HISTORY POETRY COMPETITION VICTORY
PARADE
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Mail Call Journal is pleased to present the Winners of the
Spring 1998 History Poetry Competition
American Civil War Category Winners
First Place I Second Place I Third Place
General History Category Winners
First Place I Second Place I Third Place I Honorable Mentions
Links I Contact
Us
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AMERICAN CIVIL WAR CATEGORY
WINNERS
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"Images" by Jeanne W. Knoop
Eyes looking at me from unforgettable depths of their souls.
Think what...as they prepare for battle.
Images that want to show their love to a wife, a mother, or a sweetheart.
Images in which I can see the pride of being part of a vast
army, not yet knowing just what that means.
The most significant part of their entire lives, for all of it, if they live.
Boys and young men full of fire and bravado,
but behind that facade, fear of the future.
Should it be a tender face that I should show them?
Should it be manly and strong to let them, the family, see that I fear not?
They are caught forever in that frame.
Years go by, but they do not age as the living do.
Most images have no names, sad to say.
A face captured but the name lost forever....
Hundreds of thousands are gone. Lying where they are known to be and unknown to
be.
Their names, the companys, the regiments are on stone, marble, and even wood.
These images are haunting and sad.
I see them through swimming eyes.
It was the best and worst of times for them.
Their faces and their dedication to the flags and to the men
with whom they shared the time together shines through.
Could we ever be like that again?
Does this still take place?
Or is it a mid-nineteenth century world that is gone forever,
except in images of Civil War soldiers....
About the Author
Biography - Jeanne W. Knoop, of Summit, New Jersey, is an independent scholar. Knoop has written articles for "The Civil War News." She has also written two books - "I Follow the Course, Come What May: Major General Daniel E. Sickles, U.S.A." and "There Were Lots of Tears: The Tragic Personal Family Lives of Known and Lesser-Known Generals of the American Civil War." In addition, Knoop is a civilian reenactor with the 2nd New Jersey Brigade.
Roots - Knoop's great-grandfather was a Civil War veteran, having served with the 59th Illinois Regiment.
About the Poem
"Every time I see a daguerreotype of a Civil War era soldier, I try to read his face for an expression of what was on his mind at that moment," says Knoop. "These were my thoughts when looking at pictures of Civil War soldiers and trying to determine their thoughts as they sat still for the required time at the photographer's studio." © copyrighted 1996.
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"The Field" by Dave Whitfield
Winds blowing,
leaves changing,
winds changing,
leaves blowing.
A peaceful scene,
floor splattered crimson.
Dark colors,
dark night
now lit by a ray of sunlight.
No more soaring of eagles,
rather the circling of vultures,
cold stares by lifeless sculptures
suited of colors, blue and gray.
Problems started by colors portrayed on a different way.
The answer, simple as night and day.
This field now grounds for decay,
this field innocent no more,
the winds whisper the words of war.
About The Author
Biography - Dave Whitfield is a resident of Pataskala, Ohio.
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"A Whisper and A Rustle In The Snap of The Silk" by Linda Rosenthal
Curses, nervous laughter mingle with fleeting thoughts
Of Mother and home,
Of ivory skinned lovers and the fresh spring of greening farms,
"Michigan, my Michigan!"
"Attention, company, fix bayonets!"
Run! Run across the darkness!
The Color Bearer grips his staff too tightly.
The flag drapes its pristine and flowing colors
As a soothing, urging lover across his breast and face.
"Forward, forward!" shout officers,
A young Corporal faces fire
Which comes too quickly,
And a blue kepi lies trampled in South Carolina swamp.
In the cool of that thick evening, a young man in Gray
Picks it up for a souvenir, but tosses it away,
Stained with blood.
The Colors that guided lie forgotten for a moment in camp,
As weary souls wrestle with the pain of having to live on,
But the Bearer remembers them and runs a finger along the staff,
Over the burnt wood, over the splintered places,
over the torn silk, over the drying wet darkness,
Over, over, over.
And again, he grips the staff too tightly,
Pain like this is worse now than any bullet.
He lifts his eyes to his comrade at the fire,
His tired, dirty, hopeless face tracked with tears,
Burning and spattering the silk with his pain.
He buries his face in the flag,
Giving up to hell on earth.
How to explain to Mother? How to explain to Father?
The Bearer wishes the flag had a voice to speak for him,
To tell the death of the corporal
The one who followed her, who won't go home,
The one who gave her yet another story, yet another stilled voice!
