Cover Illustration by Cheryl Steiger
Since July 4, 2026 is the 250th anniversary of the signing of the Declaration of Independence, Highland Park Poetry and the Illinois State Poetry Society collaborated to create the US250 Persona Poem Project. We asked poets to explore U.S. history from about 1765 - 1800 leading up to the American Revolution and the creation of the United States of America. This is a big story and we know there is more to it than what we were told in our high school American history class. We want to meet the heroes, heroines, villains, and witnesses, including those not included in history books.
Why persona poems? A persona, from the Latin for mask, is a character taken on by a poet to speak in a first-person poem. Each poem is to capture a moment of this history as told from the perspective of a person living during this time (either fictional or based on an actual person). We asked poets to adopt this form to allow the readers to experience these characters directly and in the moment. Imagine you are having a private conversation with history.
The US250 Persona Poem Project is comprised of two components: (1) publication of this poetry anthology containing poems selected by representatives from Highland Park Poetry and the Illinois State Poetry Society; and (2) the award of three $250 prizes for poems selected by guest judge Lynne Viti, faculty emerita of Wellesley College and inaugural poet laureate of Westwood, Massachusetts.
Judge Lynn Viti has made her prize and honorable mention selections:Three Prize Winners“I, the Midwife” by Mary Beth Davis Ashley, Madison, Mississippi“Our Night on the Delaware” by Sheila Elliott, Oak Park, Illinois“Changing the World” by Mike Wahl, Athens, AlabamaFour Honorable Mentions“All My Earthly Love” by Terry L. Slaney, Sugar Grove, Illinois“Keeping the House Standing” by Gianina Nold, Evergreen, Colorado“Mail Call” by Marie Asner, Overland, Kansas“A Woman’s Hands” by Candace Kubinec, Greensburg, Pennsylvania
This Summer Muses' Gallery includes selections from the published anthology, Poets Respond to the American Revolution: The US250 Persona Poem Project. The complete anthology is available on Amazon.
May these poets’ words inspire you as you consider our collective history in all its glory, contradictions, and messiness.
Enjoy!Jennifer Dotson Highland Park Poetry Founder & Editor-in-Chief & Mary Beth Bretzlauf Illinois State Poetry Society President

TROUBLE BREWING: 1765 - 1775

Liberty Tree, Boston Engraving on postcard c. 1890 - https://revolutionaryspaces.org/legacy-liberty-tree/

Tree of Liberty - Boston, 1765 by Jill Spealman

I’m stately, yes, and I touch the sky.I’m an elm, ulnus americana.My roots run deep, I’m a native here,I shade citizens and beasts.For over a century I’ve stood in this grove in the growing town called Boston.
But now in ‘65, there’s a scent of change,as hundreds gather around me.From shops, barns, and breweries,there is grumbling and there is anger. “Liberty, property, no stamps!” they chant,their lanterns hang on me all night long.Effigies of those who back the king,often burn until the dawn.
I’m covered with signs I cannot read; they serve as calls to action.Not sure who dubbed me the Liberty Tree,but the movement is gaining traction.Everyone can speak and it’s obviousthat the people have the power.Through grit, through sweat, through confidencethe people have the power.

United as One by Luisa Reyes

Ouch! My back is beginning to hurtYet, to continue on, I simply mustThe title of champion to assertAs the fibers into the wheel I thrust.
For we are having a spinning matchRight in the middle of the town squareWho can spin the most yarn from scratchIs the object of our local textile fair.
The folks of the village gaze in aweAs our spindles keep spinning aroundFor it is quite a crowd that we drawIn our defiance of the British Crown.
The British might fancy their silk and laceAlong with their tea and quartering of troopsBut their many taxes we do not embraceSo we keep our spinning wheels going in a loop.
To produce and not have to importThe Quakers started us on this homespunAs we patriots hope King George to thwartGeneral Washington to unite us as one.

The Boston Tea Party, George Robert Twelves Hewes by Kim Reed

Whig leaders of Boston organized meetings against the crown,where men from all classes and situations mingled in the nightconspiring to resist and confound our enemies, the British.We were nobodies, chosen to carry out a mission of great danger,young men not well known in the city, journeymen, apprentices,myself a shoemaker known more by his songs than masks,living with Tory masters who profited from our labor,and sought to tax us through everything coming to the Harbor.
The British said the taxes and tariffs paid for our defense.But now, as patriots, we organized to defend ourselves againstthe tyranny of that taxing crown that burdened our lives,like a crown of thorns on every cup and bowl of tea poured.To be chosen to carry out careful plans at Griffin’s Wharfyou had to be a patriot, everyman, a nobody whonobody could identify or remember, costumed that night.Each by his own hand made a native man from clay and ashes,local tribes, assigned to one of three boarding parties.Daubed with extra coal dust to blacken and alter our faces,we boarded all three ships at the same time, silent, organized.They appointed me boatswain to find the captain and demandkeys to all hatches and a dozen candles to light our way.We cut and split every chest of tea in three holds, openspilling, leaving no ounce safe from the ruinous salty water.Tomahawks swung high, surrounded by British iron clad ships,Yet no effort was made to resist these wild assaults in the mist.

Margaret Hunter: Material Girl

Williamsburg, Virginia12 November 1769
My Deare Elizabeth,
Forgive me, Sister, for my silence across the sea, but the blacksmith’s bellows have been stoking discontent.I miss you deeply in these desperate times,as our Commonwealth questions its class and character.
If only you could be here to make sense of the mardle,to be privy to the dizzying denials of taxation,and to offer your handin my stitching and safekeeping.
Raleigh Tavern down the waypours passionate pints for restless rebels planning their bolt from British hands—but woe to us women who are weaving and washingand mending our society’s garb!
In their naughty pleas to throw the throne,do they weigh our worthy fashion work,our need to needle, to keep colonists clothed in the fabrics they wear for waging war?
What of their cloaks and caps and cravatswithout silk or lace or velvet from the Crown?How defying taxed imports will diminish our supplyand our goodly stake in style and civility!

by Judith Stern Friedman

By my troth, Deare Sister, my fingers are feeblefrom worry and wont of making do.Our local women have gathered in bees,desperately spinning yarn for cloth,weaving wool, and combing cotton,remaking muslin from West Indies lands
far from English fabrications! I fear, my Lizzy, that to break from British chains,we will pay the price of luxury life:commonplace cloths, loose threads in its stead.Though not as fine or elegant,they will bleed with brazen Revolutionary red.
As tensions rise, I keep afloat,keep faith that the fabrics and my nimble handswill keep my business and my placeamidst this knotted yarn.
Our sister Jane left for London today,leaving me to manage this awful mess!Was I dizzy for daring this business alone?Still fraught to find any fellow in dalliance,I remain on my own to sew the stuff.
I ply you to pray for good hap and Godspeedin this fearsome and tenuous time.I will be strong—Remembering our sisterly love
Most affectionately, Maggie
Detail from portrait of Samuel Adams painted by John Singleton Copley around 1772 - https://www.americanhistorycentral.com/entries/samuel-adams/

Samuel Adams Speaks of Revolution by Paul Buchheit

The Stamp Act stirred rebellion, but the reasons fade,the culprits change. Frontiersmen, farmers, men of trade,and laborers were subjugated by the rich,but we were mad, our voices at a fever pitchinciting commoners against the British tax.The Boston Massacre was marked by fierce attackson local men -- the "motley rabble," rich men said --with Crispus Attucks famously among the dead.And then the upper crust, the Sons of Liberty,arose to rail against the aristocracyof England, while in Boston tea was dumped in scorn,and now the apprehensive wealthy rose to warnthe lower classes: "We the People" must uniteagainst the foreign foe! And speakers would ignitethe crowd, including Patrick Henry, Thomas Paine,and other rabble rousers: Let us now ordaina Declaration: independence, nothing less,equality for those in economic stressbecause of taxes. But excluded were the Blacks,the landless, women, Indians - indeed, the taxwas mainly hurting merchants, yet the poor would fightwhile men with wealth could claim a war exemption right.

Ally

by Janea D. Harris

No longer can my eyes pretend not to see, The burgundy hued flesh bulging from deep beneath the layers of your decadent brown skin.No longer can I pretend not to hear, The gut-wrenching cries of the enslaved woman as she labors the entirety of 22 hours. Eventually birthing a child that she will never be allowed to hold, Whose love she will never be allowed to know.No longer will I fail to support your right to freedom, your right to exist,Your right to birth and love your children as I love mine. My God directs me to love my fellow man, without judgement.I am called, I am moved, I am dedicated to advocating on your behalf,I am your ally. ---Author’s Note: Based on the formation of The Pennsylvania Society for Promoting the Abolition of Slavery formed in 1774. The group helped pass Pennsylvania’s Gradual Abolition Act of 1780, the first anti-slavery legislation of the United States.

Secrets and Silence - Rachel Walker Revere (the Second Mrs. Paul Revere), 1745 - 1813 by Mary Beth Bretzlauf

No man can ever understandwhat we women do to keep our familiesfunctioning and togethernor can they navigate what lengths we women must go Dripping candle wax seals secrets,midnight knocks on our door,welcome whispered warnings,notes slipped into my hand while on my errands,my husband running messagesunder the inkiness of many nights not knowing if he will return,be captured or shot,I have squirreled suppliesfor our youngest seven of fifteen children and my mother-in-lawwe must always be silent –no clue of our plans must ever be knownin the event we must escape –it’s either run or get caught I’ve plotted our routemade crucial connectionsto ensure our safetyfor we are in as much dangeras my husband while he rideswarning the Red Coats are coming!

The Midnight Ride by Gail Denham

So tired, I wasn’t sure my legs would hold me. I slid to the ground and patted the wearyhorse I’d ridden all day on patrol.
“Oh no,” I muttered. “Here comes trouble.”Corporal Jakes strode toward me. “You’vegot duty tonight. Sorry, Paul, but you did sign up to help.”
I groaned. “I’ve been up since 5 AM,” Icomplained. “I need sleep. Can’t someoneelse take this shift?”
“Nay,” Jakes said. “You’ll take Brown Beauty. Pastor Larkin loaned her for tonight. Now go get food. You leave soon. Couple men go with you.”
Brown Beauty was a marvelous horse. Any other time I’d leap at the chance to ride her. But
 I shuffled to the cook tent. “Get away,” I snarledat the camp dog.
The moon rose as we rode off. “Are you twoas weary as I am?” I questioned the men beside me.Horse’s hoof beats drowned conversation. I shoved aside a thought of my silver business in town. Would I ever practice again? With theBritish on our heels, maybe never.
Soon we spotted the Old North Church. I steppedinto the alley. “Are you both ready,” I asked thesexton and John. “Remember, hang one lantern inthe belfrey if the British come by land, two if by sea.We’ll be across the river, watching.” The men nodded. “Good luck,” I whispered.
We three rode off, quiet as we could. Seemed as if the horses’ hooves clattered awful loud.
Across the river, we got the signal, then rode hard.Lands sake, this horse is fast. My throat hurt.We’d yelled for hours, at farms, along town streets – “The British are coming. The British are coming.”
Suddenly, about one AM, we pulled up hard. A British roadblock. “Stop,” one shouted. “What are you men doing, yelling your heads off? Think thiswill make a difference? Get off those horses.”
A soldier dragged me off Brown Beauty, slammed medown. I was numb anyway, but my head hit. I laythere a few minutes. Soon we were all shuffled to a guard tent. I fell asleep. Figured I’d never see thatmagnificent Brown Beauty again. Our ride – ourwarnings were over – or were they?
What lay ahead for their cause? History would record.

Brown Beauty (the borrowed horse that Paul Revere rode) by Elaine Person

My nostrils flared as I ran that night.I carried Paul Revere.I ran to help him with our plightto thwart the Patriots’ fear. Together, we rode well that night,as he and I just flew,alerting Patriots far and wide.The fight for freedom grew. I kicked up mud and sweat and blood.I ran ’fast as I could.I knew our independence loomed.Our ride was for the good. The wind whipped by. I grazed the trees.I heard my hooves’ loud sound as branches snapped, my rider cried to people all around,“Redcoats are coming by the sea.Prepare to go to fight.”Exhausted, we were capturedafter riding through the night. ’Though I was caught by enemy troops, and the ride felt full of strife,I know I helped a mighty causein the most thrilling night of my life.

Changing the World by Mike Wahl US250 Persona Project Prize

“Listen, my children, and you shall hearOf the midnight ride of Paul Revere,On the 18th of April, in Seventy-Five
” by Henry W. Longfellow There is no lantern lit in the house,so I can’t see my timepiece, but it must be close to midnight;I am standing alone at the pine-scented open window,listening for the faintest sound of a running horse emerging from the continuous background frog chorus.
There would only be one reason why anyone would be speeding down the Lexington road this late,and whether it’s Mister Revere or Mister Dawes,either can find me here in the night, even with no moon:we all know the redcoats are planningsome kind of devious scheme,and it’s most probably going to be tonight.I am wide awake, tense with excitement.
The musket that my father passed along to meten years ago on my seventh birthdayis cradled in my left arm - it’s almost like a part of me,and it never leaves my side, even when I sleep.The smooth worn stock is a comfort to me,but its weight is a constant reminderof how uncertain are these times. I am ready to ride,
taut with anticipation, waiting with my favorite mare saddled and tethered just outside:as if on cue, she nickers softly, and then I hear it too, the steady thrum of a fast-approaching horse,temporarily over-powering the featured frogs.The hoof-beats sound more hollow for a few brief seconds as the horsecrosses the wooden bridge less than a quarter mile away.
I know this means I’ll be riding soon too,to warn other freedom-fighters of the up-coming danger:riding hard through the familiar darkness,warm flesh flexing and stretching beneath me,cool spring air rushing past my ears, on my way to help change the world.

The Regulars are Coming: The Midnight Ride of Sybil * Cybel * Sybille * Sibbell Ludington by Laura Atanacio Edington

Settling into bed that nightI am thankful to be inside--snug, warm, forgetful of the turmoil roiling all around us.“The Regulars are coming!”The wind howls, the rain comes down in droves.The house shudders as the lightning strikes,flashing over and over and over--a beacon in the night.My door is thrown open--my father, the Colonel--“Sybil, quick, the Regulars are coming!”My heart jumps into my throat.The moment we have trained for.The King’s Men have been getting closer every day.My time has come.I jump up, grab clothes,leave behind my warm, safe sanctuary.Star is saddled before I reach the barn.Father has already headed in the direction of the fight.I am on my own.The rain pelts my face, my body.Miles and miles makemy buttocks sting with blisters,my hands bleed onto the wet leather of the reins,but the call must go out.“The Regulars are coming! The Regulars are coming!”The response is instant.Doors fly open --men and boys rush to their horses,pulling up suspenders and tripping into their boots,fighting the roaring rain with the relish of warriors.“The Regulars are coming! The Regulars are coming!”Forty miles later, my mission accomplished,Mother strips the wet clothes from my body,rubs salve into the sores on my ravaged behind,and wraps my shredded hands with soft quilting cloth.I drop my bone-weary body into bed,the call of the night still reverberating like the flashes of lightning,“The Regulars are coming! The Regulars are coming!”
Sybil Ludington (2025) painting by Charles C. Clear III - https://www.oceanstateart.com/portfolio/sybil-ludington-portrait-painting/

I, the Midwife

by Mary Beth Davis Ashley US250 Persons Poem Contest Winner

The night Redcoats marched, I caught a child slick with the future.War at the door, labor in the bed—this is how history enters a country:not with muskets or proclamations,but with blood warm on my hands.
Babies do not wait for treatiesor the shouts thrown from courthouse balconies.They come tearing the world in two,and I am the one who catcheswhatever falls from the darkness.
Earlier that night, I had been boiling waterwhen the rider camecalling me to yet another housewhere war could not pause the work of women.Another baby, he said, before dawn,as though the Revolution ever caredfor a woman’s timetable.
Inside, the mother gripped the bedpostlike a soldier bracing for fire.Outside, muskets cracked along the road,echoing through the windowpanesas her body fought that older battle:the one with no drumroll but two hearts beating, and breathing and pushing and praying.
Push, I told her.The world is changing; let this child begin.She screamed the way all women do—so fiercely the war went silent for a moment,as if even the night held its breath.I have delivered childrento mothers who cannot vote,who cannot own land,who bring forth citizensin a country that will not name them so.
My hands shape futuresI am not permitted to hold.But the baby came—red, wailing—a sound so raw it could have cleavedthe rebellion itself.I wrapped him in linen,lifted him to the candlelight,and felt the whole trembling nationin the heat of his first breath.
Outside, the war marched on—boots in mud, voices in the dark—but inside that dim rooma different liberty arrived,small and shivering,with his mother’s exhausted heartbeatdrumming out a welcome.If this new country is to stand,let it learn from women:how to bleed,how to breathe,how to begin again.

