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Zacharias' Southern Confederate Writings

Welcome back to my tribute to the Confederate Soldier and his cause. I've recently bronzed these following poems with revisions that come with age and added this page's first short story.
I can personally pay no higher honor to the Confederate soldier and his cause than through writing. I share the bed rock of my heart and soul through writing. I use it to propel my feelings and thoughts into the open. My life's love has been to study the Confederacy, to pay honor to it, and to share what I have learned with any one.
On this page, my two loves, Southern heritage and writing will join. No other war in history has conceived as much poetry, music, and art as the Southern States' War for Independence.
Here is my own writings. I will use my best talent to pay tribute to the awesome experences of my heritage and the honoring of it.It is dedicated to the soldiers, sailors, citizens, and their Cause to defend the Southland and her Confederacy. I know my work will not truly reflect the greatness of their sacrifice, but I hope that some of my writings may touch the reality of the glory of the Confederate States of America.

It was a new dawn's early light when the South showed her true might.
From the Dominan's antiquated shore to the
blue Colorado freedom announced her exit from tyranny.

Created out of the red clay and red blood of Soutron patriots
a new season was born.
'Twas the Season of the Confederacy.

Cavaliers of South Carolina and Florida's free sons
departed from their honest labors upon the land
for the defense of the same.
The crest of their swords were made red against the blue tide.

For their South came the roaring lions of Georgia and tigers of Louisiana.
Never was their such a roar or a call
for freedom as was their rebel yell.

Knights in gray with leathers held together
by the brass symbols and seals of their native states
drove the vandals down the Sheandoah and across the Potomac.
Their duty shielded by the right!

Missouri's scabbard was hallow and her shield worn.
Kentucky's blue grass sons and Arizona Territory's
warm desert warriors chose fury over submission
to defend their wives and daughters.

'Twas then in the season of the Confederacy.

Braves from Alabama and Arkansas braved the Union's might
to carry the day in this holy fight.
T for Tennessee and T for Texas brought T for triumph
cresting every charge.

It 'Twas a season that was filled with the magic of hope
and the praise of Jesus,
loosed upon every soldier's heart.

Virginia stood like a stonewall against an invader's prophecy of doom.
With her sisters, Virginia and Mississippi and North Carolina too,
though blasted but brave, crossed the stonewall at Gettysburg
to receive a hero's welcome by Heaven's mighty Host.

Citizens became cavaliers and men became monuments.
Freedom and Independence was the cause.
The sacrifice was red and the land became black.
'Twas the season of the Confederacy.

When the season faded like a summer,
there was nothing left.
Look back but never look away.
For the season and its price lives upon the
cross and stars laid upon a field of red.
Let it forever fly, this flag.
Remember too, The season of the Confederacy.

The Confederacy was a glorious land and she loved her glorious general. The knight from Virginia did honor to his state in every terrible fight. This son of the South was named Robert E Lee. He led his army to make the South free.
He accepted but one fate or the other, victory or death.
He led his army of boys in their tatters of gray until there was nothing left. Texas and Tennessee, South Carolina, and Georgia followed their general. Their General, Robert E Lee. They followed with a rebel's heart to free their South. Florida, Louisiana, and Kentucky charged with him too. A rebel yell burst from every veteran's thirsty mouth.
Your general's spirit leads ever still. A patriot's spirit never dies. The old general of the South lives in eternity to keep freedom And the cause of the Southern land well. The gray son of the South rose when his country called him Just as the stars over North Carolina rise to the occasion of night. There is the South with the memory of her fight to be free. And guarding her temple's door stands the spirit of General Robert E Lee.

It was the dawn of Southern independence and the sun was gray.
Its light shine through the hearts and souls who awoke that day.
Their flags and their swords broke apart the storm's blue floods.
The gray sons of the South marched in the light of a gray sun.

In this bright day, too, shined the stars.
These thirteen formed a constellation of hope for the people.
A Light Division and a Stonewall Brigade
met an enemy lumbering through mud and ash.
Foot cavalry a flying Artillery
wielded their might to demand their right.

There he stands like a great star wall across the night!
O're the gray sons that day showed a gray sun called liberty.
Glowing from a high noon it shown
though storms of fire and plunder.

For their Southern land and the
God on high in the Southern sky, they fought for both.
From the Bull Run that ran warm with blood
Until the Appomattox River ran cold with defeat,
the gray sons did their duty.
It was a right that could never be conquered.