I see his eyes in her stars, I feel his heart in her threads,
He is now a whisper in the rustle and snap of her silk.
About The Author
Biography - A resident of Grand Rapids, Michigan, Linda Rosenthal
first volunteered with the Michigan "Save The Flags" project in 1991.
The project was initiated to study and preserve the state's significant battle
flag collection. The collection had been on display in the state's capitol
building, but was removed during the building's restoration, and due to the
severely deteriorating condition of the flags, they were put into storage.
Rosenthal, along with other volunteers, produced a newsletter about the project
and raised funds by selling, at Civil War re-enactments and similar events, a
poster depicting some of the flags in the collection.
"One of the most moving parts of my involvement in that project," says Rosenthal, "was working with staff at the state historical museum to photograph, catalogue, and place the flags in permanent storage in a unit where a controlled atmosphere would keep light and humidity damage to a minimum. While handling one of the flags, straightening and untangling some its silk fringe into a more relaxed position on the storage pallet, I pricked my finger on a sand burr which had been caught in the fringe somewhere, some time, during the course of its use. The flag belonged to the 23rd Michigan, a regiment that fought in actions around Kentucky and Tennessee. I speculated about the whole collection, I had seen so much that was powerful in them. I handled staffs that had been carried at Gettysburg, Vicksburg, Cold Harbor, everywhere that Michigan troops went, I followed them. I held the staff that belonged to my own Great-Grandfather's regiment, and which he surely saw during his service. I lived with those men and their stories, saw the blood stains from the color bearers and guard who tried to protect the flags, saw the black crepe tied around finials to honor the assassinated President Lincoln, and I am processing that whole episode of my life through my writing. In fact, I definitely am not done with writing about the flags, I am only now reflecting on them. They changed my life as surely as the actions of the men that they followed changed the course of American history, and are still changing it."
About The Poem
"This poem was written to honor a friend of mine whose great-grand uncle, John Burwell, served in the 8th Michigan Volunteer Infantry. He was killed at the battle of Seccessionville and his great-grand niece, at my urging, raised $1000 to 'adopt' one of the flags that he may have marched to as a way to honor his memory. Part of Michigan's 'Save The Flags' fundraising included 'adoptions', a method by which individuals, groups, etc., could honor specific regiments or soldiers by raising that amount of money and 'adopting' their flag." Rosenthal read this poem at the Michigan Capitol building when her friend and her Canadian cousin were honored by a public ceremony to recognize their effort.
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GENERAL HISTORY CATEGORY WINNERS
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"Auschwitz" by Mitchell Moquin
Sitting in the darkness
I still hear them cry
Can't shut them out
No matter how hard I try.
Been living out this scene
For the last thirty years
I try to forget
But I can't hold back the tears
I saw thousands of the dead
Lying in the burial pits
The day we liberated the death camps
At Auschwitz...
Just turned twenty-two
And at the prime of my life
They issued me a rifle
And a bayonet knife
Didn't really understand
What I was going over there for
Something about the Japanese
Throwing us into this war
And I can still smell the stench
From those burial pits
The day we liberated the death camps
At Auschwitz...
I saw a lot of men die in battle
A lot of men younger than me
But there's no way that I could have prepared myself
For the horror I was to see
The first day we moved in on Auschwitz
We found a train load of people dead
Their faces were gaunt
Their eyes were hollow
They had all been shot in the head.
A Corporal called us over
Ordered us to break down the door
There were living skeletons in there
And hundreds lay dead on the floor
They had pulled their gold teeth
To make themselves rich
The day we liberated the death camps
At Auschwitz...
We broke through to the crematorium
We saw ovens where we thought they made bread
The Corporal said
"That ain't no oven for bakin', son...
That's the place where they cremate the dead."
The memories keep coming
They won't fade away
They keep getting stronger
No matter how hard I pray
It's been many years
Since I fought over there
My childhood dreams
Have all turned into nightmares
And I can still see them
Their skin white as paste
Standing bare-toothed
In their own human waste.
I went back to Auschwitz
The first time in thirty-five years
I talked my way through the front gate
I talked my way through the fears.
I looked around
Never thought I'd come back
The train that had held the dead
Was still on the track
This place made in hell
Was finally at peace
The vultures that ruled here
Never finished their feast.
