HISTORY POETRY COMPETITION VICTORY
PARADE
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Winners of the
2001 History Poetry Competition
American Civil War Category Winners
First Place I Second Place I Third Place I Honorable Mention
General History Category Winners
First Place I Second Place I Third Place I Honorable Mentions
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AMERICAN CIVIL WAR CATEGORY
WINNERS
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"Those Who Fought the Wilderness"
by Larry Cawley
In the heart of every soldier bold,
and all the battle stories told,
None would ere' forget the cruel distress
of those who fought the wilderness.
In tangled underbrush so dark
where tinder mated with the spark
birthing many a little flame
each feeding on the dry terrain
Shadowy figures in the haze
darting through the forest maze
like apparitions from below
'twas hard to tell, were they friend or foe?
They must forge on regardless the cost
sometimes separated, confused or lost
then...there's the enemy just up ahead
muskets flash,
one minute alive, the next minute, dead.
Those who fall now lay together
some will lay in those woods forever
but, it's the wounded who will cry and pray
matters not whether blue or gray.
For fires grew from little flame
each feeding on that dry terrain
all round it raised its ugly head
and threatened every wounded's bed
While soot and smoke denied them breath
the fire's glow predicted death
crawl...nay, injuries held them 'gainst their will
and the flames grew closer...closer still
Out in no-man's land they lay
while enemy musket sought new prey
oh, to brave the sniper's shell
and drag them from that burning hell
In the heart of every soldier bold
and all the battle stories told
none would ere' forget the cruel distress
of those who fought the wilderness.
About the Author
Biography - Cawley is a resident of Morriston, Florida. Cawley has
studied the Civil War for over 35 years. In addition to writing poems, he gives
presentations and poetry readings on the topic.
His poetry has been entered in and among the winners in several previous
History Poetry Competitions. These include "My Son, My Son" (Third Place,
American Civil War category, 2000) and "This Long and Dreadful Field"
(Second Place, American Civil War category, 1999).
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"Reflections"
by Robert Westberry
What the mirror reflected
Was a faded suit of gray...
Unraveled and all tattered
With a trace of Georgia clay...
What the mirror reflected
Was an old, farsighted gent;
Unkempt and all disheveled
(Spectacles all bent.)
What the mind reflected
Was the year of '62
When he joined the C.S.A.
To "whoop" the "Boys in Blue."
What the mind reflected
Was a youth of seventeen;
All the innocence he lost
With the bloodshed he had seen...
What the mirror reflected
The mind couldn't comprehend...
The War had long been over
But, the Battle could not end.
About the Author
Biography - Westberry is a resident of Greensburg, Pennsylvania. He is a
Civil War buff who enjoys genealogy and writing poetry.
Roots - Westberry's maternal family roots are in the South. He has many family members who fought for the Confederacy during the Civil War. Some of his distant ancestors are John Randolph Lane, Nathan Bedford Forrest, and Richard Rowland Kirkland (a.k.a. "The Angel of Marye's Heights").
About the Poem
This poem is fictional.
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"Which Way Is Massachusetts?"
by Sandra E. McBride
Joseph pressed a letter in my hand
As he lay dying in the mud.
"Please give this to our mama, David,
Tell her if you would
That I didn't die a coward...
I never ran away."
As I watched my brother's life
Go out of him that day
I wondered if I'd get the chance
How could I ever tell
Our mother her beloved son
Had died in the bowels of hell?
I stuffed the letter in my shirt.
I had no tears to give.
I'd lost my younger brother
Who'd not yet chanced to live.
They tossed his lifeless body
On a grisly, growing pile.
Stacked them up like cordwood.
But Joseph wore a smile.
"I must go home, dear God," I prayed,
"Oh, please, show me the way.
I'll not endure this wretched place,
Not even one more day."
Escape was all I thought of.
I needed to be free.
I stared upon the dead line,
At the wall, the guards and trees.
"Which way is Massachusetts?"
I asked an old man nearby,
For a misty shroud of acrid smoke
Obscured the summer sky.
He gazed at me, his lips atremble
Tears blurred his rheumy eyes
As he raised a gnarled, sooty hand
And pointed to the sky.
When night fell heavy on the camp,
And all had gone to rest,
I took out Joseph's letter
And held it to my breast.
There, amid the moaning throng,
The ragged tents and rank latrines,
I lay me down upon the ground
And dreamed of Massachusetts green.