This Black Body: The Story of "Henry," an Enslaved Man by Carol Alfus

For the whole of my life, this Black body was moved like a pawn on a chessboard by White hands, cruel and indifferent.
Dutch enslavers captured, shackled and stowed this Black body in the belly of a ship, a hellhole of disease and abuse I somehow survived.
In the Colonies, White hands traded money and this Black body became the property of a South Carolina landholder.
On the plantation, this Black body was fed and clothed(not acts of Christian kindness, but as protection of Master’s investment) stripped of my familial name and called “Henry”.
I was trained to tend to Master’s horses; their gentle presence supplied the only measure of comfort this Black body ever felt in bondage.
Over time, our Masters became angry at their British Masters. Whispers of Rebellion turned to cries for Independence, butI knew the Liberty they fought for was their own. None for this Black body.
I must liberate myself.
I and thousands like me fled estates, farms and plantations. Proclamation from Lord Dunmore, Royal Governor of Virginia, promised all indentured Servants, Negroes or others
free that are able and willing to bear Arms, they joining His Majesty’s troops, as soon as may be

I enlisted and found myself in a company of Hessian mercenaries, who called me “Heinrich” and trained me to be their drummer. Most of the men I served with had never seen a Black man before and treated me with a kind of amicable curiosity. We communicated at first with gestures; over time I learned a fair amount of their strange, guttural language, and taught them a smattering of English.
The Middle Passage hellhole did not prepare me for the horrors of War. The death, dismemberment and terror that I witnessed on the battlefield haunted me for the rest of my days. Yet once again, I survived.
At the end of the War, some dozens of us formerly enslaved accompanied our units to Germany, where, as Heinrich, I sought work and a new life as a Free man. Within six months, though, I was stricken with consumption and died in the city of Kassel.
My corpse was carried to the anatomy theater of the Collegium Carolinum and dissected. Witnesses there were astounded that under the skin of this Black body, I was just like a White man.

Farmer of Defiance by Teresa Harris

I am a farmer of defiance Growing violence and warSown from seeds of discontent I plant my restless soul in the landCultivate it with love and fearAs a bold resistance takes rootI prepare to harvest my liberty
Colonel Tye depicted fighting with the British in the painting The Death of Major Peirsons - https://www.history.com/articles/the-ex-slaves-who-fought-with-the-british

All My Earthly Love by Terry L. Slaney US250 Persona Project Honorable Mention

I have decided to leave a few items to my wifeto remind her of my love and how I have missed her
Brass buttonsThe smallest of lead musket ballsA powder hornMy thin leather belt- how scrawny I am!There isn’t much leftThe stained bloody uniform
At first it seemed we were safe on the supply linesBut when the front lines fellWe few picked up their muskets and bayonets and charged forthUntilOn the last hurtle--Cut down
I hope the pain will eventually lessenSo I can work the farm again despite Broken flesh and bone
Remember to tell her to buy more potatoes, seed and cornRemember to tell her how proud I am of herRemember to tell her
From "The Cherokee-American War from the Cherokee Perspective" by Jordan Baker (Journal of the American Revolution) - https://allthingsliberty.com/2021/07/the-cherokee-american-war-from-the-cherokee-perspective/

The Dragon and the Canoe by Andrea Curran

My face pitted by the pox that decimated our village. I approached my father with straight back and braced chest, Demanding that he let me join the hunters. “You can go,” he coughed, “if you carry your canoe.” I crouched beneath the hull,The brown and black striped feathers in my hair crushed under smooth hewn cedar. My soft leather moccasins pressed into the Earth. The dugout leaving deep gouges in red-brown Overhill dirt.
Years later when they came for our lands, I made my voice thunder at Sycamore Shoals. “As for me, I have my young warriors about me.We will have our lands. I have spoken.”
Now we paint our faces with the ash from the burned timber of our homes. Cook-fires glowing on the hunting grounds sold for ten-thousand sterling. The war drums pulse behind the shrieking whoops of war. We slam our spears into dark and bloody ground. The Chickamauga river runs thick with the blood of Long Knives.
The Boston Massacre, March 5, 1770, illustrated by W.L. Champney and printed by J.H. Bufford & Co. - https://www.si.edu/object/boston-massacre-march-5th-1770:nmaahc_2011.26.8

James Millikin, Jr. by James Wilkerson

Landed on new ground in 1771Magnolia trees waved me inthe sin-sound of tyrants now faint echoes in wind from Irish shores
Built a blockhouse with brotherMother and Father now too far to seeI stretch newborn musclesthe sweat tastes fine to me
Freedom fuels this new lifeProvince of Pennsylvaniapure, untouched, perfection
Years from a familyYears from a wifeThe same tyranny I escapedwill soon set sail with haste
The smell of freshly-worked timbergives me hopeI dream of days not dawnedlove not yet ablazeand nights with stars,amazed at the Lord's work
But the distant valleysvomit the sound of black powder riflesfiring with precisionand the smoke skipsup and down the slopesand plainscarried by the wind again
The waves of Irelandpound against my cabin doorbut not a drop of watercomes in
The gun I hoped would rustis loaded for I mustfight for whatmight be
In candlelightI re-read the last letterfrom Father,willing his treasured saddleto me

THE WAR OF INDEPENDENCE: 1776 - 1783

Signing of The Declaration of Independence by John Trumbull

The Vellum by Karian Markos

Mister Matlack pulled me from the drawer,laid me flat onto his writing desk. His steady hand glided across my surface as he inspected me for flaws. Finding none, the time for engrossment had come. The drafters watched as he dipped the quill into the inkpot,inscribing their declaration upon me in iron gall ink. Each word artfully formed of round-hand script,endowed me with a significance far greater than any I could have imagined for myself. When the document was complete, Mister Matlack roseand shook the hands of the men in the room.Each signatory’s eyes rested upon me in succession.In them, I perceived the reflection of my new face on which was formed the foundation of a new nation.
Thomas Paine and Common Sense - https://thomaspaine.org/gallery/

My Paine Principle, Part I: The War Rages

by jacob erin-cilberto

After Thomas Paine, Author of Common Sense
Common Sense is only commonto those who use itWar makes no sensethe muskets and cannonsmight blow up this poemrevolutionary nounsshot down by redcoat verbs and sentences diagrammedin a straight lineare target practicefor those patriots from our sidewho shoot prepositionsoff of their phrases Taxation without representationsplit-infinitives with powder burnsstamps with British faceslitter my paragraphs I am no statesmanjust a writer who wantsto finesse an ending that will bring both sides to the deskso peace allowsall the semanticsto govern themselvesand write their owndeclaration of grammatical independence.

Josiah Bartlett, Physician and Patriot, 1729 - 1795 by Lucia Lemieux

Medicine taught me to protect life.There is a parallel between a doctor’s oath to do no harm,and the responsibility to defend our republic.We are all sick when our nation is ill.
I have always said“To keep the mind as Easy and Contented as possibleare of much more service than a multiplicity of Medicines.”It is the same with our republic.Having a contented mind is directly correlatedto keeping our republic intact.But we must do it with integrity and sound judgement.The British people are not our enemies: The British Crown is.
As we write this Declaration,we must keep the wordsdirected to King George II,not the people of England.Many of you, like me, have family there,however distant, however disagreeable.
Although I am born of this place, Amesbury, Massachusetts,I do not consider myself a colonist, but a free man.We all, should be, free men.
At 21, I began my medical practice,pulling teeth and caring for other ailments.In 1752, I had a fever. My own physician wanted to treat me with heat.I declined, instead drinking water and cool liquids. I healed myself.When an outbreak of diphtheria killed many in a nearby town,I treated them with Peruvian bark and these same cooling liquids.The bark, quinine, was used for centuries hence.
Heat never heals. Not in health, not in liberty.It takes cool heads to build a nation.
At first, I supported colonial interests.I was in the minority.Eventually, I joined forced with Samuel Adams and other patriots.I was one of two elected to represent New Hampshirein the First Continental Congress in 1774.Loyalists who were against my patriotic actions burned my house.I rebuilt and it stands to this day.Again. Cooler heads prevail.
I represented New Hampshire at the Second Continental Congress.In November 1775, I wrote,“May the supreme disposer of all events in due timeput an end to the troubles of America andsettle her liberties on a solid foundation.”
In 1776, I realized the time was at hand to see whetherAmerica has “virtue enough to be free—or not.”
We voted.The first “Aye’ you heard was mine.My voice resounded so loudly that it shook the rafters.
I was the second to sign the Declaration of Independence,after John Hancock.First to vote, second to sign.I am enormously proud of those moments.
I am still smiling.
Photograph of the old Post Office, once owned by Benjamin Franklin, in Philadelphia - https://www.history.com/articles/us-post-office-benjamin-franklin

Mail Call

Mr. Franklin is a good man,though he can have a sharp tongue with somewho are slow to understand the meaningof his words. We talk best in the stablewhere the quarter horses live who pull his carriage. Through the women talking in the kitchen---and their apple cider is the best in town---it is said that Mr. Franklin wants to havea personal letter chain that goes from one houseto another and even from one house to anotherhome in the next village. A person could run with this letter,but, Mr. Franklin wants it taken by horse back.He even has a name for this work, “Postal Service.”.One of Mr. Franklin’s quarter horses , Gray Boy,is the fastest in the stable and I would like toride him from town to town with the letters.
The Revolution is almost over and Englandwith Kings and Queens will never come here.It is time to change. England has boys who runwith envelopes from house to house for the rich,but here, there must be someone to read the envelope.

by Marie Asner US250 Persona Poem Project Honorable Mention

I have started learning the alphabetABCso, I can announce the name of the personwho will receive the envelope. No one ever knewI was learning to read because only the wealthy can read,but I will show them that anyone can read letters. My name is James, and I have learned how to say Jand then A then M then E and then S. James.I can read from paper and now I will startto read my last name. Halborn. I can make out H A L and am starting on B then O then R and then N.James Halborn, Postal Service. I will be ready for duty when Mr. Franklin returnsfrom the latest meeting of the men who sign thepaper that makes us free, The Declaration of Independence.Even my horse, Gray, will have his full name on a piece of paper.James HalbornPostal ServiceHorse---Gray BoyReporting For Duty, Sir.
The Washerwoman, painting by Henri Edmond Cross

Building Heart, Building Home - Haym Salomon by Julie Isaacson

Most of my early life, I thrived in PolandFortunate to study finance in my European homeland
Across the ocean, as a young investor I ventured to New YorkProving my business acumen during a time of a new nation’sunrest and growth1775 - the beginning of a new home for meand a revolution towards rebirthfor the Patriots seeking independence from the shackles of British rule
My Heart? What direction should it follow?I embrace the challenge, make change with rich values guiding me to what’s right.Right for me, right for a cause. I will serve, I shall become a Patriot—Service before self in my new home, my new land.
I bring Skill to the endeavorSense for financial services for the goalPassion as a committed member of the Sons of LibertyThis is my oath, my bond.
The dedication is worth the sacrificeI’ll risk my lifeI’ll tempt the repercussions of arrestMe? A Spy? If the Brits chose to accuse me of espionage, let them
My purpose is pure, My shared vision beyond reproach
And thus, I rise in the ranksrespected by General George Washington himselfas I choose to provide a desperately needed loaninvested in the Yorktown CampaignA pivot, a turning point as I help to launch the first true step to American independence.
Bold!My actions are bold.The promise of this new nation is bold.The General, the soldiers, All bold. Brave. Determined.
I contribute with all my resourcesAll my integrity.
In the end,my fortune wanes to depletion, as the word of others isnot as true as mine.
My life will be forgotten,I’m dying destitutebarely a mark on thehistory I helped to create.
May this nation thriveas I and my compatriots envisionedMay the dream surviveso that the sacrifice will have all been worth the Loss of LifeBlood and monies shedAll for the good of the cause.Freedom. Living in my heart, my home.

A Woman's Hands by Candace Kubinec - US250 Persona Project Honorable Mention

I am a warrior, too. I follow the troops,with wooden soaking tubsand harsh lye soap for weapons. My gentle hands of compassionease pain and calm nightmaresof boys fighting boys. Strong, work-worn handsscrub battle stains from shirts once white,while sweat and tears combine to stain my heart. Raw, bleeding hands.My blood mingles withthe blood of soldiers returning to camp. Hands spreading heavy woolen uniformsto dry under the bright yellow sun,like so many corpses left behind. Hands mending holesin socks for blistered feetthat march in line to die for a cause. Faithful handspraying nightly forthe carnage to end. I am a washer woman.

Culper Ring by Olivia Molleck

George Washington organized a planHe became the manBenjamin Tallmadge captainedSomething really cool happened
Ciphers, codes, and invisible inkThey all made the Redcoats blinkSecrets, geniuses, and spiesHidden and read between the lines
The Redcoats didn’t knowAbout the Culper Ring’s flowAnna Strong’s clothesline secrecyAnd feminist frequencies
Agent 355’s mysteryAnonymously changed historyHercules Mulligan, the smuggler of the century,He had an excellent memory
The Culper Ring innovatedThe spies were extremely dedicatedWe kept the American Dream aliveAnd all dreams should thrive
Detail showing Susanna Wright from painting by Adrian Martinez - https://www.adrianmartinez.com/humphry-marshall-exhibit/susanna-wright-and-deborah-logan-image/

The Capture of Nathan Hale by Jan Chronister

Neither captured nor caught is the proper word since the young manwas neither being chased nor possessedthe skills to elude his captors.
Upon observationI had my suspicions he was a spy,though a rather inept one.He was tall, stood out in a crowd.His disguise was weak,scars on his facefrom a recent musket flashmarked him for easy recognition.
I approach him at the tavernwhere he lodges, share a drink.The young man is easily convincedI am a Patriot trapped in British territory.He betrays his mission,is arrested the next day,identified by his Yale diplomacarried on his person.Execution will take placetomorrow in Manhattan.
Photograph by Randy Steele (2010)

I am the Susquehanna Muse - After Susanna Wright (1697 - 1784) by Carol Parris Krauss

The Susquehanna cuts and curves right up to the edge of my property. My home overflows with my children, pearly commas inching along wooden trays and boxes. Larvae moving and munching among stacked mulberry leaves, green as the river stones lining the path to the family ferry. The one that shuttles
my silk threads to Philadelphia and London, and conveys correspondenceand friends back to my parlor—conversations with the Benjamins–Franklin and Rush, and local writers, farmers, & kin
“Memory,” I tell them, “is a bubble on the water's shining face.” I know of the king’s
edicts barrelling across the Atlantic like storms, and have heard of Red Coats scouting the Lower Susquehanna in flatboats. I answer these advancements with relentless work: A deed fairly written, a quarrel quieted. Lessons in independence. This evening, I will sit on my wide planked porch and listen to the river’s hymn.
Reflect on more memories: the weight of fresh leaves, the patience of worms spinning, community concerns spoken in the language of a budding nation.

