O' requiem of the dead poets Alighted your vigor, Your ancient souls do rest in the grave. Your words course through me... The subtle, inauspicious meanings That the madman sees and says, "Aha, it says nothing." So little is said that is said Loud, bold and obnoxious. Inebriation of subtle inquiries Subtle thoughts and subtle shadows Of thoughts. I ask, "Why do you need "A meaning that is loud, and bold "When Rhetoric favors ignorance? "However, subtle souls have taught me subtlety "And with that the mingling of all knowledge." Yet, it was foreseen that the man of inquiry Did not want revealed the heart of another man But to only look into a reflective pool. He did not want to share, or understand. Merely to have his own ideas shouted back at him. Thus, blood ran in the streets. Thus, dead were wheeled through the thoroughfares For seven days of revolution. All for loud, droning war songs And not the quiet voice of reason Understanding its world, And gaining from it packets of wisdom Which does not gallivant through the street Nor does it make its words an enchantment. It, rather, seeks to understand what others are too busy to understand And pass by, leaving its little packet of pollen upon the pistil To germinate into the next budding spring. While pseudo-philosophers war over who is right And who's brand of ideology shall be superior... We, the poets---who are long dead, or shall die--- Leave behind the subtlety of more ancient wisdoms Which the world, as it fights its wars Would some day soon find again And see there upon the page what folly it was That right and wrong were not to be won by the muzzle of a gun But were simply to be found, and rediscovered A thousand times by Us, the poets who are dead, or shall be dead.
Tag: Civil War
We Are Free
Fife and drum sweep o’er the hills
Thunderous cracks from without the pills.
Troops arrayed in battle’s might
Take back the creek throughin the night.
Great smoke lays o’er the valleys shed
With the blood of the revolution bled.
Great thunderous crowds from the east
Lay their bulwarks about the creek.
Britain comes in strong man o’ wars
With troops and muskets from another shore.
The battle arrayed to free our guns
The righteous lot of those revolution’s sons;
With ten thousand marching to Washington’s songs
The Prussian General making us strong.
Forget not the revolution’s proud mysterious fire
Which laid the bodies of man and sire.
Repeaters on the chiefest hills
Longstreet’s guns were good to kill.
Picket’s charge, o’ laid to waste
The Rebel South and their great haste.
Across the valley they ran and charged
Believing the guns were waxen charge;
Yet they were instead a cartridge load
Which fired seven shots for each rebel’s load.
Down the grey coats fell in blood
For Picket’s mismatch with the Yankees’ Guns.
Slavery was ended on that good day
And on the fourth Lincoln had his say.
Just like on the fourth our nation sealed
To free mankind, and slavery killed.
Right had won both illustrious wars
Good men died, and their blood had poured.
For righteous were the chiefest sons
Who fought off the British and Rebel Guns.
B. K. Neifert 