A few poems

Nothing funny this week, just a few poems that I have written. The first one is of my grandpa and the remaining three are of the civil war (I don't know why, I just find that era in US history to be so cool). Tell me if they suk or not. If you like them, I have more so be honest in your critiques.

Sunset

Last week, we admitted another patient
whose passions lied within his family and farm.

Donne’s wife Marilyn cared for him
ever since their eyes first met;
she told me of how he smelled of corn and sweat.
She cherishes that high school dance.

Once the house was built,
a baby girl, Danette, came
along with the rain for his crops
of beans and corn.

A steward of the land,
Donne was appreciative of what he had:
a loving wife, bountiful crops, planted trees,
two girls and neighbors who would wave.

Marilyn remembers Donne shaking his head
when the Beatles made the girls scream
on the Ed Sullivan show
and in his living room.

Danette reminded me
that he likes to listen to the Twins
and to always keep a Bible
close to his bed.

Renee is having difficulty with this
and hasn’t visited yet.
Danette told me that her sister always needed space.

As a member of the Brethren church
Donne is a very forgiving and understanding man.
Small in stature,
but endowed with substance.

Marilyn tried to take care of Donne at their home
but couldn’t fake the smiles anymore
when he would walk outside
and stare at the trees.

He enjoys reminiscing, what he can remember, anyway.
His favorite memory
is the sunset he witnessed when he was 17;
middle October on the seat of his dad's John Deere.

Sinking To The Earth

A bearded rebel surrenders himself to death

on a silent battlefield,
two arms grasping his only leg.

The last Union bulletfound its last rebel target.

Though still alive,
he is next to death.

Thoughts of her ease their way inlike unsuspecting fog.

Clara is next to him, along with the wind blowing across his weathered face,
it wont be long.

Forced into the role of Rebel

his thoughts of Clara now accompanythe regret of not running;
no one will tend to his painuntil after he is dead.

Just one more face in a field blessed with anonymity.

That Aching Sunday

A little white Confederate church

all but empty except for a lone white dove;

its graceful flight seceded

by panes of North Carolina glass.

In between two shy, but curious souls

fearing the war and embracing the silence before Sunday’s service.

Eliza and William, before a lone cherry cross

in a humble white church

exchange a silent interest along potent gazes,

with the marriage of subtle dust and defiant sun

through four of its eight windows.

Perched on a pew, the dove lured to William’s hand

while an equally curious Eliza wished he wouldn’t go off to war.

An eager congregation, awaiting the fate of the dove and their Sunday service,

finally, the opening of the doors, Eliza and William, the dove

and a connection.

In the bountiful bosom of a Carolina mountain valley,

this church, a simple place of worship and song.

I will remember this moment
as I look to the midnight sky with a yankee bullet below my eye;

that aching Sunday with Eliza and a dove flying back to its origin

along with my spirit.

Beauty in the Waking: The Civil War Nurse

They come in so intermittent

the chloroform stench, the rage and sentiment.

We are unequipped to adapt

overcome by pain, infection, a seceded map.

Bullets in their eyes, shrapnel in their necks

still despair inside, almost wrecked.

They scream out for mothers and Sally’s

the last time their eyes will speak of sunlit picnics in valleys.

Their last vision while on their left knee

the advancing army and a distant Robert. E. Lee.

Under heavy and dank tents we aide

stitching small wounds while optimism fades.

We’re paid in stained dresses and final grasps of our wrist

the new ones cry, the seasoned just add the names to the list.

Many of us learned this from our mothers,

prepared now to care for separated brothers.

Wounds infected and skin of gangrene

for many of us, things we have never seen.

Nurturing their last words with our eyes

they are men in beds, ashamed of their cries.

Their last glance, a spirit breaking

our duty to find beauty in the waking.