Long Muskets Poems
Long Muskets Poems. Below are the most popular long Muskets by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Muskets poems by poem length and keyword.
As they say, “Where there’s smoke, there is fire”
In this case it is certainly true
For a people who once ruled so many
find themselves more in place of the few
For so long they have led with a vengeance
but the tide has now started to turn
The majority finds itself strangely, on the fringe of a party that burns
They arrived from the sea with a mission
Took the land and its natives by force
With their muskets and weapons of killing
t’was a violent beginning, of course
Then they sailed overseas with their weapons
for they needed a country to build
There they found what they sought in another
and the blood of the innocents was spilled
Man-made laws justified the enslavement
as they bartered for precious ‘black gold’
Never needed a currency system as the humans were bought and were sold
Generations of slaves built the country
all their blood soaked the land that we share
As the children were ripped from their mothers
they survived on their will and a prayer
But the winds that bring change were upon them
and the nation was soon torn in two
So they fought to the death with their weapons
From the blood and the ashes we grew
Many more later died seeking justice
slowly gaining new rights never known
To these giants we owe our freedom
and in time we have certainly grown
But in spite of our laws and our freedoms
there are many who hold onto fear
As they honor their ancestors’ visions and the power they once held so dear
All their talk of a government body
who will come and will take guns away
Truth be told it is not what they’re fearing
but a country that’s changing to grey
As the races are coming together
the majority slowly will wane
As descendants of those once in power
feel the strength of minority gain
In their hearts they are mourning the passing
of a time which has long-ago gone
And the power they had over others
now a reckoning is born in the dawn
So they scream out the 2nd Amendment
wrap themselves up in red, white and blue
But their time, like their fathers’ is ending
A majority rises anew.
American Osmosis
Jamestown was the source of this
Movement that swept across the continent
At first the ships were left behind
And people used what they could find
A mule, an ox, a Percheron
Whatever they could sit upon
They loaded up and west they went
Some went north and some went south
They filled the land e're which they went
The Louisiana Purchase was the big event
That sealed America’s destiny
Soon the country was spilling westward
To be the first to make a print
Where no one else ever went
They hoped for happiness as their destiny
The Donners never did find any
There were others rushed by gold
With hopes of riches they would hold
But mostly what the immigrants found
Was this great nation which was bound
To fill her borders sea to sea
With citizens like you and me
We owe thanks to Conestoga and Civil War
Beaver hats and railroad cars
Pulled behind the great iron horse
Of muskets bore and coon skin caps
Horses and cattle and leather chaps
Cowboys, six guns and barbed wire fences
Rangers, Marshals and bar maid glimpses
Pony Express and long coach rides
Wagon loads of buffalo hides
And the Indians who gave their homes
Of mountains and prairies where bison roamed
To live among us brave and bold
Absorbed by the manifest destiny told
Of the American Osmosis
Fields that echoed with the muskets' rattle;
Blood of Yanks and Rebs spilt in dire battle;
Now serene with murmurs of restless ghosts,
Of men who died among the frenzied hosts!
Are those the sighs of souls heard with each breeze,
As winds stir dancing leaves of ancient trees?
Do winter winds shrieking 'bout Round Top Hill,
Recall screams of men, their fate to fulfill?
Heard are moans of dying men, laurels won,
Or is it groans of pine boles 'neath sere sun?
Lincoln's speech yet echoes to honor they,
No matter the hue of cloth worn that day!
Should phantoms yet ask if they died in vain?
"Nay! Nay! Due to you this land rose again!"
Entry for Mark Massey's "War Sonnet" Contest
(6 January 2019)
The other day I sat beneath a sycamore tree on the court house lawn.
Old Glory fluttered in the breeze and to my eyes it was drawn.
It was tattered and frayed, I assumed, by the storms of many seasons,
But as I mused upon its state, could it have been caused by other reasons?
After all, it saw action in the Revolutionary War to create a new nation,
And suffered shot and shell in The War of 1812 ending foreign domination.
It flew over the Alamo and was drenched by the blood of courageous squads,
Who sacrificed their lives for independence, aware that they were against all odds.
Old Glory was unfurled for action in the Civil War in many a furious battle,
Mutilated by cannon fire and time and time again by the muskets rattle.
It was ripped by rifle fire as the Rough Riders charged up San Juan Hill.
To look upon it at their front must have given the Riders a comforting thrill!
It was torn asunder in the bloody trenches of France in World War One.
Though battered and torn it was held high at the battles cease for laurels won!
