Inside our living room, there stood a table.
Three legs it had; its round top was unique.
Mom kept it in the corner, and she’d say
so proudly that the table was antique.
Well polished, it had a vase atop it,
and flawless was its base, legs widely splayed.
One day, with Mom away, we moved it to
another room. A few games we then played.
Our chairs fit well round that three-legged table
as we played our Yahtzee and Crazy Eights.
A lovely afternoon we spent, just I
with two of my dear sisters as my mates.
One sister (I can’t recall which one now)
brought drinks to us, and just as Mom walked in,
I spilled my drink! Mom became hysteric
as if I had committed some great sin!
She yanked us off our chairs and quickly wiped
the spillage – yelling at us the whole time.
The table got put back into its corner,
and we were punished for our little crime.
The vase was put back on the table’s top,
and we three got no soup that night to sup.
Mom’s in a nursing home now; we’ve all grown.
I wonder where that table ended up!
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)
Back in the blues funk; a lone acoustic, round top guitar sings.
The whining-twang-between-stanzas, slide-notes on lightly bent strings.
Fingers hammer out the timing on an, ebony fretboard.
Bugle resounds call for another fateful charge
Bands of soldiers toward the fortified ridge barge
Enfilading fire from cannons fiery portents discharge
Infantry ranks decimated from center to marge
Wave after wave crest up the rocky redoubt
O'er boulders, mounds their heels dutifully plow
Nourishing with their blood a field so fallow
Trite fodder on a temporal battle strand; sacrificial lambs noble
cause to hallow
Ruddy lads searing in the scorching sun; faces sunk, complexion's
sallow
Surrendering all future hope; boyish dreams in dying hearts so
callow
Precious resources drained from a reservoir so shallow
Southern heroes ressurected and romanticized on nouveau tableau