The gray sun had set,
yet may its rays forever cast from the Southern horizons.
The gray sons were vanquished by war or age.
Yet, may the crossed constellation of stars keep and light
their memory of their fight.

Like a faded gray veil being blown defiantly up the rocky slope, the Alabamians staggered forward against a wind of fire and led. The enemy shells pierced tree, rock, and bone. The Rebel Yell spun in the hot air above the battle in a hurricane of sound.
The red flag with its blue cross and brittle borders tipped and tore through the branches. It crumpled to the ground the same moment its guard dressed in gray did so. One Confederate laid down his musket down and grabbed hold of the flag’s staff from the dying hands of his rebel brother. The patriot tilted it toward the ghostly shadows where the enemy stood until he too fell. Another must lay down his musket to take the flag on ward. Take their souls back home to Dixie.
In a Southron soldier’s heart, he knows that his journey must end at home. As the Alabamian laid his breast to the ground and shut his eyes, there he returned. The Southron soldier’s spirit returns home where lightning bugs flash rather than muskets in the night. In the West, the sun fell to its knees and wept for the South. Its red tears flooded across the sky. Many Alabamians returned home upon the Smoldering slopes of Little Round Top.
On July 2nd, 1863 the sun finally sat upon the fields of Gettysburg. The last musket was gently laid down, and forward the red flag with the blue cross and brittle borders went. ‘Tis the journey of a soldier’s return home while clutching the Flag of that home, the South land. His spirit will hold the blue cross and twelve star Flag over his home as he did under the summit of Little Round Top.

Stitched upon his flag as well as his heart
was seven circled stars upon a blue corner.
Two bars of red separated by a gulf of white
also bore on the flag of his country.

A Southern man flew his southern flag over his southern state.
In the spring of '61 the three stood proud.
The Inn Keeper kept his right.
The loyalty to his right made his soul right with God.

Yet, a foe from the other side of the river, the other side of right,
blasted into his home;
that demon named Ellsworth.
He who sought to steal the Innkeeper's flag;
to steal the peace.

The Innkeeper spilled the cold blood of that demon, Ellsworth
who dared to snag the banner that as a thief's poisoned prize.
The trespasser's soul entered hell from the inn keeper's parlor.
And as he fell the flag of freemen flew again.

The vandal's vengeance spilled the
brave blood of the Inn Keeper.
Though he died, in the songs and memory freemen,
he will never perish.

From his parlor his soul entered upon
Heaven into the glad welcome of his Savior.
A place never to be treaded upon by an invader.
A place for all those who died for the cause
and the Southern flags they carried.
Though the inn and its keeper, the flag,
and its land were brought down by Union vandals,
there remains that place in Heaven's rheum
where flags and their defenders stand in freedom still.

How it sprung from its pine staff as light as sage
when its furls were unleashed to Southern freedom's first fray.
How light and bright was the Southern standard
passed from the needles and threads of free citizens
to the swords and pikes of a citizen's army.
The red crossed flag once galloped in the wind
to the chords of a rebel yell and each Mother's good-bye.

It is our flag that stood tall at birth
with stars bright with hope threaded in a cross upon its red heart.
Now the old heavy flag is weighed with the tears
of the old South whose stars had lost so many of her sons.

Loft with the dust of a thousand marches
and drenched in the blood
of three hundred thousand who too, are now covered in dust.

Heavy is the flag that only the most brave of the strong
and the most true of the free would carry.
Though it is torn and tattered like the hearts of this land,
hide it away in your torn and tattered coat of gray.

But may it reveal its glory to the sky again, today, once and forever.

The rank files past the old hills like pages of an old story. A story of sacrifice and its memory. The scrolls of soldiers unfurl upon a land hallowed by the glorious fame of Southron blood.
What cause did those old souls fight for?
What memory are we here to honor?
The legions in gray cross one another under their blue crossed battle flags. The sun is alive in each threaded star.
What cause do we fight for?
What memory did our ancestors honor?
We stand where they had fallen. How common we are to them sharing a God as our captain. No foe can stand His might!
How different we are from they, for such sacrifices can ever be reborn. We march in perseverance of their deeds to preserve a holy right.
Only the Virginian stones and Shenandoah sky truly relive the tale of October 1864 as we have sought the same.
Like the sun and stars that have always returned to this field, today it was also duty and honor that once again shined on this field. We remember their cause with out shame.
May the pages never fold and may the story of the Southonor's sacrifice at Cedar Creek always be told.

