Pixabay
Wheat field – stands of golden grain
Bread basket – our lives to sustain
A staff of life – giving us our fill
And yet Wheat field can be a bitter pill
The Wheat field – and the harvesting of grain
But also a harvest of inhuman pain
At Gettysburg – Sickles – ironic his name
As by his order – a Wheatfield –
Was filled with the slain
Wheat field golden – production of bread
Name associated with life, and the dead
Padre
Padre's Ramblings 
Oh, and the pain for those of us with gluten intolerance! What a journey your poem took me on (also down the rabbit hole to investigate the story of Sickles and the Wheatfield. And oh, what terrible reading that is. Trobriand wrote that the Confederates “converged on me like an avalanche, but we piled all the dead and wounded men in our front.”)
LikeLiked by 1 person
Whoa, nice play on words!
LikeLiked by 1 person
A sobering stream of consciousness poem, not sure where to put my emotions right now … evidence of a poem well done.
LikeLiked by 1 person
Thank you
LikeLike
From Van Gogh’s view from his asylum window to the wheat field of Gettysburg, truly a moving stream of thought. I admit I was not aware of its connection to Gettysburg, and so this occasioned me to do some sobering research. Thank you.
LikeLiked by 1 person
Thank you, I really appreciate that it led you to look deeper.
LikeLike