“Ulysses” 

Ulysses, Ulysses—

they say you wept in the Wilderness,

at Cold Harbor and at Petersburg,

and Spotsylvania’s blood-soaked field.

 

One-hundred thousand dead

inside the space of a summer.

 

One-hundred thousand dead

couldn’t crush the Southern pride.

 

You, who hid in loneliness

with your brandy and cigars;

 

You, they called the Butcher

for sending their sons to die;

 

You, the prewar failure

resurrected as thousands cried.

 

It was only nine months later

at a table where treaties were signed

that your people called you Hero

and forgave you for your crimes.

 

Forgotten was Cold Harbor

and Spotsylvania and Petersburg.

Forgotten was The Crater

and the countless graves you’d made.

 

Their joy cut down your Wilderness

sending you to the White House instead

and as they made you President

all of the wounds seemed healed.

 

Forgotten were the dead,

the sons and husbands gone;

 

Forgotten was the general

drunk within his tent;

 

Forgotten now the scandal

that brought you back to being the man

you were before the war

that you never should have fought.

 

“Appomattox” 

Stories are told how good men fall

once marching high above their faults. 

 

The ghosts remain as the bodies lay

and the battle flags slowly fade.

 

A fateful April in 1865

Two countries dreams gasped and died.

 

Once-white flags stained with blood

solemnly furled with the fighting done. 

 

Soon there’d be monuments to mark battlefields

guarding the spots no armies would yield.

 

In a framework house in a forgotten town

the once-proud rebellion lay itself down.

 

Two tired men met, weary of war

Neither having the heart to fight any more.

 

Aged Virginia gentleman with gilded sword

Legendary leader of a states’ rights war.

 

The other much younger in a private’s plain coat

Lt. General smelling of smoke.

 

Outside young men cried for comrades no more

If they had to again, they would still fight this war.

 

Inside terms were given and surrender was made

Too late for the ghosts where the bodies were laid.

 

“Cold Harbor” 

With name and address

pinned to their uniforms

the warriors waged

on a growing mass grave,

 

Four years of fighting

and the end was now near.

Lincoln relied on the numbers

where strategy’d failed.

 

As the sabers sang and flags flew

As the cannon cried and mothers, too

No one remembered what once they all knew—

that the Colonies had once rebelled too.

 

As fresh-faced innocents

died by the hundreds

above the screams of the dying

prayers could be heard.

 

As with their last breath

they asked God for a favor

let their letters and Bibles

find their way home.

 

“Popskull”

 

Gather ‘round the fire now boys

I’ve made a little magic

to chase away the chill.

 

It’s heavy on the turpentine

‘cause my hands have gone to shakin’

from too many nights of them cannon

those damned Yankees fire.

 

Gather ‘round with your tinpots

if you think you’re a gentleman

or sleeve-clean your lips

and drink from the jar.

 

It’s five above zero and

the fire won’t save you

but this here concoction

will warm you up right.

 

My blanket’s so tattered

it can’t warm a worm

and even Lieutenants

ain’t got boots to wear.

 

Come raise your voices

to Jefferson Davis

warm in his palace

with his wife and his wine.

 

Sing to the regiment

howl like the wolf

give a good rebel yell

to make the damned Yankees run.

 

Drink a toast to your brothers

rotting slow down below us.

Swallow hard and praise God

that at least that ain’t us.

 

“Picnic at Manassas, 1861”

 

Put on your best dress, I’ve packed us a lunch.

The Yankees and Rebs are planning a fight.

Pick a nice hill with lots of green grass.

No sense in wasting this fine July day.

 

Close up the store, the wagons are leaving.

Get a good seat—there’s no time to spare.

McDowell is ready and his boys fit for fighting.

Johnson’s with Beauregard with a force like the sea.

 

Hand me my spy glass, the fighting’s begun!

The roar of artillery’s like the Fourth of July.

We saw one three weeks ago but nothing like this!

A legion of battle flags, a song to each state.

 

Look at that, ladies, it’s Burnside’s Brigade.

Boys from Rhode Island, they’ve come a long way.

There’s glory in dying for what you believe

In pours the South with a force like the sea.

 

Pour me more wine, the sun’s shining hard.

Listen to the cannons, listen to the guns!

Wade Hampton’s arrived, with Jackson he plans.

The field is on fire and the screaming’s begun!

 

Pack up the wagons, drink up the wine.

Red as the field is beginning to turn.

Stuart is charging, the North is in flight.

Let’s hurry to Washington while we still have the bridge.

 

Back to our homes, to talk about heroes.

While we eat a fine feast and finish the wine.

Smoke in the evening and talk about heroes.

There’s glory in dying for what you believe.