In Passing

May I submit that if you cannot stand
for Glory and its tune, that you return
to home for rest and solace, lest the hand
that feeds you send you packing off to burn
in your own shame, disgraced by honor gone
before in battle, plagued by death and wound.
Go home if that is what you call it, pawn
of traitors, cowards and pretenders, tuned
to color, skin as thin as afterthought.
And don’t you worry, if you ever did.
We’ll always fight and die as we might ought
while you, you shameful soul, and others hid.
Come to your senses man, and stand tall on your legs
and sing, or go to hell with all the other dregs.





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Charles (Charlie) Southerland lives on his farm in North-Central Arkansas where he bales hay, mills lumber, hunts and fishes. When he has time, he writes poetry on just about every subject. He is published in Trinacria, The Rotary Dial, First Things, The Road Not Taken and other journals. He has been nominated for a 2016 Pushcart Prize and is a finalist in the 2015 Howard Nemerov Sonnet Contest. He likes to write sonnets, villanelles and sapphics.