The Reluctant Drummer Boy by Carole Novack

My Ma and I live on a small farm in Valley Forge and managedwell enough until the Continental Army showed up in the winterof 1777. They immediately began to cut down trees and dismantle homesin order to build shelters for the militia from the bitter cold. Like any other 16-year-old, I was fascinated by the sight of the horses,the men with muskets, and, General Washington himself. I watchedas he strode around camp in his hat and blue overcoat, stoppingto talk to a ragtag group bundled in blankets, seated around a meager fire. A few days after the troops arrived, I awoke to the sound of high-pitchedsqueals coming from out back. I looked out my bedroom windowonly to see several men carrying pigs, while others dragged bales of hayout of the barn and a young boy walked away with our milk cow. I ran down to the kitchen, grabbed Ma’s big soup pot and startedbanging on it with a wooden spoon, screaming at the top of my lungs,hoping I could prompt them to release the pigs and the cowand drop the bundles of hay, but they just turned around and laughed. Later that day, two officers in uniform approached the farm on horseback.An officer was leading our milk cow by a rope, the other officer, wearinga tricorn hat, accompanied by several dogs, asked to speak to the manof the house and I said that would be me since my Pa had died years ago. General Washington introduced himself to Ma and said some soldiershad returned to camp with a tale of a brazen young lad who attemptedto chase them off by clattering pots and whooping like a banshee.Looking at me he asked if I was that young man, to which I replied “yes.” General Washington apologized to Ma for his men having run off with ourmilk cow and then explained that his army was in dire need of a drummer.As I possessed some musical talent, he could offer me a stipend of $8.33per month which would help make up for the loss of our pigs. My mind in a tangle, I began to protest. I was 16 and Ma needed my help.Ma said, “Go get your bags, boy. I can watch the farm by myself.” With that, General Washington whistled for his hounds and said,“Son, meet Mopsey, Tipsy, and Sweet Lips. They’re good dogs.”
The “Battle of Harlem Heights, September 16, 1776,” by notable Civil War artist Alfred R. Waud, shows the Continental Army holding the high ground against the British, who were forced to withdraw. https://warfarehistorynetwork.com/article/battle-of-harlem-heights/

The Battle of Harlem Heights

Listen, children, while I tell ye the tale,and you must mark my words. For alltomorrow’s tomorrows, our family’shistory will be yours to tell.
It was sunrise on the 6th of September,when messengers on horse, broughtfearsome news as they galloped into ourbarn. “Long Island is invaded! GeneralHowe plans to capture Manhattan!Washington's heading for Harlem Heights.Those who are able and willin’ to fight,must meet in New Haven at nine tonight!"So I summoned my wife and I spoke to my sons,“Look after yer Ma and care for the farm.I'm packing my bags and grabbing my guns.I am leaving today - Washington calls for aid.”
I signed up that night in New Haven town square.The 10th Connecticut Regiment ready to spar.Eighty men per company, each one aware –our families, our lives, our freedom laid bare.A freedom newly born, just a babe whose firstbreath had barely been drawn.
Leaving for New York I rode with great purpose,entering the encampment without any fuss.I joined my troop in Knowlton’s Rangers,and they pointed out some terrible dangers.From Harlem Heights I could see the Redcoats,their camp, their troops and their gunboats.Setting up tents, I heard tell of a battleThe stories were fearful, the wounds mortal.As bullets molded by firelight, I saw youngrecruits far from their farms, and facing theirfears, fondly listen as a drummer-boy readour Declaration of Independence.

by Elizabeth Stanley King

I awoke to the halo of early morning light with thesound of steel upon stone. A man sharpnin’ knives,frost on the grass. Tiny frozen blades on theHeights of Harlem. September 16th was born,gray and solemn.
Washington asked Knowlton to scout the foe.So he and I chose some twenty young men whowent creepin’ through the hedgerows below.I prayed, and I watched, as my riflemen creptslowly through the thickets held by Brits.Washington also surveyed the men. I knowhe was working out all possible optionsas each progressed through the Hollow.Careful and wise, as sharp as an arrow,his mind ever shrewd, he was our cunning Old Fox.
Suddenly, shots rang out, and hearts sank.The cries of my comrades, the din of war,the smell of gunpowder. My young volunteersbegan to panic. Then that crafty Old Fox,he rallied the men with strengthened resolve.
Just then, while under full attack,suddenly we were taken quite aback.They ordered their bugler, "ring a fox chase.”In utter disbelief we turned about face.We returned the chase across farm and field,until, at long last, we forced their retreatand from there we could see England's defeat.Face-to-face we engaged the foe 'til finallyexhaustion took hold and all powder was spent!
When all was over and donethree full miles had we gone.We’d given the Old Foxthe first battle he’d won.
“Birth of Our Nation’s Flag” (1893) by Charles H. Weisberger (Artist) and H.A. Thomas & Wylie Lithography Co. Image from https://www.loc.gov/resource/pga.02842/

Dear Diary by Marjorie Rissman

I know not which person will come upon youwhen I am gone or unable to add my daily words of Godly thought but I am sure one ofthe girls I brought into this world and raisedwill find you and read you from cover to cover,volume after volume, husband after husband.I believe the end is not far off and I will soon be called to join the three men whose lives andbeds I shared, definitely for better than for worse.
We shared much more than daily dreams as wewere all Christian patriots helping to create theUnited States of America, even bending the lawsof our Quaker roots to help the cause and take uparms. Perhaps knowing the finest American, GeorgeWashington, gave me the strength to put aside my usual employment of mattress making andother items of domestic tranquility, and spend my days creating tents, uniforms and flags for the war effort, and sewing flags for various militia and states. But my proudestmoment was creating the first flag for my newcountry. My! I was proud to sew the thirteen alternatingred and white stripes and the circle of thirteen five-pointedwhite stars on a canton of blue, symbolizing the thirteen colonies.My design made perfect sense.But first I had to sell it to the flag committee. How my kneesshook like a cold day in winter when I met with thethree gentlemen and showed them the flag! It was June in 1776.A year later my flag was officially blessed by Congress.This was my proudest moment.This is my story.
Betsy Ross

Did I Make the Flag? by Lisa Vihos

Born a humble Quaker, I went against my father’s wishto marry John Ross, outside the canon of our belief.Will history remember me for this?
Of seventeen born, I was one of eight Death missedand Mother made sure my sewing skills were chief.Born a quiet Quaker, I went against my father’s wish.
As each upon next my siblings died, sewing held my blisswith every stitch upon the cloth an antidote to grief.Will history remember me for this?
When John was taken by the war, his warmth, his kiss,I still sewed flags, tents, and blankets for the men’s relief.Born an able Quaker, I went against my father’s wish.
Maker of America’s first flag: truth or myth?A painting by Moran shows it so, invites us to believe.Will history remember me for this?
Though two more husbands passed, five daughters could assistand in post-war Philadelphia, we made upholstery our life.Born an artful Quaker, perhaps I filled my father’s wishand in the end, history remembers me for this.

They Say This War Is About Freedom

I am the woman they never write about.The one whose needle keeps the barracks clothed,who stitches the shape of a nationthat never learned my name.
My hands have sewn more freedominto wool and homespunthan this land has ever offered me.
I hem their blue wool coatswhile wearing chains of my own—cook the liberty stew yet am never invitedto the table.
They call this the War for Independence,yet ain’t one overseer, no colonel, no patriothas loosened a single chain in my direction.I sew so many uniforms my fingers forgetwhat softness feels like.The needle has drunk more of my bloodthan any man I ever had permission to love.
They call me property. Wench. Girl.They call me by what they branded into my skin—the what they listed in the plantation ledger like an entry of cargo.
Still, I sew.I sew because my mama done stitched herselfinto scraps of muslin— the only place this country let her live. I sew because cloth cannot lie as neatlyas the men with straight spines and crooked laws.
They bring me bolts of indigo-dyed wool,cloth the color of storms,brass buttons stamped with emblems,each bearing the mark of a new nation,thread thick with the scentof the dye pot and gunpowder.
I lay the colonel’s coat flat, press it with steam and quiet fury, teeth set hard.Follow the selvage edge, and darn the rents where pridehas torn straight through the conscience.
I hem the uniforms of men who shout libertyloud enough to drown out the soundof their own contradictions and still expect me to bow my head an’ say “yes, suh”.
These coats warm shoulders that never bent to pick cotton. These sleeves touch handsthat never trembled upon an auction block

by Dralandra Larkins

And I wonder— how can a man cry freedomwith a throat built from my labor?I wonder how it feels to wear a uniformthat guarantees respect before a man even speaks.Yet still, I keep on sewin’.
They reckon my worth in cotton poundsand profit. They tally my body beside tobacco and rum, as though my bonesain’t held together by the same God as theirs.
And when them liberty men march out,drums loud and certain, I'll watch them pass—and still, I'll be there, my work fitted to their shoulders,my stitches, my handiwork, marching on with em’—toward a glory I'll never be offered.
But hear me: I am the first revolutionthis land ever knew. For a woman who surviveswhat I have survived, has already fought a war.Do I not labor? Bleed? Birth? Endure?What name do you give a woman who does all this?
And when this country is born— crying, raw, red, and hungry— I will testify and set down what the congressmen forget to remember:A nation is not built solely by the hands that fight,but by the hands that mend the very fabricof its becoming
And when the muskets fire, the smoke lifts,the flags rise, and we hum low prayers into the airover this new United States— I will still be here,counting my stitches, holdin’ my chillun’,holdin’ my breath, holdin’ the hope that somedaythe word freedom may finally sew itselfinto my name.
By the time George Washington died, more than 300 enslaved people lived and toiled on his Mount Vernon farm. Painting by Junius Brutus Stearns, 19th Century. - https://www.npr.org/sections/ed/2018/02/04/582468315/why-schools-fail-to-teach-slaverys-hard-history

One Day by Judy SooHoo

I cannot hold my excitement and could not sleep. I will get upwhen the sun greets us and do chores right away to show that I amworthy of the wisdom of the elders and the music of the griots instories told under our oldest baobab tree. I will catch the biggest fishfor Naa to cook to satisfy my stomach as the smell and taste of myfavorite dish domoda fills the rest of my senses ....
Seized at the river’s edge, well-warned were weof the white sea men that spill the blood of my kin with loudweapons popping and flashing with a burnt smell that lingers. Captured, I have met the same fate as so many others.But Naa, Baba, my kunda and the kabilo shall not mourn me.I am Jabari, The Brave, of the Jallow family from Juffure. The endless ships pile on at the river’s mouth not cargo in its holdbut the kidnapped that are regarded lowlier than the red baboons thatraid our crops. They shackle, beat, feed us infested food just as we are.Too many old and young with nowhere to move, rest or relieve ourselves,the air is filled with sickness, death as we are deplored and dehumanized. I pray to Allah to protect and give me strength in theseforsaken times where men cry out for the mercy of dying. Pemberton’s Upton carries so many to the land of their opportunity throwing off-board the weak and the dead every day and still to turn a profit. For over 70 moons, we have endured the wrath of both the white man and nature, from 40 ships down to only 8 arriving, the journey is no match for either. Showered, shaved, and slicked with palm oil to hide the truths of our wounds, sores and cuts, and those unseen and scabbed. I survive, praise be to Allah, am purchased for $1800, and I join the many bought and dowered by the white man’s leader, General Washington. There are hundreds of us working in the mansion, on five farms of livestock and crops, stables, the gristmill and distillery – families separated across 8,000 acres in cottages deemed unlivable even by the Massa. Many find love but families and the betrothed are separated and sold toor even raffled off by Massa Washington to collect a debt. Harry escapes, is found, returned and punished. Even with Militia, the Continental Army is lacking enough men. Massa accepts Indians but wants no blacks enlisted as we are property, seen as a threat to slavery and can revolt as did our even worse off starving and beaten Jamaican brothers. Abolitionist Olaudah Equiano says what is on the minds of Massas that be“When you make men slaves, you deprive them of half their virtue and compel them to live with you in a state of war. Are there no dangers attending this mode of treatment? Are you not hourly in dread of an insurrection?” They do not see between the day and the night, what is self-evident.They ask for freedom and rights but do we not deserve the same? A kidnapped child of unknown birth name, Phillis Wheatley writes “In every human breast, God has implanted a principle, which we call love of freedom. It is impatient of oppression and pants for deliverance. I will assert that the same principle lives in us.” Are these not the words of truth that all men are born free and equal – thatno man should be subservient to another? Yet the Articles of Confederation were scoffed at by John and Samuel Adams and Richard Henry Lee for giving suffrage to non-propertied white men still leaving out all other men – and women. Blacks fight for the Loyalists. The Brits have offered salvation to us all –The Dunmore Proclamation offers paid wages and freedom after the fighting. Over 800 men and 800 women and children flee to him. Harry and I join the hundreds of Dunmore’s Ethiopian Regiment with more faith that can be denied and a flicker of a familiar taste from childhood that rises from within. Our battle at Norfolk Great Bridge is lost and we, Lord Dunmore’s menretreat to a different tune. Fighting against our enslavers, this is the Patriots’ first victory and Britain’s first defeat. They burn down Norfolk to prevent our pillaging as we seek refuge on Dunmore’s warships. I board the HMS Fowey but lose sight of where Harry and the others are –I pray to Allah that he is safe and I will see him again. We grow cold and conditions on the ships are as deadly as the ones that brought us tothis abominable land. The pox and camp fever eat away at us the greatest. Dunmore regroups with 82 ships and sails to Gwynn’s Island created according to legend of the gifting by Pocahontas to Hugh Gwynn for savingher life. We fight in battle with the Patriots there and are forced to abandon Virginia for good, leaving behind hundreds of the afflicted to rot. I survive by the grace of Allah, sailing to England free – but still not equal.Naa, baba, my kunda and the kabilo shall not mourn me,For I am Jabari, The Brave, of the Jallow family from Juffure.

Mary Halstead: Runaway Slave, Spring 1776 by Pamelyn Casto

I don’t know who dis Lord Dunmore is but dey say he be offering freedom to Negroes if we be willing to bear arms and serve His Majesty’s troops. I could bear arms if I had to but I know they won’t let me serve in no Majesty’s army,being a Negro woman with a child to tend to. Tonight me and Phillis will make our getaway.She will mind me even if she just three years old.She somehow know this a run for both our lives. To stay means we’ll keep bein’ slaves to Francis Rice, right here in Hampton, Virginia.To run means we’ll face a future we can’t know. If we run we might even be separated.If we fail means we be punished, whipped, or killed. Every result bring too much pain and sorrow. Dey say dis Dunmore cain’t be trusted.Dey say he will sell them that comes to himto the West Indies slave trade. If we run, rebels promise we be killed for insurrection. But dis Dunmore he offers us a Floating Town—200 ships in Norfolk, Virginia to take us to freedom. And the run of thirty miles to Norfolk can be done--if we careful and move all night long. We have to run. We cain’t stay here no more.It’s rainy and cold outside and I’m scared. But chances are about the only things we got to take. I got cloth bags of cornmeal in my headscarf, sewed extra pockets in my skirts for my ashcake flour.I have my deep-pocket apron filled and ready to run. I stole Master Rice’s knife and Bible but maybe God will forgive me for being a thief and will send some of His mighty angels to watch over us. Now we be waiting for the right time to run. Lord, give us just one sign of how we can do this.
Mary Ludwig Hays McCauley aka Molly Pitcher Source: Compton's Pictured Encyclopedia Vol 1, Compton (1928) © www.arttoday.com

Mary Ludwig Hays by Diana Kwiatkowski Rubin

What could have possessed me - aside from loyalty,blind love or brave devotion, to run in that heat to the soldiersand artillerymen with the damp sponge to cleansparks of gunpowder, barrel after devastating barrel?How many fell and how many collapsed I cannot say,only that when my husband went down and was carriedoff the battlefield, I stepped up to take his place usinghis ramrod until a British musket ball flew between my legsand tore off my petticoat. I could still hear them crying,Molly! Pitcher! But I went back to continue loading the cannon.Later, after the battle, General Washington commemoratedmy courage and issued me a warrant as a non-commissionedofficer and from that day on I was known as Sergeant Molly.
Paintings of Molly Pitcher used in "Historic Happenings: The Memory of Mary Hays"

Will the Real Molly Pitcher Please Step Forward by Tammy Smith

Actually, I’m way coolerthan any pitcher of waterI ever hauled across a battlefield,but how would you know that?
No one sees the real Mary(or am I Margaret?)No one knows the depthof my character,the parts of me not linked to a legendI never asked to carry.
This is war.
Heavierthan any vessel of cooling waterI ever offered William(or was his name John?)and the rest of his men, reeking of sweat and iron.
Imagine being married to a myth,your life reduced to a composite:the sum of multiple women—all those meticulous wives and daughterswho cooked, cleaned, laundered,who fired cannons,who sacrificed their safety.
As if this is revolutionary.As if women like mehaven’t been serving mensince the birth of creation.
As if we aren’t true leaders,in our own right,fighting for independence,mightier than “camp followers,”equal to our men.

Wartime Recollections by Laura Daniels

Early Winter 1777, Lancaster, PennsylvaniaJohn and I were married for only a fortnight when he was called to fight. I hear word in town that women are needed to travel with the army to provide cooking and nursing. I signed up so I can work beside my soldier husband.
Winter 1777, Valley Forge, PennsylvaniaI arrived at camp, but John is no longer here. The other women welcome me. To my surprise, my cousin Molly arrived a week earlier to be with her husband, William.
Late Winter 1777, Valley Forge, PennsylvaniaI quickly found my footing in the kitchen. Peeling and chopping. Stewing and roasting hearty meals. In downtime, I wash and mend the soldiers' clothes. I was commended for helping to control the spread of disease. But I miss my husband.
Early Summer, 1778, Valley Forge, PennsylvaniaJohn’s letters speak of his encampment near Monmouth,which is not far from my location. He writes that camp followers are needed. I volunteer to travel there. Molly and William are also making the move. I will finally be reunited with my beloved John.
Summer 1778, Monmouth, New Jersey It took four grueling days in the hot summer sun to reach the new locale. Upon arrival, I learned that John was ambushed and killed while I was en route.I find solace being here for his burial, but my grief will not allow me to continue caring for the soldiers. I must return to Lancaster.
Fall 1778, Lancaster, PennsylvaniaI just received correspondence from Molly detailing the battle that took place in Monmouth. She writes of being on the battlefield delivering water to cool the cannons and quench the soldiers' thirst. Molly tells me that she has a new nickname, Molly Pitcher. It is the name the soldiers yell whenever water is needed. She went on to describe witnessing William fall from heat exhaustion while manning his cannon. Without hesitating, she dropped her pitcher and stepped up to take his place at the cannon and continued firing.
Summer 1779, Lancaster, PennsylvaniaTales of the heroics of Molly Pitcher spread acrossthe towns. There was an account of the battle in the Pennsylvania Gazette. I am deeply proud of her courage and strength of character.
Fall 1780, Morristown, New JerseyMolly invited me to accompany her to Morristown to receive an honorary non-commissioned officer rank from General George Washington. I arrived yesterday. The ceremony is tomorrow. Henceforth, Molly Pitcher shall also be known by another name. The General bestowed upon her the title of Sergeant Molly, a true patriot of the American Revolution.
"Washington Crossing the Delaware" by Emanuel Gottlieb Leutze - https://www.eharrisgallery.com/10-most-famous-revolutionary-war-paintings/

Our Night on the Delaware by Sheila Elliott - US250 Persona Poem Prize Winner

Here, on a Christmas night of hellish cold, here,There is no place for doubt, not in this batteredFlat-bottom boat, part of this fumbling fleet, a shipIn an Army of resilience, barely a banner of hope
Overhead, here I can hear the splintering of theDelaware’s thin and icy skin. Six of us keep thisboat’s pulse alive. We
We are just rowers,glad to have found a river. We would be plowershad fate gifted us with fields.
Here, my head is swaddled in rags to ward offThe seeping of body heat, and, sworn to silence,We’ve gifted paddles with a firm language.We believe we are resistant to defeat.
But I pray. I pray. Daylight brings a battle day.I pray the Hessians sleep as soundly as weAre soundless. Tonight. This is our night on the Delaware.A cloud-shrouded moon’s light falls in silver threading
On our General’s cap. He sits with glacial stillnessNow. But we all believe. He sees what we can’t see.Victory. A country. More
while we--- we arejust rowers on a river not thawed enough to yield,We are the plowers that fate denied a single field.