That night the war was ended.
My soldiering was done.
I said farewell to Andersonville
And followed Joseph home.
About the Author
Biography - McBride is a resident of Mechanicville, New York. Her poems
have won previous History Poetry Competitions. These include
"A Frightened Boy" (First
Place, American Civil War category, 2000) and
"Mr. Lincoln's Tears"
(Honorable Mention, American Civil War category, 1999).
About the Poem
This poem is fictional, based on fact. It is written in honor of Joseph and
David Blair of the 27th Massachusetts, who both died at Andersonville Prison,
Georgia, in July 1864.
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"Little Drummer Boy"
by Ellen H. Piacentine
Little Drummer Boy,
In your woolen suit of gray,
Do you really know
Why you're standing here today?
You are in a Confederate Camp.
Union Camp across the way.
Are you just playing soldier
under a flag of Bonnie Blue
Softly playing a drum roll
For those you never saw or knew?
I hope you know your mission
It's not just for today
To work for peace and understanding
A better world than yesterday.
So play your drum again, lad
To remember and honor the dead
They gave their lives for me and you.
So we could have peace instead
Of the terrible conflicts then
And the wars still happening today.
The drum roll continues
will the conflicts never end?
About the Author
Biography - Piacentine is a resident of Gettysburg, Pennsylvania.
About the Poem
This poems addresses the why and wherefore responsibilities of today's Civil
War reenactors.
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GENERAL HISTORY CATEGORY WINNERS
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"The Persistent Prospector"
by Richard H. Peterson, Ph.D.
After a treacherous voyage ended
through the Golden Gate,
I worked the California diggings
‘til my body painfully ached,
But precious little gold or dust
have I found,
While staking claims in rowdy,
Sierra Nevada mining towns.
Oh, what great expectations had I
when I left the East,
Newspapers said California promised
the abundant material feast,
But I have yet to make that elusive,
lucky strike,
Though I have dug potential glory holes
day and even night.
Panning for gold in streams chilled me
to the bone,
And how often I have thought of
the warm hearth of home,
But I've fashioned a life in a canvas tent
with those like me,
Who see the new El Dorado
as our manifest destiny.
One grows weary of a steady diet of
pork and beans,
And dysentery and smallpox do not spare
even a man of means,
If you work underground in the tunneled
hardrock mines,
Fire, flooding, and accidents
can shorten your digging time.
But I persist in my dream of
finding easy money,
And during the dead time of winter
wait for days more sunny,
When with pick, pan, and shovel I'll
head again through mountain dew,
While knowing all full too well that
fortunes are only for the few.
About the Author
Biography - Peterson is a resident of San Diego, California, where he is
professor emeritus of history at San Diego State University. He has published
extensively on the mining frontier and industry of the American West including
three books and numerous articles and reviews in professional journals and
commercial magazines. His poems - which often reflect historical, social, and
environmental themes - have appeared in poetry magazines and poetry
anthologies. He is also a freelance writer and historical consultant.
His poems have won previous History Poetry Competitions. These include
"A Hero in Blue" (Honorable
Mention, American Civil War category, 1999), "The Cigar Store Indian" (Third
Place, General History category, Spring 1998),
"The Atlantic Crossing"
(Honorable Mention, General History category, Spring 1998), and
"The Union Soldier's Dilemma"
(Third Place, American Civil War category, 1997).
About the Poem
"This poem exposes the conflict between the unrealistic expectations of
finding easy money and the harsh reality of life experienced by the typical
miner on the California mining frontier during the California Gold Rush and
beyond," says Peterson. "Since the discovery of gold in California
and the ensuing rush constituted a watershed in regional and American history
and impacted also the world because various nationalities poured into
California, the poem should be viewed as more historically and broadly
significant than it might appear on the surface. "Despite the obvious
difficulties of ever striking it rich, many independent prospectors persisted
in their quest between 1849 and about 1852. Shortly thereafter, they had either
returned home, found other occupations in California, or joined the industrial
mining labor force as ordinary working-class members."
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"Rights Well Won: Runnymede Today"
by John W. Crawford
The rights of men o'er all the earth
Have always been so sought,
That men have stood in rain and snow
To see their battles fought.
Such rights were won in British land
Called Runnymede that day;
And soon the cry heard round the world
Showed other men the way.
Such rights so sought on foreign soil
Came even to our shore,
And many men from far and near
Arrived to share in more.
