Today, those hills have been restored
Into a hallowed park.
With monuments and obelisks
Commemorating all
Who fought and died when barely grown,
Sucked in to wartime's thrall.
A marker made of stone records
The bodies there interred,
Remembered with a name or else
"Unknown," a lonely word.
The numbers laid out state by state
Count lives the war's undone.
New York sustained the greatest loss -
Eight hundred sixty-one.
That just reflects the ones who died
Those three days in July
And after all these years, no one
Can really answer why.
The battlefields are there to see -
To visit and to tour
But sadly, war is a disease
For which there is no cure.
Virga
Your impression beckons me
as you slumber coyly
through the day.
I, too, can play
chords up in the jetstream
during your unfathomed dream
I can find a secret and
lock it in my pulse
until the storm.
And when the gale, vespertine,
roars and carries mountains
forth
Humbly, I deliver you
my caring vision
from the shore.
In the original Italian form
Broad field of battle waged where soldiers died and
the Southern flame of independence flared bright.
Two kinds of rule then vied to govern torn land.
The ancient practice keeping slaves was seen right.
Opposed was Declaration's say: all equal!
And nation strove to settle issue by fight.
The pride of Southern youth fell like the dripping
of rain off eaves; next day would see its sequel.
Again the cannon bolts in fields were ripping.
That same hot day the battle waged on most strong.
A Southern gray division gave last made try.
That sorry day the Union brave did no wrong.
Attack did fail but gray's moral remained high.
At home a mother gave her child farewell cry.
Cannister shots explodes overhead,
stripping the leaves from the trees,
a rain of jagged steel above…
it takes courage not to flee.
The generals say we strike the center
and the Yankees will run hard,
if we break them here the war is won,
so we’ve got to make this charge.
We all step out, a long gray line,
and see what is a-waiting:
An open field, a mile’s walk,
then a rock-wall with blue-coats, hated .
And worse still, it is a small hill
up which we have to march,
but our guns have broke the Yankees down,
so we’re going to make this charge.
But their guns keep roaring endlessly,
as we trudge on in the hot sun.
The blue-coats have all found the nerve,
I don’t see one of them run.
Shells crash down in fiery rage,
and tear in our ranks great scars,
but it’s too late now, the die is cast,
we must continue with the charge.
People falling, to the left and right,
as we come up upon a fence.
Commander’s cry,”Get over quick!”
amidst screams so violent.
Yankees rise up and they take aim,
they are in no mood to spar.
Volleys scythe down men like grass,
but we push on with the charge.
All I hear is pain and death,
as I drive up to the rock-wall.
Few Southrons left besides me,
endless Yankees, standing tall...
Armistead, he breaks through them!
But blue reserves come forward,
Armistead goes down, bayonets reign
at the end of this great charge.
I stab, I swing, I smash one,
but another stabs my thigh.
I fall and struggle in the mass
of good soldiers left to die.
A blue-coat sees me lying there,
says,”How did you ever get this far?
It matters not, you’re a prisoner now,
for making this foolish charge.”
The Yankees they walk me away,
my fight is over for good.
I don’t entirely feel ashamed,
even though I know I should.
Out on the slope, the meadow is
by endless broken bodies marred.
I pray to God that he might damn
This futile, murderous charge.
Oh Gettysburg, your battle flags lie charred
beneath the corps that stormed the blue abyss.
A fence of stone has marked the final yard
where vanquished legions vanished in the mist.
As cannon fire consumed the summer sky,
it scorched the winds that scattered each brigade.
A final yard, your chronicles decry,
had crushed their will to win the great crusade.
The tides of war have rolled upon this land
as fallen brothers perished in its wake,
to stand as one this Nation must demand,
its battle fallen; time shall not forsake.
As winds of death come wafting through the pine
on placid currents drifting through the field,
brigades of spirits haunt the battle line
where cannons forced their flesh and bone to yield.
Each call to arms, in charge and failed retreat,
seemed endless in the swelter of sun,
for those who pledged to not concede defeat
would forfeit to the fury of the gun.
As agony fell quiet from the blaze,
their lamentations moaned beyond the clash,
the mystic plumes, ascending through the haze,
were silent souls arising from the ash.
Oh Gettysburg, your name shall ring of war.
With reverence, we whisper you in prayer.
In eulogy, we’ll hail forevermore
our Nation’s unknown soldiers harbored there.
July 2018