Before Trenton by Adrian McRobb

Washington stepping out of the boat...
How will I feed my people, they are only kept going by their hatred of the British?They are a bedraggled remnant of what we left New York with. Foraging for food on the way to the river didn't work, the land had already been swept clean by Hessians.
If I cannot keep them interested in this weather, I could lose them all. The enlistments are running out, food is the price of their loyalty now!
Is that the smell of food cooking in the cold breeze? Why not steal the supplies from the guard post? My nose tells me they have plenty of beef. If it goes wrong it could alert the town to our presence, they know not that we are already here. I must pick my best company, men who can move silently and kill quickly, they can already smell their reward.
It will take careful planning, I must conceal my hand until I am ready to strike. New Jersey just wore our boots out, were we running or retreating I'm still not sure which?
But if I can still stir these poor men into action,I may yet pull off my biggest gamble yet!
Washington walks off planning his next move...

Martha Washington in Valley Forge by Joan Leotta

Diary Entry: February 27, 1778
Martha Washington has lately arrived to join her husband here in Valley Forge.
It’s been a while since I wrote. Martha Washington arrived to join her husband here in Valley Forge about two weeks ago. The General asked me to come and help get the house ready, especially the bedchamber (which they shared!) and to prepare a warming stew and mulled wine to greet Martha on the day his scouts told him she would arrive. And so, I did. I was nervous. She was a plantation owner, a southerner. Would she be an empty-headed ornament expecting to be waited on all day?
I was still there the afternoon she arrived, instructing the servants on a few things, writing notes on the entertainments already scheduled for local officials , officers and their wives, all of that, when I saw a small wagon pull up to the house and a tiny little lady, dressed in lovely cloak of dark blue wool, step lightly down to the slippery path in front of the house. Her servant took her arm, and I rushed to the door to help her. Just then the general rode up. He dismounted and ran to her side.
He held her arm tightly to protect her from slipping and together they crossed the threshold into the hall. They seemed not to see me, as I was standing on one side of the door, so I overheard their first private conversation in the house. The usually taciturn General kissed her forehead. “I’m glad you are here. I’ve missed your cheer and good counsel.”She looked up, smiled, and drew her cloak more tightly about her shoulders.“Still cold? Are you sorry you left Virginia for this cold Pennsylvania clime?”She replied, “Dearest husband, you told me in your letters, that while you cogitate on how to stymie the British, you need someone with you to plan the social skirmishes you have to fight—where to sit whom at dinners, and you said you need someone to offer motherly comfort and nursing to your sick and wounded soldiers, and sew on the occasional button.” He bent down and whispered something in her ear that made her blush.She spoke again, in a soft yet firm voice. “Yes, dear husband, it is better to be in a cold place with a warm heart and beside you, than in our warmer Virginia clime, without you so that by day and night my heart and bed are left empty.”
Then they suddenly became aware of me and Lady Martha and I both blushed.I’d not expected such declarations of affection between them, such a need for her and her for him.
Now, already in the fortnight she has been here, despite cold and snow, she walks up and down among the soldiers each day, tending to them, talking to them, listening to them. I see their smiles as she approaches. I’ve seen the General smile as she shows him the arrangements for a dinner party. The climate is cold, but the men seem better able to withstand it now with warmer hearts—all of them.
I stopped over today to take her some dried medicinal herbs from my garden and watched her sew up a torn jacket for an Army private as we talked over the uses of the herbs, which were local and new to her. She cares for his men, all, not just the officers, with the love of a real mother. I am proud to count her as a friend.

When the Enemy Is Not the Enemy by Barbara Krasner

I am a Jew from Westphalia, hired with the Hessiansto fight with the British. But tonight is Kol Nidre,the holiest night of the year. I cannot stand with the Red Coats, whose ships and Union Jack fill the harbor,whose torches light up the sky,whose heavy boots muddy the streets. I am a Jew from Westphalia and carry a small prayer book.The city is in flames, smoke chokes my throat,but I must chant Kol Nidre tonight. It is not safe to stay in the synagogue. I’ve already caughtsoldiers trying to steal Torah filials. I knock on doorsnear the synagogue on Mill Street. No one answers. Until I come to one door. A boy peeks out the window.I see a mezuzah on the door jamb. This familywill be observing Kol Nidre. I knock. The boy opens the door and his papa pushes himbehind him. I am only a Jew from Westphalialooking for a place to pray, I say. I pull out my prayer book and show them my name:Alexander Zuntz. The papa ushers me in.At sundown, other men in their tallitot arrive. We sway in prayer, chant Kol Nidre.England may be at war with the colonists,but tonight the Americans and I are brothers.
"Hessian Fusilier Regiment Von Lossberg, 1776" painting from The Art of Don Troiani - https://artofdontroiani.com/products/hessian-fusilier-regiment-von-lossberg-1776

Premier: Peggy by Cosmo June

“A traitor has many handlers.” General Joseph Reed, Continental Army, December 8, 1780
I am no commoner, my dear General ArnoldI am no lackey or servant, even yoursI am not Trudy, the Irishwoman who brings me tea and cakesNor am I Ellis the cook, once a slaveOr even that cursing fool stable boy Rufus
I am your wife, but as wellI am the best Philadelphia society has to offerI know many thingsI know many peopleI forge alliancesIt is I that matters here
And since Philadelphia is the capitalOf what will never be a true American nationI am what matters in this land of rebellion
And I say that these colonies should remain coloniesUnder the oversight of His Majesty King George III
I have seen our future in my dreamsI have seen it through my correspondenceWith Major Andre, who is convincedYou, my husband, hold the key toThe Loyalist cause in America
You must do right by the crownBy swearing fealty to its lordshipAnd its armies, both great and terrible
What’s more, Congress has shown youBlatant disrespectThis, even and of itself, should be enoughFor you to make this fateful choice
PleaseTurning toward the obvious solutionIs the only way to ensure the solvency ofOur wealthOur childrenOur posterity
The name Arnold shall be long rememberedBoth in these coloniesAnd England!
-From correspondence to Major GeneralBenedict Arnold from his wife, Peggy,August 17, 1780

Justified by Walter Biskupski

My Dear Major Andre,After our meeting the previous evening,I must clear up some matters.I know that people on both sidesmight consider me twice a traitor,from loyal subject, to rebel, to Tory.I insist that my path, though with complications,is more straight-forward.
My loyalty to the King remains true,even as his ministers have misguided himto the point of revolution.Thus I was both loyal and a rebeland took up arms for the rights ofmy fellow countrymen. So I fought with equal honorand received a crippled leg,became passed over for promotions I deserved by politicians and military who have never put their livesin danger as I have. I am a soldier,albeit with a limp and cane now.But I know my worth.I have concluded that this rebelleadership is no betterthan that of his majesty’s ministers.So I have returned to whereI have always been,true to the King,ready to fight for himand ask only to be able to prove itin command and in battle If we are to have imperfect governance, let it be with his majesty,not with the trivial jealousiesand desire for powerof petty rebel politicians. Some have complained of what they term my avarice.As I have written above,I know my own worth,both in money and respect. Money is the earthly measure,not just of a prosperous life,but also of a divine approval.So even a soldier with a limitedability to be made whole in life,if not in body,must take care of his family and his honor.And if the measure of respectis determined by coinand property,So be it. So I will sign offand wish you a safe tripthrough the rebel lines.May West Point be a culmination of our success and reputation.May we meet again in London or New York City, and combine to end this accursed warwhich has brought so much sorrowto both our peoples.
Signed,Benedict Arnold
"Mrs. Murray's Strategy," painting by E. Percy Moran - https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mary_Lindley_Murray

Wine, Women and Wisdom: A Tribute to Mary Lindley Murray by Mary Beth Magee

"More wine, General?" I offer. "My apologies for not having more tea, but ever since the unpleasantness in Boston, 'tis a precious commodity." His nod of assent confirms my tactic.
I thank God I had baked so many of my most popular cakes yesterday, providing plenty of tempting treats to offer General Howe and his officers. There might be nothing left for our sewing circle meeting this evening, but I count the food well spent to keep these hungry officers occupied long enough for General Putnam and his patriot troops to clear the area.
“Daughter, please fetch more wine for these gentlemen,” I order. Her prompt curtsy earns smiles from the men
or was it the prospect of more of my husband’s fine wine? No matter. I watch her scurry to the wine cellar to honor my wishes.
My husband would no doubt shake his Loyalist finger at me if he knew I use his goods, not to honor these British officers, but to try to protect American patriots. He would not approve. But while he is away, I do my part for my country.
My maid keeps watch upstairs. She will let me know when our troops are clear and I can shed myself of these onerous guests. Until then, I smile and flutter my eyelids, pretending to be impressed with these pompous fops. The fools believe me to be a friend.
How little they understand of the ways a woman can fight for what she believes in. We do not always use traditional weapons like guns and blades. Sometimes we use hospitality, good wine and food with deadly accuracy to achieve our goals.
Let Freedom ring!

18th Regiment, South Carolina by Candace Armstrong

My feet are cold. That holein my boot I stuffed with oldnewsprint weren’t no good on patrol.Right about now them fire cakeswould even make hardtack tastebetter’n some kinda paste.
Should’a stayed home like Ma said‘cuz what if Pa ends up dead?who would give my sisters bread?‘specially with them Redcoats aroundand Loyalist neighbors like bloodhoundsour home is a battleground.
Wish we’d stop marchin’ todaybut got to do what the General saywe’ll whip ‘em ‘til they go away.So I ain’t ‘fraid, jus’ feelin’ coldheard this next ridge is their stronghold.Forget complaints, I’m feelin’ bold!
Pvt. Jeremy GravesSo. Carolina 18th
Between 1779 - 1780 when General Washington and officers rented space from the Ford family at their house (Ford Mansion) in Morristown, New Jersey. It is now part of the Morristown National Historical Park, along with Washington’s Headquarters Museum. https://revolutionarynj.org/sites/morristown-national-historical-park/

A Spy in My Own House by Rose Morba

Journal Entry Written by Elizabeth FordJanuary 31, 1780
We woke up this morning to more snow.I never saw so much of it in my twelve years.I long to go outside and spread my arms like an angelin the sparkling snow but it is too deep. The draft through the window is unbearable and I sit near the fireplace to stay warm.
Mother said we can only use two rooms downstairs and the kitchenwhile General Washington and his men have important meetings upstairs. Many colonels and officers come and go. Everything we do is about the war against the King. Now that General Washington is here, soldiers are camped all over Morristown, even as far as Jockey Hollow. While Mother is in the kitchen, I tiptoe up the back staircase to listen. I’m a spy in my own house. I heard General Washington tell Colonel Hamilton the militia needs more supplies and soldiers are looking for Redcoats at the beacon in the Blue Hills. When dear Father was alive, he made sure the militia had enough gunpowder for cannons and guns. Now it’s Mother’s job. She told me we all have to do our part.
I wish I could play with my dolls. I miss my reading and writing lessons but Mother told me I must mend soldier’s clothing first. Every day there are shirts and trousers in need of stitching. I hold my breath when there is dried blood and hope my brothers, Timothy and Gabriel, do not become injured if they join the militia. When I finish mending, I’ll spin wool to help make clothes for the soldiers.
The wind is howling and more snow is falling. The crackle of firewood eases my loneliness. I dream of flowers – purple violets, bluebells and sweet honeysuckle. I will collect them in the spring to place on Father’s grave. I pray to our heavenly Lord that the war ends soon.

Young Thomas Fisher by Bruce Whitaker

A bitter winter in the fifth year of warseeking freedom from the British Crown.Black Samuel and I were about,engaged in chores that a farm requires,no matter if the weather be cruelly cold.Merely boys, I but seventeen, he younger still,our resistance was meagerwhen the press gang set upon us.We were bound and led across vast ocean iceto the moored frigate Roebuck off Cape Henlopen’s shore.Father received their ransom demandfor a herd counting 200 bullocks.More than a lone farmer could yield,but with aid from kind neighbors the quota was met.The cattle were driven over two frozen miles,delivered to the warship at anchor.Hence, Samuel and I were set free,restored to my father and family.Though born into the Quaker faith,my animus toward the Crown was kindled. I soon volunteered for the 1st Delaware, the regiment led by Colonel Hallin the Continental Army.
Three decades and more had passedwhen the British fleet returned, blockading the Delaware coastand bombarding the town of Lewes.During this conflict, I served,at the Governor’s behest,as Brigadier-General of Sussex County,devoted to the preservationof our fledgling nation.

Lydia Darragh - A Daring World Changer Patriot Spy

I pull my shawl close around me to guard against the coldmorning and pray under my breath as I trudge through the December snow towards the mill to drop off my flour sack to be filled
“Thou, Lord, please protectthee from thine enemies and forgive thee for disobeying thy Word by telling any half-truths to the sentries along the way”
I’m alert to what’s aroundto make sure I am not beingfollowed since the mill is notmy main destination
“Please understand, Lordthat thine servant feels compelledto escape the prison the enemy created in thine home to warn General Washington and his troops of the plot I overheard while feigningsleep that the British plan to attack them“I must tell them what will happenso as to protect thine son, Charleswho chose to disobey our peaceful Quaker ways to serve as thou warrior”
The miller understands I can’t waitfor the flour due to a pressing errand“Forgive Charles for his decisionto fight the evil wanting to enslave us all. I ask that You protect him from enemy fire and surroundhim and his fellow soldierswith Your angels”

by Lori Wall-Holloway

As I continue to travel, I stop to scoop fresh snow for its water to refresh me, ever cautious not to be noticedIt’s important I reach the soldiers’camp before nightfallFeeling weary, a Psalm comes to my mind as I press forward“Weary and heavy laden, I lift mine eyes to the hills from whence cometh my helpMy help cometh from the Lordthe maker of heaven and earth”
Someone approaches on the rugged roadjust before I reach the Rising Sun Tavern My heart pounds. I breathe quicklytrying to find a way of escape when a familiarvoice greets me in surprise“G’Day, Mrs. Daragh. Why is thou out here?”
My strength leaves me for a momentas I almost collapse before my son’s friendand fellow soldier, Thomas CraigQuickly, I deliver my message in hushedtones and hand him my old cloth needle book that hides notes with informationin its pockets His eyes meet mine as he mouths, “Thank thee”before turning to quickly make his way back to camp
Relieved, I watch him disappear in the distancebefore leaving to gather my flour With tears in my eyes, I beseech the Lord to protect the soldiers, knowing I had done the right thing

Elizabeth (Betsy) Ambler, Age 16 by Kate Hutchinson

Oh, we must move once more! From thishome of goodly friends in Charlottesville to a place even further from our beloved Yorktown. Will I ever again see the stately home that raised me, the towering oaks, the streets
where I walked with Mother, greeting all we passed with smiles? I shudder to imagine the havoc wreaked by the miserable rebels. Dear Father advises that I not let myself think of it, but my mind roams there daily.
Now we light at last for Richmond wherethe British have guarded Father, his serviceas State Treasurer deemed essential in this dire time. I long to be once again surrounded by stalwart redcoats, one in particular, with his piercing eyes and soothing voice.Might he be there? The wagons await. Please, Richmond, bring some momentary peace to our aching hearts. My small trunk of books, at least, and my faith, promise deliverance.
"Tecumseh," painting by Michael Haynes - https://www.mhaynesart.com/native-american

Shawnee Leader Tecumseh (1768 - 1813) by Carlos CumpiĂ n

Hardly a year goes by when the air hasn’t beenFilled with the sounds of these pale skinned foreigners.Their strange language wasn’t easy to learn, yet I learned it.They seemed to speak without moving their jaw or their upper lips “Waistcoats, breeches, and stockings.”
Yet, how loudly they disagree over which laws they’ll follow, They make dust where there was none and spray each otherWith saliva as they try to select a spokesman for assembliesRepresenting their thoughts to their earthly KING. I was told their royal man is named GEORGE, he lives in a placeCalled a palace by a river, in London, England. Our grandfathers tell of the first big hat white settlement in 1607,In a place that carries a woman’s name, meaning purity,Virgin or Virginia – yet how quickly they polluted the waters. Now, more than a 100 winters later, they seek to test their strength To govern themselves without guidance of a life-long leader Who has command of his ships and marching armies.It is true they’ve proven they can fight to win, For they did defeat the “Par-ley Vuh we wee” French.
Before I was born, I heard Indians had access to the new explosiveBlack powder, lead balls for muskets and flintlock rifles, Which helped arm Pontiac’s 1763 insurgency.He was a sharp-thorned bush against the English but Pontiac and others couldn’t stop them.
When I was seven my own father Pocsinwah tried to aid chief Cornstalk in fighting the colonialists, but he died At the battle of Kanawha, which they call Point Pleasant, Ohio.
Today, I need to trust the English & their King who are
Opposed to these 13 colonies American farmer rebelsWho lust after our vistas and waters, telling lies to trick us,To rob the Shawnee, we who have been here for centuries, As many centuries as there are leaves on a giant oak tree.
I shall go now, village to village seeking an all-Indian alliance, That will halt new settler immigrants expansion across our homeland!

