The thought came to me some years ago while passing through Appomattox, Va. I stopped to observe some of the graves and while gazing over the rolling hills, in my imagination, I could vividly see and hear the horrors of war.
I am 65 years old and I write the poetry of an old man who remembers.
What ghosts walk these hallowed hills,
Where once the cry of battle reigned?
Who are these smoky misty forms that
By their blood this ground was stained?
Their cry of pain floats on the wind.
Echoing from the ridge,
Calling for aid and comfort, but alas,
The spans too wide to bridge.
Only God can help these souls who have
Fallen at the line,
Build no monument to these men, this
Ground shall be their shrine.
Let angels hover above the trees and
Guard these men of yore,
Kiss their cheeks and soothe their brow,
For death shall be no more.
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(c) 1999 James W. Richardson Please respect the rights of the author and Passions in Poetry. If you would like to use this poem on your own web page, please contact the Author. Thank you.
this was an outstanding poem. My grandfather was a veteran and my dad is a veteran. one day i hope to be a verteran with them and its poems like this that reach out to me, to help me release my fear of dieing and drive me to survive
Randolph
This is beautiful, My life reflects the pain and suffering expressed thru these works. Thanks for sharing. I write too.
Maggie
A great poem!
The
Very nicely captures the air of the sacred ground or even the earth in a place with a long history of warfare.
Cara
I loved this poem so much. It speaks to you about the memories of war. You are very talented James. This is a very beautiful poem. I want to read more of your work.
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