The Flintlock:

The dependable clock, of flesh, of man,
Who lifts his hand to six o’clock.
When arm is out in full span,
The day begins with roar and shock.

“A dependable man, six on the dot,”
In minds of all, is what they thought
As through the hill rings out his blast—
Though of his life no one doth ask.

“Reliable” is all, and that will do
For of his mind they had no clue.
‘T is six o’clock and all’s not well,
For alas prey to sorrow’s spell.

“Let the fuse shine bright,
To the sparks delight,
Brought forth by powders’ might.
Till the hammer ‘s down,
And shakes the ground,
Of world on which I’m found.”

“Might it come to know my song?
Might it come to know my deed?
Might it come to sing along?
Might it also come to bleed?”

Their day begins, upon the hill of Stark,
On this hill, man attempts to leave his mark.
The shot is rung, and day begun,
‘T is six o’clock in New England.
‘T is six o’clock and all’s now well,
For alas t’ was broke, sorrow’s spell.

Upon the hill left to moan
From the lack of love thus shown,
And as the night sky grows solemn,
Hope is lost and thus forgotten.
It sheds the tears of God above,
Drown ‘d in the pools of gore and blood.
If one does not ask, one cannot tell,
For “Six o’clock and all’s not well.”

For rather then a roar and shock,
The day begins with rooster’s squawk.
Upon the hill was left his mark
As well as within each man’s heart.

And upon the gruesome find,
Laid a question to his mind,
“Had reason been behind this act?”
Unknown to them without this fact:
When left without love to find
They would have responded in kind.

Unnoticed till the morrow,
And alas too late—
Without a surcease to sorrow,
The strain no man mortal can take.
T’was left the mocking, jesting face of fate.


('Tis one that I wrote for class...one of the first "not-poems" i ever wrote.)