And I ask myself:
When the Jews were in the chamber
And the Germans pulled the switch
Did God turn his back
On Auschwitz?
About the Author
Biography - Mitchell Moquin, a resident of Littleton, New Hampshire, graduated from Springfield College in Springfield, Massachusetts, where he received his masters degree in Community Psychology. In addition to writing, motorcycling, and playing the harmonica, Moquin has compiled a book of poetry and song lyrics.
About the Poem
Moquin's poem was inspired by a documentary about a soldier who was present at the liberation of Auschwitz.
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"Sarasin, Deliverer" by John W. Crawford
There lived a folk in Ohio
called Quapaw there by name.
They lived beside some other folk
who later would see fame.
The Quapaw were a peaceful lot,
they fished and toiled the sod;
They built their homes and looked above
to Wah-Kon-Tah their god.
They did not seek to overcome
the Osage or the Sioux;
They simply wanted peace and life --
to be like me and you.
But other tribes were not so kind,
like Jacob, full of greed;
They sought to take what was not theirs,
to make men die and bleed.
The Iroquois was one such folk
who thought it was their choice
To take what land looked lush and green --
and others had no voice.
So in they came one quiet day
and drove the Quapaws out;
They shot their bows and drew their shafts
with screams and cries and shouts.
With no real plan the Quapaw ran,
the best way out was south;
In time they found a new wide stream
and gathered at its mouth
The stream they called the Arkansas,
which flowed from northwest land;
To this new place Chief Paheka
brought all his little band.
This land was like a Paradise
with much abundant meat;
With rabbits, bear, wildcats and deer,
grouse, ducks and geese to eat.
And everywhere there seemed to grow
abundant nuts and roots;
the haws, the grapes, persimmons, plums,
just many kinds of fruits.
For many years the Quapaw lived
around the Arkansas;
The times were peaceful, quiet calm --
no war or white man's law.
But times do change and so it was
that France who found them friend,
Gave way to Spain in sixty three
and peace was soon to end.
For soon a purchase would be made
a few more years away,
And this great land would then be owned
by good old U.S.A.
And then was when in eighteen three
the problems all began;
For greedy men who wanted land
came quickly rushing in.
By eighteen twenty four the law
demanded Quapaws leave
And go below to a new place,
a place now called Port Shreve.
Chief Heckaton refused to go
to satisfy these men;
But Crittenden enforced the law --
appeasement once again.
By next December, twenty five,
the Quapaws had no choice;
The new law Izard sent them on
and gave the chief no voice.
Once in Port Shreve the Quapaws tried
to build a land anew
By raising homes and planting crops,
but harvests came too few.
The floods came soon, they had no help,
and Mexico now came;
A new law threatened to enslave --
things just were not the same.
But just as clouds seemed dark and grim,
and hope was fading fast,
A man arose to lead them back --
a savior came at last.
A young man Sarasin the Chief,
with courage bold and strong;
Determined now to help his tribe --
to try to right the wrong.
Once back in Arkansas, their home,
they proved they wanted peace;
And Izard who had run them out
now gave them land to lease.
But jealous whites who wanted land
and hated Quapaw ways,
Now forced them off the Arkansas
and gave them anxious days.
But Sarasin would not give in,
courageous stood his ground;
He would not go to northern lands --
he and his folk sat down.
By standing up for truth and right
this hero won a name;
Saint Joseph's Church, in old Pine Bluff,
records his lasting fame.
About The Author
Biography - A resident of Arkadelphia, Arkansas, John W. Crawford is a professor of English at Henderson State University. He is a native of Arkansas, with earned degrees from Ouachita Baptist University, Drake University (Iowa), and Oklahoma State University. Crawford writes frequently for literary magazines and for newspapers. He is also a poet, having had two volumes of verse published by Edwin Mellen Press of New York: "Making the Connection" and "I Have Become Familiar with the Rain." He has won the Poets Round Table of Arkansas Sybil Nash Abrams Award twice, the Byron Reece International Award of the Georgia State Poetry Society, and was recently nominated for the Pushcart Prize. He reads his poetry frequently at state poetry societies, professional literary meetings, and at area and regional poetry readings.
Because of his Native American ancestry, Crawford reads much material on the subject and has published articles on Native American writers. His interest in history resulted a few years ago in the poem "Sarasin, Deliverer", with its Arkansas American Indian ties.