There he stands under the shade of trees. There he stands like a stonewall.
With Virginia and God, stands the gray knight. There stands old Blue Light.
There he stands, chief of the foot cavalry. Where there was once a battle cry, there is now but a softened sigh.
Old Blue light, you wore the South’s pride like robes of rare. Old Blue light, you fought with the South like the bulliest of bulls.
Old Blue light, The South cries for you.
Your life has faded like a star absorbed by a full moon's flashing ray.
Though your cause has died, may it live and last like your warrior's soul. Let there always be a stonewall under the shade of trees, sound in fame's sunny rays.
May your old blue light shine through defeat's darkest days.

It was his army, an army of God.
His stonewall, ragged and gray.
They were his braves, the bare foot cavalry.
Through the wilderness they marched
like the children of Egypt.
A wilderness of pine
and bramble rather than sand and stone.
How swiftly they marched,
toward a promise-land of their own.
The promise of victory.
Sons of the South, fathers of a new country,
followed an old blue light.
There were thousands of souls
like thousands of stones
chiseled and seasoned by a season of storms.
Like a stonewall they did not break.
Into the back and belly of the luckless foe, this stonewall sailed.
Never before could one beat three.
Yet there was little David and his little sling.
And there was Jackson and his little army.
Though all the odds and gods were against them,
they had the protection of their one mighty God.
So by a sling and David's faith, a giant fell.
By the fury of a rebel charge and Jackson's faith,
a giant flew.
When the light of victory shown
through the storm that he led
our Jackson would soon lay dead.
He is gone though the
old blue light never fades.
He crossed over the River Jordan
and now rests under the shade of trees.
Over the river our leader led to a promise land.
A promise of victory and land of peace.
Guarded along its shores
by a stonewall, ragged and gray.
(Dedicated to the memory of Stonewall Jackson and his men who on May 2, 1863 gained a against a foe more than three times their size.)

Upon a field turned to battlefield near a town turned to legend called Manassas.
I breath a gun's smoke as thick and sweet as molasses.
This new uniform of gray keeps me warm on this hot July day.
How tattered will it be from shot and shell if I shall die before this hot July's night?
The sun bleeds red and weeps tears of scarlet too as it lays upon the sky o're this fight.
Through these scorched, I see through the falling fire another yankee die.
Silenced by the madness of screaming shells, I could not hear the soldier cry.
With cold feelings I point this hot rifle Northward aiming for the Northerners.
Let this shot be lucky and end the invader upon the soil that he dared to invade.
Flags and men tilt, waver, and fall but upon these plains flags and men stand like a stonewall.
The invaders yield their bloody path of conquest as the bleeding and dying sun begins to sink into the West.

The enemy is gone.
The cannon are limbered.
Our rifles are stacked.
The burying begins.
Chaplains hover round the fallen, asking that God forgive their sins.
God was with His sons that wore the gray when at Manassas we held the invaders at bay.
I have lived to see this hot Virginia night.
But the day will come again when upon another soil we shall send the enemy into another hurried flight.