Keeping the House Standing by Gianina Nold - a US250 Persona Poem Honorable Mention

I rise before lightBefore even the rooster settles on the roofThe floor bites my feetI count my children by breathOne TwoThen the space where my eldest should beHis pallet still smells of wool and boyhoodThe straw remembers him better than I dareMy drink is made from burnt barley and chicoryI call it coffeeIsn’t courage a force meant to fill youIt did not fill my sonStill I had to send him offHands steady my heart breakingMy needle is my constant companionI stitched ROBERT’s name inside his coat seamNot for prideBut if the coat comes back without himSomeone might knowHe once belonged to meSalt has vanishedSoap bends in the hand mixed with sandI save ashes like coinBoil rags into bandagesFold them small enough to hide from hopeI collected rainwater in a chipped pailTried to stretch it to wash bodies and floorsI dried herbs for teaTo ease fevers doctors couldn’t treatWhen soldiers knockBritish or ContinentalI do not ask which flag they serveHunger wears the same faceI feed them and keep my eyes steadyWhile muskets lean against the wallWhere my son marked his heightOne morning I traded my wedding spoon for saltI learned to grind corn twice to make it lastI taught my daughters to hide knives in their skirtsTo measure life by what could be savedTo sew courage into seams as I doAt night I mend coats by a stub of candleIf the needle snapsI use a fish bone insteadThread pulled from an old shiftMy fingers know pain nowThis is the training left unsaidI stitched buttons back on soldiers’ coatspatched the soles of shoesrepaired gloves so hands would not freezeThis is the secret craft of survivalOnce a cannon thundered so nearmilk soured in the pailI drank it anywayWaste is a sin in wartimeI watched the smoke risewondered if my son could hear it tooNo one writes about the waitingThe way time stretches between knocksThe way silence grows heavier than soundNot again Not again I cryWhy can’t humanity learn from past warsThey say a nation is being bornIf so women like me are its midwivesHands raw backs bentHolding the world togetherUntil our sons return Or not

Building a New Republic: 1784 - 1800

"Inauguration of George Washington, April 30, 1789," (c. 1899) painting by RamĂłn de Elorriaga - https://evolutiondc.museum.gwu.edu/presidents-inauguration-attire/

How Does a President Dress by Jennifer Dotson

President of these newly United States of America.There has not been one before me. I am the first.My burden is to set thestandard for dress andcomportment of thosechosen to follow.
There is no model orprevious example.This enterprise of self-government for the peopleand by the peoplebegins with me.
Perhaps the answerrests in what I am not.I am no king, no monarch.I do not wear a crown ofgold and jewels.I am an American Presidentand I will wear a suit madefrom American clothmade from the wool of American sheep and woven by American hands.
What’s more, I will notsit upon a throne. I willdaily walk these streetsof Philadelphia to viewthe clock tower and compare its measure with my own pocket watch.As I undertake my role inthis enterprise of self-government for the peopleand by the people,let me daily remindthem that I am one of them.

Who Was It For? by Anara Guard

You will not know my name, would not recognize it if I told. When the soldiers came, first one side and then the other, some said they were Patriots, others claimed to be Loyalists. Their words meant nothing to me and my children. Red coats or blue, they took whatever they wanted: first the eggs and then the chickens, our blankets, firewood, and two jugs of cider left from the autumn pressing. We cowered in the root cellar, their footsteps on the floorboards abovelike a drumbeat of death. A month later, their enemies arrived to pick over what little remained,a broken butter churn, my daughter’s doll. They lifted my skirts and helped themselves.I wished it was their blood left on my thighs.At last, men donned their powdered wigsto sign papers that gave me nothing.Don’t speak to me of revolution. I am still waiting for mine.

War & Peace - an epistolary letter from George Washington to his wife, Martha by Karen Petersen

I have become the President but at what cost?These green hills, so soft and welcoming,hide all manner of treachery and sadness.Their grassy bosoms caress the dead,buried deeply down in the timeless dark,unquiet mouths trying to speak in vainabove the wind rolling in from the rippling sea.
Below those waters, in fields of sea grass,a platoon of arms wave in macabre choreography,waving goodbye to life, goodbye, goodbye,yet above, on the shore, it’s just another sunny dayof strollers, lovers, and happy oblivion.And why not, the dead don’t rise:dearest, come soon--it’s time to build a new nation.
New York, New YorkApril 18, 1789
"Phyllis Wheatley Negro Servant to John Wheatley of Boston MDCCLXXIII," a piece made of silk fiber with gouache, ink, and thread is by an unknown artist copying the original portrait by African American artist Scipio Morehead. https://emuseum.mfah.org/objects/76996/phillis-wheatley-negro-servant-to-john-wheatley-of-boston-md?idx=426

Questions from a Young Modern African Girl,

You would wish to know, to understand howI, a mere slave, my life not my own, couldtravel to England, get my book of poemspublished, and converse with so many powerful people?
My hope, my joy, my strength lies in a gift bestowed on me by the Lord - even on the small shivering waif:snatched from her home in Africa; from her father’s arms and imagined joy.Kidnapped!
You turn your head aside.Ah no! How can it be that this foul, unconscionable act continues evenin seeming perpetuity: her children roughly stolenfrom Africa’s bosom? Your words fill me withleaden sadness. With my life’s blood andspirit did I pour the words aroused in meby that font of creativity – the sacred muse.I had willed and hoped, with my last breath, the goddess Liberty’s magnanimous gifts would carry all into an equitable and glorious future! As for me, I understand all too wellthe plight of which you speak: wrapped in a carpet;taken onto a dark ship bound for th’ colonies.
Can you imagine my confusion, my sorrow,my deadly terror as the winds roared and waves, like monsters rising from the deep,tossed the boat up and down leaning this way and that as we heard men groan and moan and cries of fear not knowing if this day was our last. And for some it was – the smallbodies tossed into the leaping waves – abarely audible plash.
Sick at heart I was put on display in Boston,bought for a trifle – a gift for my master’s wife. Strange words fell on my ears, yet, stone in hand,I tried to scratch letters on a wall – Susanna,my Mistress, saw my gift as clearly as ifit had been sparkling like dew in the sun.She determined to nurture, the light within me. I was her Evangelical project.

after Phyllis Wheatley, born circa 1753 and died 1784 by Patrizia Castiglioni-Fanucchi

From my dark ignorance she held outChristian hope and salvation from the firesof hell. Through the ancient tongues of Homer,Milton, Pope, lit the light and love of language which became my constant refuge and strengthin a world which only seemed to be mine.No matter how accomplished I was, duellingwith words along with the best: I was on display:I was famous: a published author!
Truly I was most obliged to my benafactress!But the shackles of slavery were heavy.
It seemed as if the sweet taste of my freedom would delight, tantalise, paint the world anew,open a portal in my mind: a freshburst of creativity! At last, Icould make my way through the world unhamper’d: freeto shape, create and discover afresh.
Alas! Shortly after my return from Londonto nurse my dying mistress – she passed away and,one by one, the whole family followed- my whole world crumbled! It seemed an icy
wind blew through my new life. My seeming friendsturned a cold shoulder to my plight, my wordscould no longer take flight – trapped in theconfines of anonymity. In this cold.blue world, torn asunder by the ravagesof war – America, too, her torch newly lit,no longer needing my words to shape herwings: but the light only fell on those who werealready strong. My beloved Peters earned his freedom through honest endeavours butlost, even, the trappings of a gentleman -no longer doffing his hat and wielding his cane -was tossed in a debtors prison leaving meand our darling children in abject poverty As my children gather to my loving breast, Aurora rises over the grasslands of my imaginedAfrican home, long forsaken, I pray: I praythat her golden light may, one day, be shed on all.
"Signing the Constitution" from a painting by Louis Glanzman (1987) - https://www.nps.gov/inde/learn/historyculture/constitutional-convention-225th.htm

Weight of the Words, After Copying the Constitution by Gianina Nold

Men spoke loudly in the roomI was not allowed to enterTheir voices carriedTheir certainty did notI copied what they decidedLine by lineHand steadyMy name absentInk soaked deeper on humid daysMistakes scraped away with bladesPaper reusedNothing was wastedI noticed what stayed cleanAnd what was revised until thinFreedom written boldlyIs this what they call freedomAgainProperty carefully guardedWomen unnamedAs if silence were neutralAs if silence chose no sideI sharpened quills until my fingers stainedWashed my hands at nightBut words followed meAching to my toesMy legs jumped from time to timeLeaving me restless in bedNo one asked me what I thoughtThat part was already decidedYet my body knew the shape of powerBefore it was finishedWhen they signedThey stoodI gathered scraps from the floorHistory remembers voicesIt forgets handsSleepless nightsThe quiet laborThat makes changeUntil the same hands are needed againI exchanged letters in privateCarefully wordedSpeaking of restraintOf dignityOf peace held without permissionI wanted to record what I was forcedTo silence outMy opinion didn’t matterBut my conscience askedIs this constitution justOr merely durableIs it expressing the highest respectFor lawOf course, I wasn’t allowed to take a standFor the rights of those who shared my visionI wasn’t even allowed to express concernFor my fellow AmericansI simply copiedAnd copied wordsMarching home alone

The Stable Lad and Mr. Franklin by Nancy Simmonds

On his afternoon off Robert tookthe second housemaid for a walk along the river.We never could get a straight storyout of either of them, buthe came home soaking wet,got a terrible earache with his streaming coldand was laid up with poultices for a week.And that's how Temple asked meto take his place alongside Henryas chair bearer for Mr. Benjamin Franklin.As an apprentice stable lad I am strong.Being Philly born and bredI know my way around the city better than most.‘Twas easy to say yes.
Sir is old and crotchety and sorely painedby gout and other ailments.Henry and I have a rhythm and a swayto keep the man in comfort and good humorthrough the summer of ‘97 as we cart him around the city,to and from the Statehouseand the important meetings of the Confederation Congress.
Sir is a popular man.We have plenty of time to rest our armsas he palavers with the people on the street.Sometimes we close the curtains and take the long way ‘roundso he can mull over Congressional doings.It is true the stairs to the east room of the Statehouseare steep and hard.We do our best.It is enough. And Sir is pleased.
During meeting sessionswhen Henry and I are at breaksome newspaper writers tryto winkle gossip out of Henry or of me.They soon learn they’ll get nothing.Henry has fearsome features due to the pox.And I’ve been warned to keep my lipstied tighter than purse stringsand my ears wide open.Because I have a stutterit is easy to obey.
We report to Temple for our pay.By mid-Septemberwhen the Constitution is fully ratifiedthere is a nice sock full of silverunder a floorboard of the haymow where I sleep.And now the second housemaidis walking out with me.
Detail from portrait of Benjamin Franklin circa 1785 by Joseph Siffred Duplessis - https://allencbrowne.blogspot.com/2016/02/benjamin-franklin.html
"Marie Joseph Paul Yves Roch Gilbert Motier, Marquis de Lafayette" portrait by Charles Wilson Peale (circa 1779 - 1780) - https://allencbrowne.blogspot.com/2021/11/lafayette.html#more

Lafayette Gingerbread by Beatriz Fernandez

You never knew what the Marquis and I spoke of when we met in my home—we seldom spoke of you, George.
He was the spring to my winter,and the congress of our minds was sweet—sweet as the molasses and dried fruit
that went into the gingerbread I served him—Lafayette gingerbread—they named it, for his famous sweet tooth.
He visited more often than you, my son,but a young country’s president owesallegiance to others more than his aging mother.
Perhaps he missed his own motherin this foreign land he fought for—I served him mint juleps and gingerbread,
my own special recipe made for friends,baked with brandy, raisins, orange rind and West India molasses.
After my death, congressmen wore black armbandsfor a month and promised a monument,but when he came back to visit my grave,
he found only a neglected marble stone in a cornfield.But no matter, my meditation rock is my monument—repository of all my true thoughts and prayers,
and all the love I reserved for a sonwhose star rose as mine descendedand who perhaps loved his country more.
"Mary Ball Washington at the age of about Four Score," portrait attributed to Robert Edge Pine - https://www.thevintagenews.com/2019/02/13/mary-ball-washington/
"Elizabeth Willing Powell," portrait by Matthew Pratt, circa 1793 - https://www.mountvernon.org/george-washington/the-first-president/the-influencer

Some Call Me a Founding Mother by Wilda Morris

My father used to say, “Elizabeth Willing, you are as smart as your brother. I see how much you love to study!” He hired tutors, ensured I was as well-educated as any boy in the colony. I relished geography and philosophy, learned to express my opinions.
Politics is in my blood. William Penn appointed my Great-Grandpa Mayor of Philadelphia. My father was mayor, and a delegate to the first Continental Congress. I married Samuel Powel, one of the city’s wealthiest men. I was only thirty-one that momentous year but moved easily among the elite. My sister lamented that “Female politicians are always ridiculedby the other sex.” I’m sure some thought my participation in political discussions unladylike but, unlike my scornful Sister,delegates responded respectfully to my comments and questions.
My salons attracted aristocrats eager to discuss growing discontent,the fractured feelings brought about by England’s imposition of the Stamp Act, Townsend Taxes on Imports, Boston massacre,and harsh penalties imposed after the “Boston Tea Party.” Many of the men later called “Founding Fathers,” participated.They often listened and took note of my words. My brother wasloyal to the crown, but I came to agree with those who thought the colonies should unite against the cruelty of the king. When the Congress finished its work, I asked Franklin if the resultwas “a republic or a monarchy,” eliciting his famous response—"a republic, if you can keep it.”
I was a long-time friend and confidant of the first president, a friendship made easier by Philadelphia being temporary capitalof the newly independent country while a new city was built on the Potomac. I took carriage rides and tea with Washington. He sent me notes—thanking me for calling his attention to a pamphlet I thought he should read, or saying he would pick me up to attend a play or go with him to visit someone. We grew in esteem for one another, appreciating the insightfulcontributions each of us made to our conversations.
At a private tĂȘte-Ă -tĂȘte, George told me he was tired of the strife of politics. He wanted to finish his term in office and return home.Jefferson and Hamilton, who seldom concurred about anything,both believed George should serve another term to strengthen the young republic but had not convinced him.
On November 17, I wrote to Geoge that he had earned “the Love,Respect and Confidence” of the country. I said if he refusedto run again, “the Antifederalists would use it as an Argument fordissolving the Union,” that they would say he thought it was,after all, a bad form of government and wanted out before it fell to ruin. They’d assert that he’d only agreed to serve one term out of ambition, not enthusiasm for the country. He was“the Only Man in America who dares to do right on all publicOccasions,” and was “called to watch over the Welfareof a great People.” I begged him not to sacrifice his ability to lead“to a Love of Ease, Retirement, rural Pursuits.” I ended with alengthy blessing: “may the eternal Disposer of human Events watch over your welfare . . . may you . . . enjoy the pure Felicityof having employed your whole Faculties for the Prosperity of the People for whose Happiness you are responsible.”
My letter convinced George Washington to seek and serve a second term, solidifying this nascent nation, likely saving it from destruction. That’s why some say I earned the title of a Founding Mother of the United States.
"The West Front of Mount Vernon" (circa 1787 - 1792) by Edward Savage - https://printshop.mountvernon.org/detail/454036/savage-the-west-front-of-mount-vernon-c.-1787-1792

Mount Vernon, Virginia by Beth SKMorris

I loved the place─The majesty of Mount Vernon risingfrom the Bowling Green, the pastures,woodland trails and forests, brought my “dower share” of slavesand my widow’s wealth to Mount Vernonwhen I married George; 8,000 acres of land between the two of us, 300 souls in servitude to keep it. I loved my slaves. George’s slaves were freed upon his deathaccording to his will. He wanted me to freemine, too, but I kept my “slave dowry,” bequeathed it to my grandchildren,couldn’t imagine why my own lady’s maid ran away, escaped north when George was President.(I had promised Oney to my granddaughter as a wedding gift.) I loved the man. He helped me raise another man’s seed; children and grandchildren from the Custis line, left the comfort of plantation life to winter with my husband at Valley Forge, brought solace, support to the General, his men, the cause of liberty. Yet, I did not want him to be President;stayed in Virginia when he took the oath of office,burned his letters when he died. I would not cede one moment more of him to his country.

