Stare at sunken Irish graves unmarked in Leadville’s Evergreen
The bagpipe has stopped playing.The folk singer has ended her
warm up song.
The stories are so moving,colorful, funny & tragic of
I recall being at the Little Big Horn.
We like to call battlefields—hallowed ground.
At one time Leadville was forty thousand —eighty percent
Irish. Mostly lead & silver miners making three dollars
a day at ten thousand feet.
Too broke to put up a tombstone. Dying like flies in their
twenties. Dying as infants, mothers in childbirth.
My friend Jim Walsh, says they would come out of the heat
of the mines in winter & have their sweat soaked
clothes freeze right to their skin like being armored in
TB, influenza, no wonder these survivors of the famine,
maybe two thousand died; now lie in sunken, forgotten
graves in a high alpine meadow with old pine growing
in amongst their spent bones.
Yes, hallowed ground, not of military battle, but fierce
Once again saying the history of America can never
be told by Disney.
The strike leader—Michael Mooney—had the audacity
to say he & his owned a corner of our flag because
they sweated & bled for it.
That is why it is a sacred place to begin to understand
the heart breaking truth about this land of promise &