International Poet Profile

In this edition, we highlight the poet Neil K. MacMillan, who resides in North Syracuse, New York in the United States.

We would also like to introduce Mr. MacMillan as one of our two new Managing Editors of the VoicesNet Visions Literary Journal. Welcome aboard Mr. MacMillan, we look forward to your presence here.

Neil is in the middle of writing a novel about Jack the Ripper when he is not working on poetry or molding candles, which is his day job.

Mr. MacMillan re-enacts the American Civil War as the First Sergeant for Company A, 12th Regiment United States Infantry. He also plays guitar and reads voraciously.

The Wheatfield by Neil K. MacMillan

The rain has washed the blood away,
Where good men stood and died.
Where the Regulars fought to save the day
And stem the rebel tide.
They fell in the Wheatfield.

Can't you hear the whispering wind,
Where many a soldier does lie?
Can't you see the burying teams,
This rainy Fourth of July?
They lie in the Wheatfield.

Sickles' boys were under the gun,
And the line was about to give way.
While the Regulars toiled in the sun,
To save the Wheatfield that day.
They fought in the Wheatfield.

Oh, can't you see the battered men,
Who made such a noble stand?
Who suffered time and time again,
And made this hallowed land.
They fell in the Wheatfield.

Oh can't you remember those grim faced boys,
Who stood in ruler straight ranks?
Can't you feel their forsaken joys,
And tender a heartfelt thanks?
They sleep in the Wheatfield.
They sleep in the Wheatfield.

Copyright 2003

A Soldier's Lament by Neil K. MacMillan

It was only starvation that drove me from our land,
When famine visited dear old Erin's shore
And nary a soul would help us or offer us a hand,
'Till they needed Erin's sons to fight their war.

And dear Mary how I miss you as the bugles fill the air,
And the morning sun is reaching for the sky.
How I long to run my fingers through your long and silken hair,
and hear the curlews sing as days go by.

But it's 18 years this summer, I've spent upon these shores,
And a soldier's life's the only one I know.
Still I sit among my comrades and listen to their snores,
And I wonder is there any place to go.

And my darling wife, I miss you on this humid summer night,
And the bitter gall of warfare fill my heart.
I buried our dear boy today and I'm feeling all my years,
And I'll never still the anguish in my heart.

And dear Mary, how I miss you as the bugles fill the air,
And the morning sun is reaching for the sky.
How I long to run my fingers through your long and silken hair,
And I'm praying no more soldiers have to die.

Copyright 2003

Winter's Kiss by Neil K. MacMillan

Winter’s kiss has touched the cheek of an Earth ready for slumber,
Whites and grays replacing shades of yellow, red and umber.
Hills once green stand stark and still, in silence reposing,
As winter birds in barren trees, somber tunes are composing.

Winter’s kiss has drugged the land into dreamy sleep and retire,
Quenching hills with cloudy blankets that once were touched with fire.
And I, in my study, ponder it all in silent contemplation.
Though it seems like death it really is the earth’s regeneration.

Winter’s kiss has touched my soul and sent my senses reeling,
Leaving awe of her majesty, her beauty, and her feeling.
Silence keeps me company as she dons her snow white gown
And keeps me warm inside my soul as the mercury dips down.

Copyright 2003

In This Issue:

1. Shadows of History - A look at re-enacting the American Civil War
   
   
2. A Message from VoicesNet
   
   
3. International Poet Profile

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