Martha's Memories by Beverly Seiffert

George, George – why did you die,Oh, how I loved you so!Why oh why - I cry, did I have to be widowed twice,Was I doomed to be looked at as if having dreadful lice.
My first husband Daniel died after being married seven short years, But then- I met you, George, when I least expected I would love again,Such bliss since we met in Williamsburg years ago, Until this fateful day we had 40 years together - how I miss you so!
My brilliant statesman and general,Whether we were in wartime or in peace,With a grace and steadfastness that reflected courage and strength so true,You held together both our country and us as you always do.
Williamsburg was a new beginning for my life,Even the wars we struggled through only brought us closer with hardly any marital strife,Yet how I longed to see you all the more during those war torn years, The thought of how blessed we were to be alive when so many died brings me so many tears.
I tried the best I could to help our great country survive,I started sewing circles and hostessed state events,All I wanted was to just help our nation and do my best,Even though I am First Lady, I am commonly called Lady Washington, I am truly blessed.
So whether you are dead or alive I will always be by your side,Even though I didn’t want you to accept a second term,I stood with and for you and never looked for my potential gain,For you I will love you throughout all time.

Dear Mrs. Martha Washington by Myron L. Stokes

It’s been four years since I escaped Philadelphia and now that President Washington is dead, I know that his efforts to recapture me are dead too. It’s preposterous to me that the President of the United States would spend the last four years of his life trying to find me just to return me to you in bondage. I was your personal slave since I was ten years old and have served you for nine years. I washed, sewed, cleaned, scrubbed, helped you bathe, emptied your chamber pot, and scoured it clean. I had no choice. You will never know what it’s like not to have a choice about your own existence with no rights to self-determination. How could you know when you’re the one in control and believe that your subjugation and dehumanization methods are justified? You owned me, my mother, sisters and brothers as property, and at any point in time you could have decided to sell one of us or give us to a relative. And there was absolutely nothing we could do to stop you. In your white world, I’m three fifths of a human being. Am I supposed to believe that the same God that created you decided that you are a whole person and that I’m just three fifths of one? You are a despicable and cruel woman if you are convinced of that abominable notion. Your pets had more rights and freedoms than I. Tell me, Mrs. Washington, when did God make dogs better than human beings? I had no more rights than a cow or a horse. The Constitution wasn’t written for me, so I took matters into my own colored hands and freed myself by running away. I suppose you want to know how I did it, how I pulled off such an illegal and dangerous adventure without the slightest detection. On May 21, 1796, while you all were packing up to return to Mount Vernon, I was packing to leave as well. I didn’t know where; but I knew that if I went back to Virginia with you, I would never get my liberty. I had friends among the colored people of Philadelphia, had my things carried to them beforehand, and left while you all were eating dinner. I secured passage on a ship bound for Portsmouth, New Hampshire. I choose not to reveal the name of the ship or the name of the captain lest you find a way to punish him for bringing me away. I learned two days later that President Washington was offering a $10 reward for my recapture.
I understand news of my whereabouts reached you and President Washington. I gave word that I would return to Philadelphia under one condition, that you and the president promise that I would be free after you both died. Otherwise, I would rather suffer death than return to slavery to be sold or given to another person and perhaps be beaten for the slightest infraction.
The federal Fugitive Slave Law that President Washington signed in 1793 makes me a criminal. I don’t care. That evil, white man’s law will never define me. I’m a Christian, now and God knows the contents my heart. I have his authorization and blessing to remain in New Hampshire, and as far as He is concerned, I’m free. It’s horrendous that whites in America treat us colored folks with such cruelty. Someday, Mrs. Washington, the inequality and injustice will end. I may not be alive to witness it, but white folks like you can’t stay in power over us coloreds forever.
I’m married now. My last name is Staines. My husband is a seaman and we have daughter. We plan to have more children and none of them will be slaves. I promise you that. My children will only be ruled by God Almighty. I learned how to read and write. Next to freeing myself, and giving birth to my daughter, learning how to read and write are my most significant accomplishments. I feel like I’m a part of the world now and that I have something important to give it. My children will learn how to read and write and will get a proper education from a reputable institution. I may have another talented poet like Phyllis Wheatley or another brilliant mathematician like Benjamin Banneker in my family. My children will be upstanding, dignified members of society and may someday outrank your grandchildren in status.
I will forever grieve never seeing my mother, Betty, my brothers, Austin, Tom, and sisters, Betty and Delphy again. I can only hope they knew how much I loved them and wanted them with me. Securing my freedom cost me my family. That’s a burden I carry in my heart every day, a psychological malady that has no cure. I’ll never forgive you and President Washington for that. I received word that my mother died on January 18, 1795. I hope you had the decency to give her a proper burial since she served you for most of her life. My mother’s body never belonged to her. The white men who violated it had no use for her gifts or ever saw her as a human being worthy of dignity. My own father was one of them. That’s why he abandoned her.
All white people aren’t like you, Mrs. Washington. I’ve met some decent, God-fearing ones here in Portsmouth. They’re called abolitionists. That’s such a beautiful word to my ears. According to my calculations, you should be 68 years of age by the time this letter reaches you. That’s old enough to have humane realizations and decency. I hope before you take your last breath that your heart changes and that you see me a woman worthy of being free and deserving of everything that you have and more.
In Divine Liberation,
Ona Judge Staines

The General's Dentist by William T. Carey

They called me Johnny when first I joined General George,in Trenton in ’76. Having battled British in Boston, New York, and Ticonderoga, I was at 16 a boy in number onlyand only when I blew through my wooden fife.Those tunes evoked my pleasant early years, so stark a contrast with these dark wartimes.By God’s favor, no musket or bayonet mashed my face or hands,so I could serenade my lads in our makeshift camps.After 20 months, though, I was done, this close to colonel, and trudged the 300 miles home to Boston,scratching lice each blasted step.
After the horror, I wanted to hide in closets,but my father Isaac dragged me to his dental office,where I sat, a lump deposit.Some patients screamed worse than injured British, but the work eventually engaged my brain and piqued my spirit.Pa drilled his long experience into meand drummed the fight out of me.I resolved to pursue dentistry in the most populous city—New York—where I would acquire my most valuable customer.
I hung a wood shingle over the door to a modest set of rooms,but merely seeing “Dr. John Greenwood” in the city streetsatisfied immensely, I must say.Soon after the General’s inauguration in the states’ first capital,a fellow chanced in with a swollen mandible.We stared a moment before embracing as the formerMassachusetts militiamen we were.After I removed an infected incisor and staunched the blood,my mate Edward could tell his tale that brought himto the President’s staff. He and Mr. Washington sharedthe scourge of tooth decay and loss, and, too, pain from quack-fitted dentures. The General was desperate for a new dentist, and Edward would remind him of my service and fife.Stunned, I wrung his hand fair off the arm and half down the alleyas he hurried back to his post. The President!
Would he really deign to cross my threshold? I fussed with my rudimentary tools and the next patient while fretting about ways to host the General on my humble premises.
I needn’t have worried: Edward sent word to bring my surgery kit and samples of ivory to Osgood House, the President’s private residence, early on Tuesday next.His gashed gums, raw from tangled wires and frequent speeches, desperately required expert attention—or mine! At just the thought, I stuck trembling, sweaty hands deep inside my breeches.
At 7 sharp that momentous Tuesday, a maid ushered me brisklyto a sitting room where my President sat tapping his toe as though I’d made him wait.He seemed much smaller than on the battlefield,in an elegant fireside chair and not atop his massive steed.
“I’m afraid I’ve disrupted your morning, Greenwood; have you taken breakfast? Ground oats are all I can manage these days: will your workallow me to masticate meat again?”Instead of the imperious, calculating officer in charge in Trenton,there squirmed a tired man in pain.“I hope you packed your fife. Soothing musicdistracts me from my dysfunctional jaw.I will address the delegates in ten days: I must have a new denture by then!”
Fortunately, the four ivory sets I created for the President in the next years eased his path.This grand dental adventure preoccupied my attention for the remainder of the General’s life.I took other customers but highly prioritized his needs,riding hard as hell to Philadelphia and Mount Vernonfor later adjustments amidst his daily strife.In time, he trusted my dentures and me.I often still felt 16 near America’s early hero: after each medical session,with eyes closed he listened to familiar strainsfrom my battered but emblematic fife.
An engraving of John Greenwood's portrait appeared in the "American Journal of Dental Science" in 1839 - https://www.mountvernon.org/library/digitalhistory/digital-encyclopedia/article/john-greenwood-1760-1819

Persona Non Grata: The Poesy Ruminations of Tom the Tinker, Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, 1794 by Mike Orlock

Some sentiments burn hotter than most,more maybe than even the spark of libertythat drove me and mine to fight behindGeneral George against King Georgein the war that purportedly made us free.We plowed and harvested grain to feedthe cause, and sometimes burned our fieldsand crops to keep our yield from British paws,for an empty belly can weaken kneesand make even the strongest scoundrelquestion his resolve, and what English bravery we sawdissolved quicker than morning mist on the Allegheny.
What we grew and chopped was our business, noneothers, certainly not the stuffed shirts in Philadelphia,and if we chose to use a bushel of rye or cornon occasion to distill us a draft of whiskeyfit for men who stood their ground in Valley Forge,that was our business and none of the government,be it Parliamentary or Congressional in feature.How high-minded these federal accountants be,to come calling, expecting our coin to fill their cupsinstead of our makings, and to threaten forfeitureof our property and seizure of our farmsfor the right of our refusal to pay their tax!Where are the men of means and plentywhen it comes to paying what none of ushad a say in passing? Ha! They be hidingbehind their lofty laws and declarationswhile the true heroes of the war they writspilled more than spirits on the battlefieldsof Pennsylvania, New Jersey, and New York.
This illustration depicts a tax collector who has been tarred and feathered - image source: New York Public Library Digital Collections. https://www.americanhistorycentral.com/entries/whiskey-rebellion/
Detail from "Spring at Brookside Farm" by folk artist Sharon Esther Ascherl - https://sharonascherlfolkart.com/gallery-76_Brookside-Farm.html

the rain washed our babies away by Jan Haag

we put them in the leafy groundunder the linden tree yonderdays oldblue as the flowers on ma’s good china and this godforsaken countrytook them come Februarywith the men off fighting andwhen god thundered hail upon usfor days and days and days and one by one the tiny gravesgave waywashing bones and bonnets and alldown the hillbrown slurry running fast for the river up to our knees in unforgiving muckwe searched for any part of thembut they was gonegonegonewe rescued only the tiniest pieceof a cross stuck fast against a thick trunk “-son,” it saidleaving us to wonderwhich one
Detail from an etching, "The Sharecropper" (1952), by Elizabeth Catlett - https://www.timesunion.com/art/article/affecting-retrospective-black-artists-packs-17780258.php

My Name is Phoebe Abdee by RM Yager

I was a slave in the home of William Smith, grandfather of Abigail Adams,my ancestors were descendants of African Chiefs.
Most of my life was spent with Abigail, caring for her since I was a teen, and later her own children. Massachusetts had the smallest slave population due to its climate, thus farms along the coast with slaves as well as servants were common.I struggled along side her, farming was hard work.
Abigail could read and write, and taught me as well. We were informers, saboteurs, passing information back and forth. Mrs. Abigail wrote things to John and I was her secret keeper, holding her confidences in my heart. Crying tears with her.
We both were messengers, she in her letters to John, and me in gathering all the news of the farm and its people, we both smuggled goods and runaways, cared for homeless and wounded soldiers, as well as deserters and abused slaves.
We both mirrored each other in our skills, we cooked, spun wool, churned butter, cared for livestock, planted and harvested crops, chopped wood. Abigail even made me learn how to shoot a rifle and keep one loaded at all times.
In my mid-forties, I watched the battles of war along side her. We smelled the smoke theday the hay was burned on Grape Island, we sabotaged, we smuggled, saw many British troops killed, heard the thunder of the cannons when Charleston was attacked. I watched while white townsfolk ran into the woods, fearing for their lives.
Abigail was an abolitionist, who fought for education, all those skills she taught mehelped me run the farm during the times her husband John was away. We both toiled along free servants and slaves, we held each other up. “Oh Phoebe, one day our land will have independence!“
We loved each other in an intimate yet unequal way, I knew no other way, no other life, but I rolled my eyes while Mrs. Abigail paced the floor in a frenzy and shouting all the time about rights and freedoms and abolition. She hated that women were seen in the same way as livestock, she fought for women to be educated, believed that women's oppression should not be a male’s discretion. Abigail taught me to want more.
In 1783 Massachusetts freed its slaves, Abigail asked me, “how it felt to be free?”As I had already lived more than fifty years as a slave, I kinda felt numb. This place was all I knew, so my life went on, I stayed on the farm in a house given to my husband and me.
All this land went on the become part of the Underground Railroad, and I, like Demeter's daughter, I got set free!I tended to Abigail on her deathbed, she was like a daughter to me.Abigail and I lived and died as strong symbiotic vines forever entwined in loyalty, we were both way ahead of the times, many more powerful women followed us into the future. The seeds Abigail planted grew strong and tall.

