1861 Poem by Alexander Beebe

The porch swing was solace in days gone by, grandpa would whittle at evenings tide.
The smell of pies cooling in windows near, I on the porch stoop with fun on my mind. Our farm was productive as many around, intended for commerce–four generations now.

Johnny and I would sneak off to town, a lot more chatter and yelling we found.
Men in blue coats on horseback abound, enlisting for causes all new to us now.
Off to our farms we run with excitement, tree limbs for rifles meant for survival.

Friends for ten years Johnny and I, never a skirmish nor foul word tested our ties.
Our fathers once close now argued it seemed, regarding traditions,
black men and peace. The weeks that would follow would see less of Johnny, my fate was forthcoming, my path was evolving.

Long conversations with father and mother, soon I found out blue was my color.
What about Johnny I thought to myself, I’m sure he’ll come with me, there was no doubt. Sea of blue coats surrounded me now, no sign of Johnny- I’m sure he’s around.

Days turned to months and months into seasons shooting at grey coats became all too pleasing. I don’t look at faces of men I have shot; I’ve seen my good friends who fell and were lost. Each day that passes seems so surreal, the carnage the suffering the anguish-it builds. I still think of Johnny and where he might be, I hope he’s alive with some inner peace.

64 is the year and no sign of the end, my heart has grown hard but I pray it will mend. The things I have seen some caused by my hand are hard to accept, hard to understand. I right my dear father and mother when able-hoping to see them-hoping seems careless.

“The scars we’ve left upon the land, the devil’s tapestry at hand. Forsaking all whose thoughts are foreign for the cause of common man.” These words were carved upon an oak, half the size half the yoke. Even trees like men who fell bare the cost of warish hell. It made me cry it made me hollow, thinking of my family farm. What dismal landscape will await me when my feet step on her land.

65 I’m twenty now, talks of peace are heard about. I dare not think that it could be, the sound of cannons drown the dreams. Richmond is the place I find, carnage like I’ve never seen. Stacks of men in blue and grey like fields of summer harvest hay.


Bodies everywhere I see, force my eyes to look real deep. Though the years they took their toll, Johnny’s broken body shown. Color grey upon his chest soaked in red now he rests. My mind now drowning with the thoughts of rifle balls that that I had shot. Living hell I find myself, wishing I was resting well. No time to grieve I’m made to March my site of him-it fades apart.

Many more of them did fall, across the fields and forest tall, before I made my way back home to find my only comfort zone. My home was scarred as was the others, with the volley of the steel that fell; upon a half oak I did carve my thoughts of Johnny Rebels yell.

Johnny Rebel
My friend doth lie beneath the ground
But not this place that I have found
He was my friend before the war
He’ll be my friend for evermore
1845-1865