Chickamauga

Walk between the lines,

Quiet a century and a half,

Except for whispers through a foggy shroud,

Below squirrel teeth on hickory nut,

Quieter than browsing deer,

The echo of shot,

Rebel yell, cannon,

Rebound off stone sentinels.

Any summer-day family picnic,

White cloth laid on blood-soaked earth,

Children raise stick guns

To fire on mother, brother, father, sister.

A sun warmed day,

No tarnish on games of history,

But in the mist of autumn

This truth will not be silent,

On these hills,

Between these lines,

Brother blood flowed by brother hands.

Time will argue for and against,

The meaning of the dead,

A fight to set slaves free,

Or hold sovereign sway of nation over state,

Or Johnny Reb saw King George where Lincoln sat,

Or Yankee hands lusted for smooth cotton from the gins.

Carpet bag in hand,

Victor plays the slave a pawn,

Another hundred years,

Freedom in both north and south,

Manacled by flesh tones,

The color of hate’s sting,

Waiting the inspired words by Martin Luther King.

Federal decree beget equality?

Minds torn,

Justice wracked

Between first Adam

And the last trumpet,

Entombed upon a foggy hill

Until released by blood.

We dare not shrug,

This shroud until the morning star sings.

tucker pennington

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s