About The Poem
"Arkansas Native Americans experienced the same problems of greed of the majority that other Native Americans in our country dealt with," says Crawford. This poem is based on fact.
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"The Cigar Store Indian" by Richard H. Peterson
He never really spoke but I felt I
could hear him just the same,
I called him Red Eagle because he
didn't have a name,
Patiently, I'd sit quietly by his side,
Pretending I was a young brave, a
member of his tribe.
He'd tell me stories of years of pain,
When the white eyes came and took the
buffalo from the plains,
He told me how he saw his wife and
little children die,
And why he prayed to the Great Spirit
to keep his tribe alive.
But he never allowed a tear to fall,
He said an Indian chief could show no
weakness at all,
For fear that others would see his
sorrow,
And lose their will to endure all
the terrible tomorrows.
To most people a cigar store Indian
is just a restoration,
A carved wooden figure or a simple,
painted decoration,
But Red Eagle was real enough to me,
Even if he just stood there stoically,
indulging a young boy's fantasy.
About The Author
Biography - A resident of San Diego, California, Richard H. Peterson, Ph.D, professor emeritus of history at San Diego State University, is an extensively published poet, a professional historian, and a free-lance writer.
About The Poem
Fictional based on fact. "The wooden Indian represents the genocide inflicted on the American Indians, or Native Americans, by white Americans in the process of conquering and settling the frontier," says Peterson. "The poem is designed to expose the universal tragedy of Indian-white relations in frontier America to the point of exploitation whereby a once proud people were carved into stoic wooden figures in front of cigar stores." He stresses, "This act was the ultimate dehumanization of Native Americans."
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"The Atlantic Crossing" by Richard H. Peterson
Wrenched from Mother Africa's womb,
We sailed, unknowingly, like young children to our doom,
Watched over by a white devil man,
A profitable cargo under careful command.
The hold of the ship held little space,
For men chained together amid human waste,
Some succumbed to madness and suicide,
While others simply suffocatingly died.
The brave held on tightly to uncertain life,
Though the raw rub of shackles cut like a knife.
Sold into a vicious trade for guns and rum,
We seldom felt the warm caress of the sun,
Except when made to dance on deck,
Ostensibly, to keep our melancholy in check.
Rationed food and water saved some from quick demise,
As we suppressed our tears and stifled the pent-up cries.
Irrevocably, we headed for a strange, distant land,
Our bodies, but not our souls, sold to the Plantation Man.
About The Author
Biography - A resident of San Diego, California, Richard H. Peterson, Ph.D, professor emeritus of history at San Diego State University, is an extensively published poet, a professional historian, and a free-lance writer.
About The Poem
Non-fictional, this poem exposes the historic horror of the trans-Atlantic slave trade and the determination of humans in bondage not to surrender their will to live, physically and spiritually, despite the dehumanization of the so-called Middle Passage from Africa to the Americas in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries.
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"Voice of Billions' - The Unsung Song" by Jennifer Cheng
O Voice of Billions, I beg thee tell--
Of suffering in a time and place of Hell.
Where yellow stars are set against red sky,
The gray, rock-solid fortress does there lie,
And casts its shadow grim upon red land--
A place of murky rice fields, blowing sand,
That from the break of time hath seen much blood--
While legacy and people drown in mud.
O Voice of Billions I beg thee tell--
Of suffering in a time and place of Hell.
Alas, a noble land, ravaged and raped
By Rising Sun while all, who could, escaped.
Nanking, that tragic beauty was not spared
Her children slaughtered--all her sisters scared.
Awakes the sleeping giant, for he will fight
As warring parties, factions--all unite
Against that savage fire whose black path sears,
Burning livid scar through heart of fears--
The Yangtze and the Yellow flowing red,
Across the bruised landscape choked with dead--
Until the claps of thunder and black rain
Extinguish raging fire though not the pain.
O Voice of Billions I beg thee tell--
Of suffering in a time and place like Hell.
Hear the sound! That moaning is not a gale--
But howls, cries, screams of those who, left behind, do wail.
Feel the wet! That moisture is not the rain--
But salty drops, the burning tears of pain,
Which fall from eyes that roll towards blackened sky
While crazed, blindly grope to say good-bye--
Their lives, a Mother's weeping cannot save.
And so the sudden undertakers slave
To bury those whose voices had been stilled
From screaming while the rest of them were killed
Amidst a blackened landscape where rich blood
Is soaked by tears of billions into mud.