Participating Poets in the US250 Persona Poem Project

Carol Alfus is a retired teacher, community volunteer, enthusiastic traveler and gardener. Her poetry is informed and inspired by current events, personal memories and the boundless beauty and ingenuity of the natural world. Her first full poetry collection, I Would Swim in Such a Sky, was published by Kelsay Books in 2025. Carol Alfus is a big fan of the US Constitution, especially the Bill of Rights. She hopes all who read this collection will be inspired by America's history of rejecting tyranny. Marie Asner is a retired church musician and teacher who has been writing poetry since high school. Her poems are known in two categories, Religious and Descriptive. “Close your eyes and I will paint you a picture in words” is her style. Her favorite poems are those of northern Minnesota in winter when the wolves still howled atop small hills. The date of July 4 brings a memory of childhood when there were no weather forecasters in rural areas and the end of July 4 was a gigantic fireworks display at a football field. This time, the weather was cool in the morning, quite hot in daytime, suddenly cooling at suppertime and on the way to the field, it began to snow and hail. Cars slipped off roads, people were chilled to the bone and the fireworks got wet and could not be used. This incident made state news. My mother was driving the car and brought us home safely. Formerly in corporate business management, Candace Armstrong now writes in the beautiful woodlands of Southern Illinois. Her poetry has been published in The Lyric, Midwest Review, Journal of Modern Poetry, California Quarterly, Distilled Lives 2,3,4, & 6, Quill & Parchment, The MacGuffin, DASH (Cal State Lit Journal) and others. Her first novel, Evidence of Grace, was published in April 2021. Her website is a work in progress at candacearmstrongwriter.com. Mary Beth Davis Ashley is a Mississippi-based pastor and poet whose work dwells at the intersection of faith, belonging, and Southern identity. She is the author of Crooked Letter, with work published in 5D Jumbled Words, Cagibi, and Paradise Poems. Raised on humid Fourth of July evenings filled with fireworks, front porches, and paper plates of watermelon, she approaches themes of America with honesty, curiosity, and attention to power, gender, and race. She lives in the Jackson area with her husband and their cats, and is almost always in the middle of a fantasy novel. Walter Biskupski is a retired teacher. His poem, Lament for the Children of Uvalde, was published in the June 23, 2022 edition of the Uvalde Leader-News. He has also published poems in local and national literary journals, won several prizes in the annual poetry contests in Indiana, Tennessee, and Mississippi., and has written poems on the Holocaust, on the January 6, 2021 insurrection, and on George Floyd. He has recorded some of his poems on his YouTube channel. Search: WALTERBISKUPSKI. Mary Beth Bretzlauf (Editor and Poet) is currently President of Illinois State Poetry Society, a member of Poets & Patrons and Highland Park Poetry’s Live Events and Editorial Teams. She is author of The Path that Beckons: Poems About the Journey, her first collection of poems. Paul Buchheit is an author of books, poems, progressive essays, and scientific journal articles. His books include 365 Sonnets: Celebrating Each Day with a "Little Song," self-published in May, 2025; Dante’s Divine Comedy: In 100 Sonnets, self-published in January, 2025; Paradise Lost: A Poetic Journey, published in 2024 by Wipf and Stock Publishers; and Sonnets of Love and Joy, published in August, 2023 by Kelsay Books (named Book of the Year by the Illinois State Poetry Society). William T. Carey lives with his wife in the Chicago area. Luckily, their adult son lives nearby. Too long ago, Carey attended the University of Notre Dame and Washington University Law School, and he practiced law for some years before joining his family’s real estate investment business. In later years he returned to the world of language, his first love. His interests include piano and guitar, tennis, travel, reading, hiking, and tai chi. His poems have appeared in various journals. Kelsay Books published his poetry collection, Family Rattling, in 2024. William notes, “My poem was inspired by Ken Burns’ recent documentary, The American Revolution. He referred a number of times to John Greenwood’s fife playing and ascension to Washington’s dentist. That struck me as a quintessential rags-to-riches American story.” Patrizia Castiglioni-Fanucchi teaches English to students in their final year of school. She has also been invited as a guest lecturer countrywide speaking on Shakespeare texts as well as on The English Olympiad. Writing poetry is her joy and her passion. Her poem, “Road Trip Past Majuba”, was nominated for the Nina Riggs Poetry Award. Her work is published in The Last Stanza Journal, other Highland Park Poetry anthologies, Westward Quarterly and others. She has a BA(Hons) degree and an HDE (postgraduate) from the University of the Witwatersrand. She lives in Benoni, South Africa with her husband close to her children and family and close to a beautiful pan full of wildlife where they enjoy going for walks. Pamelyn Casto is the author of Flash Fiction: Alive in the Flicker, A Portable Workshop https://tinyurl.com/42snuxn7. She is senior associate editor at OPEN: Journal of Arts & Letters and her work has appeared in Field Guide to Writing Flash Fiction, Tips from Editors, Teachers, and Writers in the Field, Gargoyle, MacQueen’s Quinterly, Writers Digest, and many other publications. Twice she’s been nominated for a Pushcart Prize. Jan Chronister divides her year in half between northern Wisconsin and South Georgia. Gardens in both places keep her busy and inspired. The past, sometimes evoked by bottles, also visits her poems. Jan is widely published, including thirteen books. Carlos CumpiĂĄn, is a Chicagoan originally from Texas. Human Cicada (Prickly Pear Publishing) marks his fifth poetry collection: Coyote Sun (March Abrazo Press), Latino Rainbow (Children’s Press/Scholastic Books) Armadillo Charm (Tia Chucha Press), and 14 Abriles:Poems. In 2000, he was recognized with a Gwendolyn Brooks Significant Illinois Poet Award. CumpiĂĄn has been included in more than thirty poetry anthologies, including the Norton Anthology Telling Stories. Before becoming a teacher, he worked with various social service organizations such as ASPIRA and public relations for the Chicago Public Library. CumpiĂĄn has taught creative writing and poetry through community arts organizations including the National Museum of Mexican Art, Urban Gateways and as a writer-in residence funded by the Illinois Arts Council. CumpiĂĄn taught in the English Department of Columbia College Chicago and in the Chicago Public School and Charter school system. Carlos talks about why he wrote about Tecumseh: “I was motivated by my own Native American Estok G'na heritage and having relatives who served in the United States military starting in the Second World War, then the U.S. Korean War, and Vietnam. My people were once not considered actual "Americans" and they were treated as foreigners until 1924 when Native Americans were first allowed to vote in federal elections. Mexican Americans even if born inside the USA were also seen as second-class citizens and were segregated from attending public schools where European heritage or "White Americans" were the dominant population. Such was the case for my own parents growing up in the 1930s to the early 1950s when they reached adulthood. I witnessed my own father in 1960 be denied entry into a white-owned restaurant in California. He was a 1st lieutenant in the U.S. Army during the Korean War and he was treated as if he had been a dog. There's a large part of American history which has avoided covering the contributions of American Indians to the formation of our vast country. I am a retired public school teacher and found that my students were always surprised to learn about the original inhabitants of this continent.” Andrea Curran is a poet from Severance, Colorado. They chose to explore the Revolutionary era through the eyes of Cherokee war chief Dragging Canoe (Tsiyu Gansini). While the 4th of July marks a celebration of independence for American colonists, for the Cherokee and other Indigenous nations, this era signaled a fight for survival against colonial expansion. By stepping into Dragging Canoe’s persona, they hoped to highlight the complex, often tragic realities of the Indigenous leaders who fought to protect their homelands from the very people claiming freedom. Laura Daniels (she/her) is a neurodivergent poet and editor of The Fringe 999 Poetry Forum. Recently curated in Gyroscope Review, One Art, and the Journal of New Jersey Poets, and recipient of the 2025 Allen Ginsberg Poetry Honorable Mention Award. She facilitates a free, monthly international online writing workshop through Mary's Place by the Sea. Her poetry collection, Gentle Grasp (Kelsay Books, 2024), is available on Amazon. Her chapbook Jersey Baked (Four Feathers Press, 2026) is available by contacting the author, who resides with her partner in Mt. Arlington, NJ. For more information, you can reach her at https://lauradanielswriter.wordpress.com. For over 50 years Gail Denham's poetry, news articles, stories and photos have appeared nationally and internationally. Living in Oregon, Denham has many photo opportunities, plus. Gail explains “Way back in grade school we had to memorize the poem "Paul Revere's Ride" by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow - it was a challenge but as a result the lines do come back. And I've always imagined what it was really like then for men jumping up from bed to grab their rifles, the fear that took over households as the menfolk left. And then to learn that Brown Beauty, the great horse that carried Revere on his famous ride, was taken by the British never to be heard of again. That was sad - especially to the owner back at camp who loaned the steed. Amazing time that determined what and who we are as a nation.” Jennifer Dotson (Editor and Poet) is the author of Late Night Talk Show Fantasy & Other Poems (Kelsay Books, 2020) and Clever Gretel (Chicago Poetry Press, 2013). She began Highland Park Poetry in 2007. Her newest collection, The Figs Are Ripe and We Have Stories: Poems, will be published this year by Starboard Press. Jennifer would like to recognize her Aunt Helen for hosting the annual July 4th gathering of family and friends at her Pennsylvania home for over forty years. Known as “Turtle Cove Regatta,” the event includes a giant potluck spread, cooling off in the pond, musical performances by the Gypsy Ramblers, and, of course, a fireworks display. Laura Atanacio Edington is a retired educator who loves to read, write, and travel. She is living her best life in Arkansas with her husband, Jerry, and dog, Sophie. She has been published in the Oklahoma Writers' Federation Report, won various awards for her poetry and short fiction from OWFI, and published in F(r)iction- Vol. 1, NEO Portmanteau, Tuck Magazine, and Highland Park Poetry’s 2022 Summer anthology, Odes – Poets Praising People, Places, and Things as well as the 2025 Summer anthology, Message in a Bottle: Poets Respond to Hopeful Communication. Sheila Elliott is a poet and short story writer. Her poetry collection, Memory Coin, won the 2025 Prairie State Poetry Prize and was nominated for a Pushcart Prize. She's active in several Chicago-area writing groups and often participates in open-mic events around the city. Jacob erin-cilberto lives in Southern Illinois where he writes and teaches and feels most comfortable out of all the places he has lived, including Bronx, NY and Lockport, Illinois. jacob says, “I chose Thomas Paine because his Common Sense when relating to War is still relevant to today. Why this war? Why any war? We all lose in one way or another. And war for the sake of showing strength is a fallacy. There is no strength only devastation, death and common sense just goes up in smoke. My favorite memories of July 4th are from when I was a little kid and had no concept of war. Beatriz F. Fernandez is a Miami area poet and University Reference librarian. She has an M.A. in English literature and has authored three chapbooks, the most recent of which is: Simultaneous States (Bainbridge Island Press, 2025). Beatriz explains, “My choice of persona for my poem came about because I ran across this recipe for gingerbread called “Lafayette Gingerbread” and curiosity about the name led me down a rabbit’s hole of information about an unexpected connection between Lafayette and President Washington’s mother.” Here is a snippet from the inspiring reference: “One of the better-known family-connected gingerbread recipes is attributed to George Washington’s mother, Mary Ball Washington, who is said to have served it to the Marquis de Lafayette when he visited her
” from https://www.mountvernon.org/inn/recipes/article/lafayette-gingerbread. Judith Stern Friedman is a writer, teacher, coach, and advocate for keeping the written word alive. Following a career as a writer and editor for national books and magazines, today, Judy focuses on writing flash nonfiction and memoir, including themes of nature, family, and folklore. She has always been inspired by detailed research and was especially thrilled to reinvent these fascinating women change-makers. Anara Guard is the author of two poetry collections: Hand on My Heart and Kansas, Reimagined. Her poems have won a John Crowe Ransom Award, Jack Kerouac Prize, and a Pushcart Prize nomination, as well as first place from the California State Poetry Society. She has a special interest in unsung women of history, often nameless and forgotten. www.anaraguard.com or find her on Substack. Anara adds: “I didn't have a particular woman in mind when writing this, but was inspired from watching the Ken Burns documentary, "The American Revolution," which highlighted how the war affected women at home as well as those who followed the soldiers to assist them.” Jan Haag graduated from high school in 1976, during the nation’s bicentennial, and finds herself surprised to realize that a half century has passed, resulting in this year’s semiquincentennial. Her poem, “the rain washed our babies away,” was inspired by visiting historic cemeteries where weather had eroded the graves over time. She is a retired writing professor who lives in Sacramento, California, where she hosts creative writing workshops using the Amherst Writers & Artists method. She is the author of a poetry collection, “Companion Spirit,” and has had stories and poems published in many anthologies and literary journals. She writes and posts daily poems on her website, janishaag.com. Janea D. Harris, M. ED is an author, poet, and community advocate. She is the owner of Supherbooks, LLC and is dedicated to using her voice to motivate and inspire. Janea is the Co-Founder of Insight Advocacy, an organization dedicated to increasing inclusion, visibility and representation for minorities across the North Shore of Chicago. Her poetry has been included in multiple anthologies and her poem Urban Desert was a "Best of the Net," nominee (2021). Learn more at www.supherbooks.com Teresa Harris is a retired educator with a lifelong passion for history and literature, and a proud member of the Illinois State Poetry Society. Kate Hutchinson, a retired high school English teacher, has had nearly 100 poems and essays published in journals and anthologies. Her third book of poetry, A Matter of Dark Matter, was runner-up for the ISPS Book of the Year in 2022. Since 2023, Kate has served as editor-in-chief of the literary arts journal East on Central in Highland Park. Her interest in Betsy Ambler was sparked by the Ken Burns/PBS documentary series, "The American Revolution," which wove in narratives about young people experiencing the war -- something textbooks typically don't include. Julie Isaacson splits her time between Highland Park and Santa Barbara, enjoying literary and cultural events in both beautiful communities. Julie first learned about the significance of Haym Saloman's role in the Revolutionary War in Hebrew School, growing up in Rock Island, Illinois. Haym Salomon remains a quiet name in the history of this nation, while playing an important role influencing the outcome of the Revolutionary War. A Polish-born American merchant, he acted as a Patriot and was one of the key financiers to the Continental Congress. He risked his life in service to the Sons of Liberty, and was repeatedly arrested by the British, being suspected as a spy. Salomon funded a significant loan for George Washington to decisively win the Yorktown Campaign and path to independence. As a practicing Jew, he also fought for religious freedom and founded a synagogue in Philadelphia. Salomon selflessly donated his entire fortune to the Continental Congress, as well as several Founding Fathers of the United States. He died penniless in Philadelphia due to unpaid debts by the government and private individuals. Cosmo June is a prolific primarily narrative poet from the Chicago suburb of Orland Park. His contributions to this anthology remind him that throughout history, there have been villains, but all villains have complex lives, and multiple handlers, just like General Benedict Arnold. The anthology also reminds him of the fourth of July parades of his youth in the streets of Milwaukee's Riverwest neighborhood. He has written two books of poetry for which he is seeking a publisher -- American Hajj, and Caveat -- and is working on a third. His poetry can be found on Instagram and TikTok @therealcoj29. Elizabeth Stanley King is a poet drawn to the transformative power of language, using words to evoke emotion, and challenge perspectives. She believes poetry should make you feel something. Her hope is that her poems invite readers and listeners alike to pause, reflect, and feel. Her grandfather’s family kept an oral history which was the basis of many a tale growing up, including ancestors who fought in the Revolutionary War. Barbara Krasner is a New Jersey-based historian and poet of ten collections, including Poems of the Winter Palace (Bottlecap Press, 2025), The Night Watch (Kelsay Books, 2025), Insomnia: Poems after Lee Krasner (Dancing Girl Press, 2026), and the forthcoming The Wanderers (Shanti Arts, 2026), and Memory Collector (Kelsay Books, 2027). She is co-editor of Kelsey Review, the literary magazine of Mercer County Community College where she teaches in the English and History departments. Carol Parris Krauss lives in an 83-year-old home in Virginia with her St. Bernard, Martha June. This Clemson graduate is a high school English teacher. She enjoys employing place and nature as vehicles for her varied themes. She was honored to be recognized as a Best New Poet by UVA. In 2021, her book of poems, Just a Spit Down the Road, was published by Kelsay. Some venues where she has publications are– Louisiana Lit, One Art, Schuylkill Valley Journal, Story South, Highland Park Poetry, and Susurrus. She was selected for Ghost City Press’ 2023 Micro-Chap Summer Series. Poetry Box released her chapbook, The Old Folks Call It God’s Country (April 2024). Mountain. Memory. Marsh., her fourth book, was released by Fernwood Press in November 2025. Candace Kubinec is a poet and a photographer from Greensburg, Pennsylvania. Along with the Loyalhanna Review, she has had poetry published in various anthologies, including the Pennsylvania Poetry Society Prize Poems and Highland Park publications. Her photography has been published in Ink in Thirds and Black and White Magazine. Candace feels the real history of our country is told in the everyday lives of overlooked heroes who did the thankless tasks that made great victories possible. Dralandra Larkins is the author of Before I Lie (BookBaby, 2025), and an award-winning spoken word poet. She is a COMPAS teaching artist and leads the Write to Thrive program with 826 MSP. A recipient of the Loft Literary Center Teaching Artist Fellowship, she has received grants and support from the MN State Arts Board, MN Regional Arts Council and Springboard for the Arts. Her work has reached audiences including the NAACP, Button Poetry, MN Black Authors Expo, MN State Capitol, MN Black Business Ball, St. Cloud State University, Mill City Museum, and the Minneapolis Institute of Art. She says "July 4th, for me, isn’t just celebration, it’s reflection. A reminder that freedom has always been uneven, and that Black storytelling is its own form of independence." More at www.dralandrawrites.com. Lucia Lemieux believes that words paint dreams. She was a California Arts Council Poet in Residence and taught high school for 18 years. She received honorable mention for her poem “Waning Time” recently published in Starboard Press’ First Light Journal Spring 2026 edition, and her essay on poetry of witness will appear in Teachers and Writers. Four of her poems were recently published in the Erbacce Journals 84/85 (2026). In 2025, she was featured in Women in a Golden State (Gunpowder Press, 2025) and took second in the Voices of Lincoln contest. Other recent publications include Penn Journal of Arts and Sciences (2024), the Midsummer Night’s Dream Anthology (Southern Arizona Press, 2023), Herbs & Spices (Highland