The years went by and rights were gained,
Sometimes by heavy hand,
But all men grew and came to know
That sharing makes a land.
The sharing that began to spread
Moved West to every draw,
And soon the glories of the East
Came into Arkansas.
But not for every group and clan
Was such a dream to be;
The subtle choice of color bar
Grew obvious to see.
It grew until a war was fought
To prove to all the clans
That all the way from North to South
The dream's for every man.
So time soon passed and wounds forgot
But not all men were free;
More subtle bonds than once were felt
Some groups began to see.
Such bonds were drawn and then pulled tight;
So some would suffer great;
In time the ones who did not fit
Were treated second rate.
For years and years they sat and wept
And knew a silent rage.
In time the wounds of ages long
Would head and come of age.
It's strange how cries so often come
Full centuries apart
But comes the day when man will stand
And shout what's in his heart.
And so it was in Arkansas
In Nineteen Fifty-Seven
A new age rose and took its stand
And shouted loud to heaven.
Old Central High at Little Rock
Would never be the same;
The few who dared to speak their peace
Began an awesome game.
The children started out that day
With hopes bright as the sun;
They did not know; they could not know
Their march had just begun.
For man can act just like the beasts
When fears begin to show;
And fears can eat away the soul
And make the spirit go.
Such fears were shown on that first day
When young blacks walked with pride;
Their skin was dark, their souls were white,
They felt all clean inside.
The fears were seen in taunts and jibes,
In racial slams and slurs;
With vicious tongues and icy eyes
And names of cats and curs;
With rotten fruit and aged eggs,
All thrown with hate and spite.
And yet the youth marched on to school
For they knew what was right.
Day after day, day after day,
Escorted by the law,
The young black youth with courage high
Kept faith mid what they saw.
And by their courage shown those days
They won the war they fought.
It was for rights and happiness,
It was a dream they sought.
About the Author
Biography - Crawford is a resident of Arkadelphia, Arkansas. His poems
have won previous History Poetry Competitions. These include
"Sarasin, Deliverer" (Second
Place, General History category, Spring 1998) and
"The Battle of the Bees"
(Second Place, American Civil War category, 1997).
About the Poem
Details a critical stage of the civil rights movement in America.
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"The Ballad of the Sunshine"
by Susan G. Copeland
© 1972
On the second of May, just one day,
In the year of seventy-two.
As the wind blew drafts, down through the shafts
Miners had a job to do.
To bring out ore, always a little more,
Than what they did yesterday.
So down to mine, deep in the Sunshine
To work another day's pay.
With twelve to the groups, all marching like troops,
Into the great Jewel Shaft.
To have rides down, to deep underground
For some it would be their last.
One seventy-eight, knew not their fate
In mining that rich silver ore.
But as the sun set down, it would be known through town
As the worst disaster in the Northwest before.
Well it happened at the Sunshine, just about noon time
Billows of smoke poured out,
And there just wasn't enough time to come from that mine
When fire became their shout.
As over eighty-five came out alive
Some re-entered to pull miners from the gas
But the smoke was thick and it traveled quick
There was very little good air to last.
Now there's twenty men dead and eighty men down
When will it ever end?
Families have gathered from miles around
Waiting for their loved men.
News from the mine spread faster than time
And men came from towns around.
Miners in need was all they could see
And eighty trapped underground.
They worked through the night, by miner's light
Fighting back that poison gas
But four long days before there was a way
To reach the No. 10 Shaft.
Workers had a plan to send down a man
In a capsule designed for two.
But getting it down to lower ground
Was still another job to do.
They walked through the drift to see about the lift
Used for transport below
When they got there the hoistman in his chair
His hands still on the controls.
Now there's forty men dead and fifty-three down
When will it ever end?
Family have gathered for miles around
Praying for their loved men.
Outside the mine, the sun refused to shine
The heavens seemed to be sad
Tho it was late, wives remained to wait
And sons prayed for their dads.
On the seventh day, they couldn't see a way
A miner could still be alive
But at six at night, workers saw a light
And two who did survive.
They were back in a drift away from the lift
When the fire broke out
And as the lethal gas was moving down the shaft
They heard miners shout.
"Go back in the mine, there's not enough time
To call for the lift down,
If we're gonna live, we're gonna hafta give
This smoke a bit more ground."
It was already late for all but eight
As they moved back from the lift.
Two more miners fell, their partners yelled
Carrying one back in the drift.
