It reminded me of a poem my Dad wrote a very long time ago, I don't know when, I don't know why, I just know it's one of quite a few I had copied from piled pages of his. I have a few journals stored in a hutch in my office, this poem is in one of the journals that hold just poems. I pulled the book and I read the poem to R. the other night. A few years ago my brother requested a copy of it. I received an email from him tonight asking if I still had it because he lost his copy. Interesting how all that happens. I wonder if he watched the program. Maybe my dad's around and making his presence known. Who knows how these things work.
Here's the poem:
Thinking of the day I joined the fight
Night and day I shot the Yank
My uniform is gray, a private in rank.
I'm chained to a jail cell you see
A Major was shot because of me.
I saw the Yankee that fired the shot
I could have killed him, as easy as not.
I saw him raise his rifle high
I aimed carefully and began to cry
I couldn't shoot that Yank in blue
He fired a shot, his shot was true.
the Major fell right by my side,
I fired a shot and then I cried.
Forgive me, I didn't wan to, Mother
I shot the Yank, I killed my brother.