Horizontal Marchers

The sweet odors of rot
Drift past on the May breeze
While Mr. Lincoln delivers his
Near perfect Gettysburg Address.

Graveyard

In sight across the field are
Long furrows of grass healed graves
Filled with the forgotten dreams
Of eighteen thousand Rebel dead.

By a later special warrant,
These forgotten bootless boys
Were moved back South to sleep
Among the sweet odors of May magnolias.

Lying side by side like horizontal marchers,
It never occurred to them forgotten dreams
Would become whispers of wind,
Singing with their honor, to a listening sky.

Les Atkins Poetry Index Page
Send e-mail to Les Atkins