Onward went five to find more alive
Leaving two in good air
But not a single man came back as planned
So the two remained there.
On top ground their wives were found
And told their men survived
Seven days passed, relief at last
They found some men alive.
A joy so proud came from the crowd
As the two came from that mine
A renewed spark filled every heart
And the sun again did shine.
But now there's sixty-three dead and twenty-eight down
When will it ever end?
Families have gathered from miles around
Crying for their loved men.
The workers ventured down to deeper underground
In hopes of finding more alive.
But only silent walls heard their beckoned calls
No more miners did survive.
With the families gone home the workers are alone
To finish a job left undone.
For that mine, the powerful and rich Sunshine
Has claimed the lives of ninety-one.
About the Author
Biography - Copeland is a resident of Wallace, Idaho.
About the Poem
In May 1972, one of the worst mine disasters in the Pacific Northwest unfolded
at the Sunshine Mining Company located just outside of Kellogg, Idaho.
Ninety-one miners lost their lives on May 2, 1972 when a fire broke out in an
unoccupied stope. After seven days, rescue workers were able to find two miners
who survived this ordeal. They were the only survivors.
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"Nev-a Hoppen Joe"
by Paul Sperou
Above parallel thirty-eight,
Frontline Korea North,
A place called nine-o-seven hill,
We gave up all its worth...
We wished this war was over,
We wanted home to go,
But enemy three thousand yards,
It nev-a hoppen Joe...
ROK nco's would beat their troops,
In South Korea service,
Supply men who refused to serve,
Would make us marines nervous...
We backed up from the Kansas line,
From a village, call it - Huenjue,
And every time a peace deal done,
Commies jumped off with a ven-gea...
Now parallel is straight across,
We lost a lot of guys,
Their M-1 rifles rust away,
Remember - this is not a toy?
So long to North Korea,
And grenadier named Moe,
And if I dare to talk about it,
I hear, nev-a hoppen Joe!...
About the Author
Biography - Sperou is a resident of Sun City, California. His poems have
won previous History Poetry Competitions. These include
"kinda the same" (Third Place,
General History category, 1999), "Korean Bein' " (Third Place,
General History category, Fall 1998), and "Army Dispatch" (Honorable Mention,
American Civil War category, 1997).
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"September 11, 2001 - I Wish I Could"
by Jonathan Cromer
To all those people who thought it'd be just another day at work,
Couldn't anticipate the pain and hurt,
And didn't realize just how much a single life was worth...
I wish I could change that...
To all of those who felt sadness and cried,
Who still have loved ones to find,
To the friends and family of those who died...
I wish I could change that...
And to all of those who just shake this off,
Who don't care about who was lost,
Only really care about how much it's going to cost...
I wish I could change that...
To those who can't understand the reason and why,
Who lost a companion, who used to be by their side,
To the people who now cry themselves to sleep each night...
I wish I could change that...
And to all those stuck in the buildings inside,
Who could look out the window at the planes before they died,
Who had to realize that that was the end of their lives...
I wish I could change that...
And to all of those who've cried themselves an ocean,
Drowning in sorrow in the deep river of emotions,
I wish I could change that...
I wish I could change that.
About the Author
Biography - Cromer is a resident of Vancouver, Washington. His interests
include web design, programming, and creating techno music. He also enjoys
performing in comedy productions.
About the Poem
"I couldn't think of a meaningful way to express my sorrow over the events
that happened in New York and Washington. I decided that the easiest way to say
what I was feeling was through poetry," says Cromer. "I can't say I
know how anyone would be feeling in this situation. I can't even fathom how
much it must hurt to lose a loved one in a tragedy such as this, but I can tell
you that time heals all wounds. I can believe right now that it doesn't seem
like the pain will ever subside. If I had the ability, I would change the
events that occurred on September 11. But if I was able to do one thing other
than completely stop what happened from happening, I'd want to give everyone
the chance to say goodbye to their loved ones before they died."
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Other History Poetry Competition Winners
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CONGRATULATIONS TO ALL WINNERS
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History Poetry Competition Victory Parade Home Page
About the History Poetry Competition
HistoryOnline.Net Home Page I History Articles & Short Story Competition
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MAIL Call Journal published by
Distant Frontier Press
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Views expressed by the
winners of this competition in their poetry
do not necessarily reflect those of the
competition sponsor.
All material is copyrighted by the respective authors.
The 2001 competition
closed November 15, 2001.