O Voice of Billions I bid thee tell--
Of suffering in a time and place like Hell.
From loamy mud, well watered down with tears
Well fertilized with blood throughout the years,
A glorious god came forth in time of need--
God M----, both great in thought and deed.
When this king reigned, there was enough to cull;
Always, people could count on bellies full
Not with rice, beans, cabbages, or meat.
(These were not foods, with nothing left to eat.)
But Fruits of labor, eaten before ripe--
So plentiful were victuals of this type.
O Voice of Billions I bid thee tell--
Of time and place in which we live so well.
Time no longer was for work, school, or play.
For steel production quotas--gone the day.
O Voice of Billions I bid thee tell--
Of time and place in which we live so well.
So blessed under such a ruler wise,
The subjects saw their lord without false guise--
A man who had a vision, had a dream,
Had courage and the will to rightly seem--
Most capable at any given mood.
And so a period of peace ensued--
A time when every argument stayed young
For people were content to hold the tongue.
O Voice of Billions I beg thee tell--
Of suffering in a time and place of Hell.
This everlasting time of binding chain--
That though Thought, Speech, and Mind alike do strain,
And wage a war, a struggle to not die,
To no avail prevail--their living, but a lie.
As ants, the people lead entire lives,
Not questioning, ignoring sharpened knives
Which hang by threads above them if they cry--
So stifle Mind and Voice until they die.
O Voice of Billions I beg thee tell--
Of suffering in a time and place like Hell.
"I hear there is a rally in the square"
"Well be assured--we will expect you there"
"Long live the Chairman, long live our M--"
"We seek those, whom his law does not allow."
"Long live the Chairman, long live our M--"
"For Him, we live, we fight, we die--our vow"
Like ghosts the children wander in the mist
Obeying Great Red Book which they would kiss.
For all obey and worship Great Red Sun,
Great Father with all answers--every one.
While everyone is sleepwalking in Time,
Remaining mute, perfecting art of mime,
Rhythms of ghostly drums pulse silently
Within the hearts that pound, though quietly.
But heartbeats fade amidst the hazy fog
Of all M--s dreams which puff into dark smog.
O Voice of Billions I beg thee tell--
Of suffering in a time and place like Hell.
Some hearts revive and thaw though numb with frost--
Pump twice as fast to make up for time lost.
Once minds of deserts barren bore no fruits;
Now seeds are planted--slowly put forth roots.
Some mouths, which once were bound by bonds of fear,
Now loosen--blow new seed into new ear.
And some forbidden fruit is bound to bloom,
In lonely library and cold classroom,
As tempted fingers rush to pluck black gold,
In lonely cells sit those who too much told.
It's 1984, so all who wail--
Too much against the group languish in jail.
"My father, he has left me, he is gone...
He never did exist...don't get me wrong."
O Voice of Billions I beg thee tell--
Of suffering in a time and place like Hell.
The man is crouched inside a deep, dark room
As summons he the will to meet his doom.
And all around, the demons rage and tear--
At his mind, his heart, his soul--until to bear
This everlasting torture is--to die.
'Til then, he will not answer to the lie
They press him to accept and to confess.
Never-ending questions inflame his mind.
To struggle for clear vision, or be blind?
To think free thoughts by self, or think with all?
To stand tall as a man, or crouch down small?
To speak the truth, or tell the welcome lie?
To hollowly live life, or deeply die?
O Voice of Billions I beg thee tell--
Of suffering in a time and place like Hell.
"Now listen to the talk of the Foolish Ones
Whose speeches show they're shooting off their guns."
"Don't listen to their plans, their stupid Cause--"
"These half-grown boys and girls dislike our laws"
"Colleges they're enrolled in do not aid;"
"They spread their thoughtless thinking and they made--
'Their own doom, fools, and still they shall not learn..."
O Voice of Billions I beg thee tell
Of suffering in a time and place like Hell.
Most recall and relive that fateful day--
When youthful comrades vowed to have their say--
Expressed the need for change, the need for rights,
And all those thoughts they were discussing nights.
Linking arm to arm, they march then to the square--
Rallying together, even more join them there.
"China, we beg you listen!, China, we beg you hear!"
"China, we beg you listen!, China, we beg you care!"
Dreadful Night closes in, candles lit they hold.
Hunger strikes, demonstrations, speeches make them bold.
"We need freedom!, Rights are ours! Change is needed!"