As its charred remnants were hoisted over Iwo Jima's blood soaked strand,
It unfurled to the cheers and tears of brave men who took a gallant stand!
Though the Korean and Vietnam conflicts and subsequent Desert Affair,
Took their toll on the old flag, it yet waves majestically with dignity and flair.
Though it has been spit upon and trampled on it still remains unfurled,
As a symbol of hope and a beacon of light for humankind about the world!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
The skirmish at Bunker Hill almost became a British scandal,
Since the Yanks gave the Brits almost more than they could handle!
General Howe expected the Yanks to toss their muskets and flee,
But the Yankee rabble fought to keep the colonists free!
Things looked mighty bleak during the winter at Valley Forge,
Where the ragtag troops regrouped to nettle old King George!
Starving and freezing, stalwart men suffered the winter through,
To show the Brits that they had bit off more than they could chew!
Lord Cornwallis' troops wore uniforms of bright, flaming red,
Making east targets for the Yanks, leaving many of them dead.
The bobtail mob wore tattered home-spun clothes of gray,
That blended in with tree and bush much to the Brit's dismay!
The canny Yanks hid behind tree, rock and craggy rise,
And were told, "Don't shoot 'til you see the whites of their eyes!"
The Brits marched in tight file to the beat of a rolling drum,
All to flaunt their strength and bravado, which was kinda dumb!
Brits had never fought such a war before and hollered "foul!"
Lord Cornwallis finally conceded defeat and tossed in the towel.
Thankfully, the colonists' dream of independence came true.
Just shows what Yankee common-sense and ingenuity can do!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
(© All Rights Reserved)
War, War
We need more War.
Come patriots,
Come comrades,
Let’s all go to Waaaar!
Raise your banners,
Gather your muskets,
Sharpen your swords,
Let's all go to Waaaar!
Won’t it be fun,
To kill a man
We do not know.
To take his life
And rape his wife.
Let's all go to Waaaar!
We need no cause
That is because
We just need War
War, War,
We need more Waaaar!
Let’s all go to Waaaar!
Little boy dreams
Of wooden sticks
And cardboard forts,
Playing at War
On a summer’s eve.
Bam! Bam! Bam!
Let's all go to Waaaar!
Hup, two, three, four
Buckle your shoe
I’m off to War,
Hup, two, three, four
Let’s all go to Waaaar!
March, March, March
Let’s all March
Through the Valley of Death
Death, Death, Death
Let’s all go to Waaaar!
Death on the right
Death on the left
The shots rang out
Ten Thousand died
To save the king
Waaaar! Waaaar! Waaaar!
We need more Waaaar!
Give us more Waaaar!
Boots on the ground,
Boys in a trench.
Flanders’s field and
Normandy’s shores,
Hiroshima and Nagasaki too.
Honor guards and monuments,
One million crosses in a row.
We’ll come and visit
On a springtime day;
Pay homage to all
Who sacrificed.
We’ll Lay flowers on their graves,
In honor of those
Who died this way
Waaaar! Waaaar! Waaaar!
We need more Waaaar!
Hup, two, three, four,
To white crosses on a hill
"Over The Top!" was the battle cry of the First World War!
At the Captain's signal, from the trenches doughboys would pour!
Shoulder to shoulder with bayonets fixed, steel glinting in the sun,
On they rushed, some to live, others to die, to face the fearless Hun!
On they raced through no-man's land, through the mud and gore,
Midst the din of the muskets' rattle and the cannons' roar!
The once bucolic field was now imbued in blood with so little gain.
Alas, many were maimed and hundreds from both sides were slain.
Sleep doesn't come easily as gallant men await the break of day.
Thoughts of home and happier times helped their fears allay.
Many turned their dog-eared Bibles to the Twenty-Third Psalm,
To read by flickering candlelight that ancient message of calm.
Life in the trenches was certainly not a life of ease.
It was cold and damp with water up to the knees.
Mail was sparse and a warm meal was rather rare.
Occasionally, poisonous gases crept stealthily through the air.
Why do men press on in battle when they know they're apt to die?
Is it because of their Sergeant's leadership or his rallying cry?
Is it his love of country and freedom that he hopes will turn the tide?
Nae! He fears that he'll let his buddy down who soldiers at his side!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
(© All Rights Reserved)
My people are shipwrecks,
they have faces long crushed by tanks.
Many are landlocked,
a few were too oceanic
they got broken by dry-docked hearts.
Most were blitzed by smokescreens.
The trees and industrial units
are so tightly packed,
that snow can only fall
in thin shafts of squeezed daylight.
