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Lining the edge of the shadow wood, a ghostly gray their numbers cast the sun's fire burned across the field, daring them enter it's inferno blast. Tired eyes yearned for victory this day, in hope of honor, home and land the burden laid heavy upon the brow, for the fate of Dixie was at hand. Down the line the generals gathered, on restless mounts dashing about Old Pete steadied in the saddle, his courage intact but mind in doubt. Gnawing his cigar to feed the fear, as July's heat couldn't shake the chill for the challenging task that laid ahead, to take the blue upon the hill. A darkness fell upon his heart, for his reluctance to give the command he gave the nod to General Pickett, Pickett salutes with a steady hand. Then he drew his sword held on high, and dashed to his soldiers in wait "make the way son's of Dixie" echoed, my daring lads the hill you must take. The cannons now silenced for the advance, their fiery load to clear the way in rows they marched from behind, in hopes of victory on a dying day. Their chivalry shined across the field, as they stepped by beat of the drum banners and chins held high in parade, marching deeper into summer's sun. The boys in blue laid on the hill, patiently holding their nerve and aim for the gray to move deeper into the killing field, before releasing their fiery rain. Sweat hung thick from their brow, for in wait of the attack at hand knowing the boys in gray were determined, for victory upon their northern land. The spear of the assault, Pickett's braves, entered the grasp of the cannon steel now well in sight of their deadly aim, the blue on the hill were ordered to kill. Shell and shot propelled from above, exploding to the ground below The birth of the battle now summoned, against the gray parade in rows. CHARGE! Ripped down the front lines, their stride quickened with a Rebel yell under the flood of lead's bursting death, they enter the fury of war's hell. They struggled against the black powder smoke, eyes burning from the haze the deafening explosion of the cannon rounds, fell many to their knees in a daze. The earth shaken from underfoot, only the brave to keep the advance to turn and run the other way, would sacrifice a hero's last chance. Screams of agony, piercing, gruesome, the fortunate to be taken quick many praying for God to take them, for merciful angels to snuff life's wick. Under the stroke of an hour, victory for Dixie would be but a dream her assault would end in agony, her dead son's laying gray on the green. Never would she recover, from the pageantry slaughter of that day her commanders would sit in solitude, in thought the battle would play. On to the field Pickett spurred his stud, in desperate search of his men taken by death's wakeless slumber, his division never to be seen again. History would name it Pickett's charge, Pickett would claim it as Lee's mistake the boisterous general would never forgive, for his fallen on the battlefield wake. Now many years have come to pass, but the treacherous battle lives on in the little town of Gettysburg, where the sun greets the graves at dawn. Their bones wrapped in her peaceful ground, but southern spirits soar above the open field charged long ago, for a dashing general's, their undying love.
This Poem was Critiqued By: Leo Wilder On Date: 2004-01-28 11:20:58
Critiquer Rating During Critique: 9.80000
Ronda, Very nice job. Historical poems, with accuracy are very hard to do. I tried one on Gettysburg, but it kind of fell apart trying to be too accurate. Nice job. Leo
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