"Rise, Rise!, Let our words not stay unheeded!"
"China, we beg you listen!, China, we beg you hear!"
"China, we beg you listen!, China, we beg you care!"
Too loud has grown the voice and imploration.
Armed troops march, tanks roll, in-timidation.
Without delay or qualms they pierce the wall--
The barricade of human flesh stands tall--
Though stabbed repeatedly by bullet-fire
And butchered by the tanks' unending tire.
O Voice of Billions, I beg thee tell--
Of living in a time and place like Hell.
Fallen heroes choke with blood, final words they sigh--
Betrayed, still serving motherland, they die--
"O Dragon, rise, shake off your chains like dew--"
"And Phoenix, rise from ashes and renew--"
"O anything for a draught from Lethe--"
"Give me liberty or give me death--"
O Voice of Billions, I beg thee tell--
Of living in a time and place like Hell.
Hear the sound! That moaning is not a gale--
But howls, cries, screams of those who, left behind, do wail.
Feel the wet! That moisture is not the rain--
But salty drops-the burning tears of pain,
Which fall from eyes that roll towards blackened sky,
While crazed, blindly grope to say good-bye--
Their lives, a Mother's weeping cannot save.
And so the sudden undertakers slave
To bury those whose voices had been stilled
From screaming while the rest of them were killed--
Amidst a blackened landscape where rich blood
Is soaked by tears of billions into mud.
O Voice of Billions I beg thee tell--
Of suffering in a time and place like Hell.
Will not the mirror, the Lady looks into,
Reveal the real image of herself as true?
The looking-glass itself does not deceive;
The face the woman sees and will receive
Is covered with a coat of paint that hides
The scars, the moles, the pock-marks of disease--
Which she with sisters--all choose not to see.
The leprosy that eats away her face--
Beautiful compared to another place.
Her soul--the darkest, inner secret keeps--
An unnamed curse, for sealed remain her lips--
That sealed remains her mind which stopped thinking
And sealed remains her heart which ceased beating.
O Voice of Billions I beg thee tell--
Of suffering in a time and place like Hell.
"How blessed we are," some college students say
When sent to learn abroad and far away.
They went, they saw, their hearts inspired--
Freed from the mud in which they had been mired.
Each holds a half-burned candle to the light--
Glow of singed wick restores their sight.
To homeland they return with heads held high
And hold their torches out to darkened sky.
Linking arm to arm, they march then to the square--
Rallying together, even more join them there.
Blindfolds thrown aside, their march is slow,
While each attempts to shield his candle's glow
From howling winds which whirl the tiny flame
In Darkness' cave to be devoured by Shame.
Yet on the people march with heads held high
And hold their torches out to darkened sky.
With cupped palm around forbidden flare--
Lightning bugs and fireflies light the air.
About The Author
Biography - Jennifer Cheng lives in Brookline, Massachusetts. Cheng has aspirations of becoming a concert pianist and a writer, her two loves being "music and literature". Coincidentally, in Chinese, her name means "music and literature". Cheng is currently studying piano at Boston University, has a chamber music group (a trio) at the New England Conservatory of Music, and has won statewide, regional, and international competitions for piano.
About The Poem
Written while a sophomore in high school, Cheng says, "I wrote ‘Voice of Billions - The Unsung Song' because the human rights' situation in China cannot be ignored any longer. I wish to present a sort of chronological sequence of events beginning with World War II and Japan's invasion of China including the Rape of Nanking, through the Cultural Revolution and its aftermath, and the Tianneman Square massacre and the current situation. I composed the piece in epic verse to emphasize the importance of this largely overlooked plight of a people. As a high school student in America, I have been encouraged to use my freedom of speech and allowed to grow up in a democratic society. I want the people in China to have a voice as well."
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"Wagon Train" by Carolyn Sharp
They crossed the vast land slowly.
In their covered wagons they lived.
Brave travelers who left their homes
for they had nothing left to give.
Attacked and scalped;
Their belongings stolen and burned.
yet others followed them
as if the lesson was never learned.
Starving and dehydrated,
they conquered the great unknown.
It's because of their courage
that our country has grown.
About The Author
Biography - Carolyn Sharp lives in Columbia, Maryland.
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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 I
HistoryOnline.Net Home Page I History Articles & Short Story Competition
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MAIL CALL JOURNAL
published by
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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 Spring 1998
competition closed March 15, 1998.