“Private Tims, ” an officer of D Company called to a small soldier who slumbered under a ragged kepi.
“Eyes up man! Tonight we shall sleep upon the streets of Nashville!” Without waiting for an answer, the officer tramped through the mud and repeated the boast to another sleeping soldier. Yet, the boasts scattered into the wind like a pack of autumn leaves. A December's angry wind was blowing from the North, where Yankees readied…in Nashville. The officer continued down the line as if his words alone would bring victory to a broken army.
The Confederate entrenchment's coiled a mile or so south of the city of Nashville, Tennessee. It was December 16, 1864. The “Corn-fed” Army of Tennessee was made of old men and young boys, all veterans now. They came from all over the South, gathering once again to give the yankees hell, and unleash the rebel yell. Yet, these sons of Dixie had little breath left in them to deliver the sacred yell.
Private James K. Polk Tims awoke to the grim rumble of cannon sounding on the far right of the Confederate line.
The distant volleys thudded against the Tennessee Heavens. Somebody's catching hell, he thought and grimaced. He was tired. Plucking his tuff of beard, Tims examined the lean men in his unit. The “Enterprise Tigers” of D company which was a part of the 37th Mississippi was just a mere skeleton of what it had been at the start of the campaign. Oh, but how they were tigers on every field of judgment.
The Army of Tennessee, including the 37th Mississippi, had advanced north through Tennessee from the defeat at Atlanta. Marching from the killing lands of Franklin, the proud host of Southern independence crawled forward ever still.
They now stood, hallowed eyed at the gates of Nashville. So many dreams had bled away during the hush of each long march. The veterans looked to the past for comfort. No longer did they vision a free and independent South to raise their families in. Happiness was the remembrance of of a time when those dreams existed. Home lands like the Mississippi Delta awaited them there. The scarlet curves of the Red River, or the misquote tree pastures waited too in the folds of their memories. It was the guns and death though, that awaited them today. The call of the bugle and not the song of the whipper-will would sound across the plain. They had all delivered the cold steel and bled for the Southern cause. They would bleed some more.
Tims sat on the edge of the breast works sucking on army issued corn, which ground against his teeth like gravel. He rubbed his long fingers down his ribs, which were so rigid they could be used as a wash board. He painfully swallowed the army stuff. “It works, it really does,” Tims said to himself and spat. Tims was an Alabamian by birth, raised in Choctaw County.
His three brothers were further down the trench. John was sewing a patch onto his coat. On the night before the battle of Franklin, a stray ember from the camp fire had burnt a hole clean through. James thanked God that it the hole was not caused by a yankee bead. But even so, John sat cursing the cheap thread rather than imagining what might of been. Jackson sat against the earthen wall playing cards as Oliver read his Bible. Every few moments Oliver would cast a reproachful glance at his gambling brother.
The four brothers had went to the nearest recruiting station in what seemed like ten life times ago to Eneterprise, Mississippi. They were given gray coats with shining state buttons. Those buttons didn't shine any more, and after only one year, James went from Sixteen to sixty.
He peered north toward the twisting lines of Union troops. Strangers, he though as he spied a distant flag from Minnesota unfurling upon the Tennessee wind. Most of his comrades sharing the trench with him had been neighbors. They had hunted, gone to school with, and courted girls from each other's families. Their weary eyes looked down the line toward the right, where the distant hum of battle carried the sound of splintering wood. The neighbors were joined in this business. It was the business of killing the strangers.
“Deo Vindice,” he whispered the Confederate national motto. He liked the sound of it. God will Vindicate, James was sobered by its meaning.
“Almighty”, he gasped, watching the Minnesota, and other Union banners tilt forward above an endless line of men in blue charging at the double time toward his position. As if a great curtain had been lifted upon the plains, thousands of glistening bayonets and men in strait files burst through the patchy fog. Their rifles snapped forward and unleashed a wavering curtain of flame and mini balls. Cannon shells arched across the sky, looking like fiery threads pulled from the fabrics of hell. All around James, his neighbors twisted and fell into the muddy trench.
James ran down the trench line in a frantic search for his brothers. All he found was a bible laying in the mud with scattered playing cards. He rammed a charge home and aimed it at the blue ranks. As he fired the blue ranks became a blur of white smoke. Like a machine, he swung his ramrod over his shoulder and rammed the charges one after the other into the rifle. He fired at the blue blurs rushing in front of him. James, with his eyes caked with powder and tears did not notice the Union troops sweeping around him.
“Surrender, johnny”! James looked up from his scorching barrel as if awoken from a trance. A grizzly size yankee stood before him and pressed his fat palms down upon James' shoulders. The small man twisted away and plowed the stock of his rifle into the yankee’s flank and watched him howl with pain. Suddenly a ball of light dazzled with fury out of the gray sky and plowed into Tims’ body. He lay pinned down while a dozen Yankees threw themselves on to him. Tims clenched his teeth and looked through the swirling blue mass.
His neighbors lay dead, the army lay dead, and he was so far from home. He tried to look away. Deo Vindice. Alas, there was so little left for the Almighty to vindicate. Tims finally gave up his fit under the mob of Yankees. He buried his big hands into his face and sobbed.
As the storm curled around the land, the rebel yell rose into one last and desperate pitch. In defiance, the Confederate army's last battle cry choked and wavered against the surging tide. Then it was swept away forever. It buried itself into the past, leaving nothing behind but a whimper. It was the death of a dream. Oh what a glorious cause! Lost all the same. Lost with what was left of the Army of Tennessee under the “gallant” General Hood, as they began to retreat southward, back home.
The Yankees took James and his brothers northward. For them the Great War was over.
James Tims would stand-alone on a Texas farm many years after the war and stare at the emptiness around him. No lanes of tents, no city of campfires, just peace. In that silence and passing of the day sounded a song from a whipper-will. It was the bugles calling again.
God will surly vindicate.
author's note: Thanks to my Mother who contributed her quote to this story, "Oh what a glorious cause! Lost all the same."

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