Appalachian Mountains

I watched a bio of George Washington on the History Channel and wrote a poem in response:

The Death of Washington

Esteemed consensus has been reached
while Father lies upon his bed;
elite prescriptions won’t be breached
to heal his sacred, sickened head.

Illness came upon his throat,
took the General’s voice and breath;
though his suffering was of note,
’twas not the instrument of his death.

“Bleed him once,” the doctor said;
to rid the bad is what was meant,
“And thus we’ll make, by what is bled,
live on our founding president”.

“Bleed again,” more doctors came,
“This disease is like a flood.
Inequity must be drained,
though the life is in the blood”.

When the noble body turned
from bad to worse, the doctors ruled:
“Bleed one more time,” so they had learned
where all the greatest minds are schooled.

The mighty powers of the age
with bombs and bullets could not bury
freedom’s saint when he would wage
as our great revolutionary.

But no free man on earth can stand
where arrogant sincere are prone
to bleed yet “one last time” again
he who was better left alone.

With deference to James Webb’s book on the history of the Scots Irish, Born Fighting, and Victor Davis Hanson’s The Soul of Battle:

Texian

I am not a member of the team.
I don’t play well with others.
I don’t get with the program.
I will not police you, and you
will not police me.
I love my country.
I love my church.
I love the individuals that comprise each.
I love my God
and bow to none but Him.
I will abide by the law
unless it breaks His.
I don’t care who you are—
your title, your skin, your creed;
if you have earned my respect,
you will have it.
If you ask me for grace,
you will have it.
If you demand either,
you will have my contempt
and perhaps my boot on your head.
You will have to kill me otherwise.
United we stand, yes,
but if not by freedom,
I will gladly fall.
In fact, I will tear it down
and build it back up again,
individual by individual.