Park Poetry Press, 2023). She is a member of AWP, SCBWI, and SCWriP, and received two Human Rights Awards from the California Teachers Association for her advocacy. She’s excited to be included in this special celebratory journal honoring America’s Semiquincentennial. Joan Leotta plays with words on page and stage. She’s been published as an essayist, poet, short story writer, and novelist. She’s a two-time nominee for Pushcart and twice for Best of the Net. Her poetry, essays, and stories have appeared in Ovunque Siamo, Highland Park publications, One Art, and other journals. Her folklore shows most often highlight her Italian heritage, food, family, and strong women. She has been a guest on Italian and British radio. Her new one-woman stage show is “Louisa May Alcott, Author, Nurse, Traveler, Seamstress, and Writer.” Joan adds, “Every Fourth we watch the movie 1776 to remind us of why we celebrate with spectacular fireworks—freedom, liberty, justice—all worth pledging our lives, our fortunes, and our sacred honor.” Karian Markos is a poet, fiction writer, and nonprofit attorney based in Elmhurst, Illinois. Her debut poetry collection, Esemplastic: Many and One, published by Highland Park Poetry Press in August 2024, received the 2024 Prairie State Poetry Prize and earned the honorable mention for the 2025 Chicago Writers Association Book of the Year. Karian’s award-winning poetry and fiction has appeared in numerous magazines and anthologies including Carmina Magazine, Hemingway Shorts Literary Journal, Living Crue Magazine, and Bombfire. For more about Karian and her work, visit www.karianmarkos.com. Karian wishes to add a note about her poem, “Marrow of Freedom:” “Inspired by American and French revolutionary ideas, Â«Î•Î»Î”Ï…ÎžÎ”ÏÎŻÎ± Îź Î˜ÎŹÎœÎ±Ï„ÎżÏ‚Â» (“Liberty or Death”) became the motto during the 1821 Greek War of Independence against the Ottoman Empire. The syllables of this phrase are represented in the stripes of the modern Greek national flag.” Mary Beth Magee explores God’s world and writes about it in many genres She is the immediate past President of the Mississippi Poetry Society as well as the 2025 Mississippi Poetry Society Poet of the Year. Magee is an award-winning poet and author, freelance journalist, a Storyteller and a speaker on a variety of topics. Visit her website at www.LOL4.net for more about her work. She is proud to be a flag waving, free thinking American woman who hopes to be as useful securing America's future as Mary Lindley Murray was in helping to secure America's foundations. Adrian McRobb recently turned 71 and has been writing poetry and prose for 50 years. Adrian insists that he is still nineteen at heart and was only recently persuaded to give up his Fireblade 900 motorbike, which he imported from Spain, as he wanted an unlimited one. He joined the Royal Navy at 16 years old and served from 1970 – 1986. Adrian shares his experience of July 4th, 1976: “We had just finished Ocean Safari with a US Battlegroup which was led by USS Nimitz. I was on the old Ark Royal at the time as part of the Flight Deck Crew as Waist Cat Hook-Up (If you've ever been underneath a Phantom on full reheat, you'll know what noise is). After the exercise we were invited to the E.M.'s Bar at Norfolk Naval base and tied up to the same jetty as Nimitz on the opposite side, she was 88 metres longer than us which was a sight to behold. As the festivities began, the caterers had produced 6,000 burgers. A US Officer got on the microphone and welcomed us to the biggest party I've ever been too.” Olivia Molleck is an incoming senior from a small town in Illinois. She aspires to be a meteorologist and enjoys reading, doing color guard, and playing video games in her spare time. She wrote about the Culper Ring as an extra credit assignment for her AP literature class. She notes, “I feel that Independence Day rejuvenates the American spirit. We are truly pioneers and reminder ourselves of such is the beauty of the United States of America.” Rose Morba is a retired educator and member of the Women Who Write (Madison, NJ) critique group, Jersey Girl Poets. She was inspired to write "A Spy in My Own House" after visiting Washington's Headquarters at Morristown National Historical Park. George Washington and his staff lived in the Ford Mansion during the harsh winter of 1779-80. She wondered what it was like for the Ford children who lived among the military in close quarters during that time and decided to write from the point of view of the oldest daughter, Elizabeth. Wilda Morris has degrees in political science and religious education but prefers to spend time writing poetry, writing picture postcards to great-grandchildren, and making brownies. She has served as president of the Illinois State Poetry Society and of Poets & Patrons and as workshop chair of P&P. Her poems have been widely published. Her three books are: Szechwan Shrimp and Fortune Cookies: Poems from a Chinese Restaurant; Pequod Poems: Gamming with Moby-Dick; and At Goat Hollow and Other Poems. Wilda lives with her husband of 60+ years. Gianina Nold is the author of three poetry chapbooks, including Moon is Always Moon (Green Fuse Poetic Arts). She holds an MFA from Naropa University and is a visual artist, poet, and retired Visual Arts teacher from Denver Public Schools. A member of Columbine Poets of Colorado, she works in her studio and writes poetry in English and Spanish. Her recent work appears in BlazeVOX, 63 Channels Magazine, Cyclamens & Swords, Blazing Stadium, MadBlood, Exception/All Anthology (Writing Heights), (Un)Settled: art and poetry exhibition, and Synergy (TAAP 2D). Gia is a native of Lima, PerĂș, who lives in Evergreen, Colorado. Carole Novak is currently Vice President of the Illinois State Poetry Society, as well as a member of the Oak Park Writers Group and Poets & Patrons. She is inspired by nature and enjoys writing Haiku, flash fiction and short stories. Her work has been featured in East on Central, the Wednesday Journal of Oak Park, and the Highland Park Poetry’s Facebook page. “As far as historical data, I was inspired by William Atte Wode’s post on the Facebook page Everything American Revolutionary War. The author describes a relative by the name of Isaac Orgin/Organ who taught himself to play drums by practicing on pewter pans and went on to serve as a drummer for the Continental Army.” Mike Orlock is a retired Illinois high school English and History teacher, who splits time between Sturgeon Bay, Wisconsin and Lisle, Illinois. He is the author of five books of poetry and a contributing member of both the Illinois State Poetry Society and the Wisconsin Fellowship of Poets. As the nation celebrates its 250th birthday, it's worth remembering that the spirit of rebellion within the American citizenry against government overreach has roots that go back to our very beginnings as a nation. Elaine Person is a writer, instructor, editor, speaker, performer, and photographer. Her poetry is published Cadence, the annual anthology of Florida State Poets Association, NFSPS's Encore, Sandhill Review, Poets of Central Florida, Local Gems Press: Florida Bards, Poetic Visions, Haikuniverse.com, and many other publications. She leads writing workshops at CrealdĂ© School of Art, in libraries, senior residences, art galleries, on Zoom, and in other locations. Elaine won the Saturday Evening Post's Limerick Contest. Elaine shares her experience of the 1976 Bicentennial: “My friend Wayne said, ‘The Tall Ships are coming to New York on July Fourth.’ On July Fourth, 1976, Wayne, Ellen, Robert, Kathy, and I traveled to Battery Park in New York City by subway in such a crowded train that we had to keep our eyes and hands on each other so we wouldn’t get separated. We shared this experience with six million other people along the Hudson River. We were dazzled by the fireworks, music, people, patriotism, and joy, and I fell in love with the tall ships of earlier days. This display of warmth and togetherness, peace and love without violence enveloped me. This was the last time Robert, my boyfriend at the time from New Jersey, Ellen from New Jersey, Kathy from Boston, Wayne, and I were together. It took us hours to get home by crowded streets, stairwells, and subways, but we were filled with love, still holding hands, so all was well. The guests slept on the floor of my two-room sublet, but they didn't care as long as we were together in this once-in-a-lifetime event. Tall ships, tall feelings, warm weather, warm feelings, and crowds galore. We experienced a July Fourth like no other.” Karen Petersen has published poetry, short stories, and flash both nationally and internationally. A former foreign correspondent, in this last decade she has been fiercely devoted to a literary life. Her poems have been translated into Persian and Spanish, and she has been nominated for numerous prizes, including ten Pushcarts, and long-listed for the UK's international Bridport Prize, Forward Prize, and Australia's Peter Porter Prize. In 2023, her chapbook, "Trembling," published by Kelsay Books, won the Wil Mills Award, judged by Annie Finch, and her poem, "The Price of Love," was nominated for Best of the Net. Recent work is in The Wallace Stevens Journal, A New Ulster, and The Cimarron Review. Her chapbook, Wamponomon: The Place of Shells, was released in October 2024, and named a finalist in the SW Book Design Awards. Her latest chapbook, "Influences: The Irish Poems," was released September 2025. Her volume, The Habits of a Landscape, will be published by Kelsay Books in Fall 2026. More information can be found at: karenpetersenwriter.com Kim Reed is a writer living in Chicago. Reed’s recent work appears in Sunflowers Rising: Poems For Peace Anthology, anti-war poems in the Prairie Review, and Surreal Nursery (BookLeaf 2026), a pamphlet dedicated to women and children who survive war and medical volunteers working to save lives in urban battlefields. The stories of the American Revolution were a part of Reed’s education. As a child in Boston, Reed memorized and recited a piece by Tom Paine to the applause of her fifth-grade class. These are the times that try men’s souls again. On July 4th, we should all read the US Constitution and remember why we march in its defense. Reed holds a BA in English from Rutgers University. Luisa Kay Reyes has had pieces featured in The Raven Chronicles, The Windmill, The Foliate Oak, The Eastern Iowa Review, and other literary magazines. Her essay, "Thank You", is the winner of the April 2017 memoir contest of The Dead Mule School of Southern Literature. And her Christmas poem was a first place winner in the 16th Annual Stark County District Library Poetry Contest. Additionally, her essay "My Border Crossing" received a Pushcart Prize nomination from the Port Yonder Press. And two of her essays have been nominated for the "Best of the Net" anthology. With one of her essays recently being featured on The Dirty Spoon radio hour. Marjorie Rissman is an active member of four poetry communities: Highland Park Poetry, East on Central, Poets and Patrons, and Illinois State Poetry Society. When she has free moments, she loves jigsaw puzzles and attending her grandchildren’s games. Diana Kwiatkowski Rubin is a widely published poet - both nationally and internationally. She is the author of several books of poetry, two collections of short stories, a cookbook and a children's book. Beverly Seiffert lives in Highland Park on Lake Michigan. After retirement from Levy Restaurants as Director of a nationwide mystery shopping program - a new door opened to her - writing poetry as inspired by the amazing world and people around her. You can find her work on Facebook via a group, “Whispering Praise” or her work published by Highland Park Poetry. She is currently working on her first book of poetry. Do visit her website www.WhisperingPraise.com to see more of her work. What intrigued Bev in writing about Martha Washington was learning of the great love she had for her husband, George and our nation. Martha Washington is a wonderful example of a hardworking woman quietly working in the shadow of a great man. It is so intriguing to bring Martha into the light so she could be celebrated for her dedication to our country. Nancy Simmonds writes from northeastern Indiana. Her first poetry book, To Somewhere Else, has just been published by Stackfreed Press. She is the current Premier Poet of the Poetry Society of Indiana. She is also a member of NIPoets of Fort Wayne, Postcrossing, and three book discussion groups. When a pen isn’t in her hand or her head in a book, Nancy designs paper collage art, sews scrap quilts, and runs in local running club events for bling and bragging rights. Beth SKMorris, author of: “Nowhere to be Found” (2014), “In the Aftermath- 9/11 Through a Volunteer’s Eye’s;” Pinnacle, Firebird, Book Excellence, Media Crest, North Street Award Winner, and Eric Hoffer finalist, now included in the Library of Congress archive-Poetry of 9/11 (2021), and “A Yellowed Notebook” (2025) ─ winner of the International Firebird Book Award: First Place in both POETRY and MEMOIR. Beth is a member of Hudson Valley Writers Center and Poets House in New York. The poem “Mount Vernon” was inspired by a trip to Mount Vernon where the author watched a video about Martha Washungton’s life. Beth holds Masters degrees in English Language & Literature, Speech Science, and a Ph.D in Speech, Language, & Hearing Science. Terry L. Slaney’s poetry has appeared in Highland Park Poetry and Illinois State Poetry Society’s Anthologies and Facebook posts, A-Town Poetics and Aurora Poet Laureate (Karen Fullett-Christensen) posts, Aurora city-wide themed celebrations and has been read at events hosted by A-Town, for Juneteenth, and an event with Terry Loncaric at The Art Center of Highland Park. Dance, family and friends, and the vagaries of life have given her words and courage to share. “All My Earthly Love” was inspired and adapted for the revolutionary war from letters home by her great great grandfather Weygandt who fought in the Civil war with an Illinois regiment. She honors him with this poem and is grateful every day for the freedoms we celebrate on the Fourth of July. Tammy Smith is a poet and licensed clinical social worker based in Fair Lawn, New Jersey. Her work appears or is forthcoming in ONE ART, Paterson Literary Review, Stillwater Review, Autumn Sky Poetry Daily, The New Verse News, and San Pedro River Review. Her fondest memory of July Fourth is leading the parade in her hometown of Paramus, New Jersey, at age ten, in recognition of her cross-country and track and field achievements. Judy SooHoo returned to her childhood interest of creative writing in retirement. Her prose and poetry have been published in anthologies and her poetry has received recognition locally and internationally. She has been a featured reader for the Chicago Public Library, Illinois State Poetry Society, Poets & Patrons, TallGrass Writers Guild, art galleries, and other venues. Jill Spealman writes haiku and poetry and has a deep connection to trees and forests. New to persona poems, she found that point of view may come from objects as well as people. In revolution times, many towns had Liberty Trees where citizens gathered to express frustration with the king. Her poem includes events that began at the stately elm tree in Boston a full decade before the war. The line "The people have the power" is inspired by the 1988 song of the same name by Patti Smith. Cheryl Steiger is a freelance illustrator, also working on fine art and commissioned pieces. Cheryl has been teaching art for the past 30 years at many Chicago and Chicago suburban institutions, including The Art Center of Highland Park. She shows her fine art locally and around the world. Cheryl tells us that “Independence Day to me represents a goal, hope and dream for our country and society to live our lives with the liberty of being ourselves, prejudice free and pursuing happiness. The challenge is of course as Benjamin Franklin said, ‘If we can keep it’." Myron L. Stokes retired from the Department of Veterans Affairs as a clinical psychologist in 2024. He’s an Air Force veteran and resides in Oak Park, Illinois. Myron is a member of Poets and Patrons and the Illinois State Poetry Society. His work appears in Rattle, the Chicago Poetry Anthology, Black Horse Review, RHINO, Sunflowers Rising Poets for Peace Anthology, Encore, Margie: The American Journal of Poetry, and Ellen La Forge Poetry Journal. Myron won the 2023 Gwendolyn Brooks Open Mic Poetry Competition and the 2012 Tom Howard/Margaret Reid Poetry Contest. Myron tells us, “I stopped celebrating the Fourth of July with picnics, parades, and fireworks, after having a paradigm shift when I was in the 9th grade. I became aware of Frederick Douglass's 1852 speech, "What to the Slave is the Fourth of July?" In it, Mr. Douglass vociferously condemns slavery while highlighting the hypocrisy of celebrating freedom in a nation that enslaved millions. I did a book report on his famous speech and stunned my U.S. History teacher. I received an A but was regarded cautiously by my teacher for the rest of the semester. He was white.” Lisa Vihos has published five poetry chapbooks, a novel, and a daily haiku journal. She has received two Pushcart Prize nominations and was the winner of the 2023 Hal Prize, as well as many other Wisconsin-based awards. From 2020-25 she was the inaugural poet laureate of Sheboygan, Wisconsin. As someone who loves to embroider and crochet, Vihos felt an affinity to Betsy Ross and was surprised to learn that there is no verifiable documentation that Ross actually made the first flag. Visit lisavihos.com Mike Wahl writes at his organic farm in northern Alabama, where he lives with his family. His short poems and stories examine the nuances of politics, nature, religion, & family, freely mixing fact and fiction. His short stories have appeared in several anthologies in recent years. He is the author of three published poetry works: Living Adverbially, Rooted in Christianity, and In Harmony with Homophones. In his growing-up years in rural Ohio, his father loaded up the entire family every Independence Day, to drive to the county fairgrounds to watch the fantastic fireworks display, a highlight of the year. Lori Wall-Holloway’s poetry has appeared in several publications that include Highland Park Poetry and Pure in Heart Stories. When she was younger, her parents picnicked with the family in an old station wagon on several July 4 holidays near California’s Rose Bowl to watch fireworks shoot up in the sky. She in turn worked to create memories with her own kids and grandkids which has inspired some of her writing. She hopes what she writes will encourage subsequent generations. Bruce Whitaker and his wife of 45 years evenly divide their year between two locations: Columbia, Maryland, where Bruce worked for 30 years as a plant biologist with the USDA Agricultural Research Service; and Ludington, Michigan, in his wife’s natal home amid apple and cherry orchards. Bruce says he has always been enthralled with nature, and has enjoyed reading and dabbling in poetry since high school. Bruce explains, “For roughly a decade following retirement, I have been studying my family’s genealogy off and on. Both my paternal and maternal lines of ancestors have a rich, intriguing history in colonial and Revolutionary War era America, much of it centered in the Mid-Atlantic colonies/states of Pennsylvania, Maryland, and Delaware. On my mother and maternal grandmother’s side are the Fishers, who descended from the John Fisher who accompanied William Penn to America aboard the ship Welcome in 1682. His great-great grandson and my great-great-great grandfather, Thomas Fisher, is the subject of my persona poem. He was a strapping young lad during the American Revolution, who later served as a brigadier general during the War of 1812. I found the story of his capture by a British press gang on the shores of Delaware in the winter of 1779-80 absolutely compelling. As part of my 75th birthday mortality acknowledgement tour in early April, I visited Thomas Fisher’s gravesite at Christ Episcopal Church in Dover, Delaware.” James Wilkerson is an award-winning poet from Decatur, Illinois. Jim graduated from Millikin University in 1996, majoring in English/Writing. In 1996 he published a book of poetry about his time at Millikin, entitled Millikin Poems: A Personal Look at College Life. His most recent book, Winter Poems (2024), won 2nd place in the Illinois State Poetry Society's Book of the Year Contest. You can also find his work in Collage, Distilled Lives, East on Central, Folio, Inkwell, More Big Thoughts, TKE Today, and Quill & Parchment. R.M. Yager, a late-blooming author, continues to be grateful at how writing has so enriched her life. They add “I actually loved finding-out about Phoebe and wanted people to know that not all mistresses of plantations were evil and wanted to stress the love and bonds created among women during those turbulent and awful times. What I love about the 4th are family picnics and small-town parades.”
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Sharing poetry with audiences of all agesOffering readings, displays, and writing workshops.Creating opportunities for poets. A local group with a global reach.
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