You can get silenced or dead in those
cold spotlights.
At the edge of the cut lumber
yearlong tractors unearth muskets
discarded by the few who held fast
only to retreat to boneyards and sweatshops.
The unauthorized have been
censured and cancelled,
mute now the people hide their souls.
We took a road much travelled,
a stream of masked riders escaping,
it was a mad rush
to keep up with the fear.
When we got there, we could only
mill about like sheep behind the razor wire.
My people peer form the margins,
form tented tribes native to junkyards and jetsam.
They are washed up as shoreless wreckage,
gaunt reminders of all things forgotten.
They dream of that slim peninsular.
They dream-walk to the end of its long pier,
grasp the last flimsy rail
that keeps them safe from
the past and the future.
An ancient cycle of storms pounds them,
pounds that rickety quay
as it finger-points to nowhere.
The sea slaps their faces,
until they cannot stand, but must sit
inside their open mouths,
be just funnels
for the unrelenting winds
of dark times.
Dennis Cummings
1844-1920
To my friends of the 41st Infantry!
My men, my brave brothers from Wisconsin, are invited!
Invited RSVP to my domesticated, but dignified digs
On south Milton Street in Whittier town,
There, above the tracks of the Southern Pacific
There, surrounded by my better half’s tulips and pumpkins
There, surrounded by unequivocal respect and love
Of my loyal and nagging better half, Ellen, and
Of my dutiful and loyal son, Lee Roy.
There is a window upstairs facing north,
North to the rising green hills of Whittier town,
North even to the Stars and Stripes
Of my Wisconsin brothers
Of my fellow Wisconsin freedom fighters!
Nightly there, I light a candle for my friends.
My intrepid men, my brave brothers!
Those charging advancing storming souls
Those rampaging, death-staring warriors of the 41st!
Like the fiercely flowing rapids of the Tennessee
There in Chattanooga, and thereabouts,
My brothers and my friends braved the bullets,
Faced the fusillade of fire, the unspeakable violence, and
Even found glorious sacrifice,
Found glorious death in battle,
In the suffocating smoke and sulfur
Of fifty thousand muskets.
Yes, you are invited my brothers! My friends!
Come to my humble home here on South Milton Street
And look to the upstairs window.
There is a candle burning there for you.
Burning with respectful gratitude.
Burning with a proud silence
For my brave brothers,
The storming rampaging men of the 41st.
A retelling of Longfellow’s The Midnight Ride of Paul Revere
Listen, my children, and you shall hear
Of the midnight ride too long unclear,
Not one lone horseman through April’s gloom,
But three who galloped with freedom’s doom.
On the eighteenth of April, in Seventy-Five,
Hardly a man is now alive
Who remembers well that fateful quest,
When liberty’s riders rode out to the west.
He said to his friends, “The signal’s near,
One if by land, and two if by sea;
And I on the road will be ready to ride,
To wake the towns through the countryside.”
Then Dawes took saddle, a westward track,
While Revere turned north and didn’t look back;
And Prescott, waiting, would join before dawn,
When the British patrols pressed fierce and strong.
A friend in the belfry, tall and still,
Hung the lanterns high on the hill.
Two lights gleamed from the church’s tower,
And the riders were off in that midnight hour.
Through Charlestown streets the hoofbeats rang,
Past Medford farmsteads the summons sang,
Till window and door flew open wide.
“Up, ye farmers, awake!” they cried.
“Arm and gather, for war draws near!
The Regulars march with sword and spear!”
And the country folk, startled from bed,
Seized their muskets with faces red.
But lurking in darkness, the redcoats came,
A mounted patrol to end the flame;
And Revere was taken, his journey stayed,
Though bravely and loudly, the call he made.
Yet Dawes broke free with his steed still fast,
By wood and meadow the night he passed;
While Prescott vaulted the orchard wall,
His horse leapt high and out sped them all.
Onward he sped through Concord’s gate,
Shouting the word before ’twas too late:
“The soldiers are marching, the foe is near!
To arms! To arms! The time is here!”
From lantern’s glow to the farmyard’s cry,
The news went racing, mile on mile;
And farmers gathered with powder dry,
Their hearts aflame, their spirits high.
So when at the bridge the dawn was red,
And the first shots of the war were sped,
’It was Dawes and Prescott, whose midnight quest
Had summoned the people from east to west.
Therefore, my children, remember well,
The truth of the tale that history tells:
Not Revere alone through the dark he rode,
But Dawes and Prescott, who bore the load.
By Rick McGrath, Ph.D.