| Poetry by John E. Cashwell |
About The Author:
John E. Cashwell is the author of four highly imaginative
novels, twelve short stories, fifty short poems, and the
new, acclaimed six-book epic poem Toishan. He has over
forty years advertising, marketing and copy writing
experience, most notably responsible for helping to
launch the Panasonic brand to consumers in North
America. A former US Marine and a graduate of Duke
University, John lives on the Albemarle Plantation in
Hertford, North Carolina, where he enjoys writing,
fitness training and golf with his wife of fifty-two years,
Ann M. Cashwell.
John E. Cashwell is the author of four highly imaginative
novels, twelve short stories, fifty short poems, and the
new, acclaimed six-book epic poem Toishan. He has over
forty years advertising, marketing and copy writing
experience, most notably responsible for helping to
launch the Panasonic brand to consumers in North
America. A former US Marine and a graduate of Duke
University, John lives on the Albemarle Plantation in
Hertford, North Carolina, where he enjoys writing,
fitness training and golf with his wife of fifty-two years,
Ann M. Cashwell.
“Requiem for Allie”
Morning Terror:
Softly beckoning—
an end to languishing
morning light.
In the forest—
aloof from the morning
an owl cries.
Sifted by chiffon curtains
flowing on a breeze
a wren’s song.
Dressed in black—
only crazed eyes visible
assassins.
Wild screaming—
amid thin clouds of smoke
a firefight.
Her body
hands reaching urgently
for me.
A look of rebuke
received without regret
reverence.
Then a simple nod
her smile acknowledging
life isn’t fair.
Even in my weakness
never to stop till my heart stops
a kind of integrity.
Hard Times Next Right:
The sun—
reflecting on a billion particles
a pink and beautiful poison.
Always a nightmare—
no matter when or where
freeways.
Out to a residential district
a flask for my inside pocket
grand marnier.
White H sign—
on a blue background
hospital.
Antiseptic smell—
starched uniforms on fat bodies
her room.
Frantic eyes—
all that can move, she moves
from her neck up.
Permanently tight—
turned down at the corners
a sad mouth.
Eyes that find me
but a face that cannot
held tight.
Behind those eyes
arms that reach for me but cannot
forever broken.
Medical Madness:
Eyes of an intruder—
crossing the line of decency
do not look!
Above her eyebrows
holding her head tight
a strap.
A network of tubes—
connecting bags of clear fluid
utility tree.
A low hissing sound—
pumping air up her nose
ventilator.
Internal screaming—
from the sidelines like a soccer coach
a harsh whisper.
Fear of rejection—
feelings forever below the surface
unrequited love.
Then that part
about wanting to die
tired eyes.
Nervous gestures
quivering chin and tearful eyes
what am I to do?
The flask to her mouth
“Jesus, that is so-o-o good!”
screw the meds.
Gate Of Heaven:
In the valley—
brilliant oranges and pinks and purples
a bowl of sunset.
The colors some sort of reward
for breathing poisoned air
every day.
At evening—
a smooth orange with white wisps
creamsicle sky.
Ankle deep—
at the bottom of the hill
rain tracks.
Huge mausoleums—
rising upon the hillside
tombs.
Then a green plane—
without markers of the dead
alicia’s place.
Black casket—
silently descending
alicia’s end.
A single red rose—
then shovels of heavy dirt
alicia’s comforter.
Even after death
a brutal edict of secrecy
ciao.
The Hunt:
Black gold—
palaces built on a sand bar
dubai.
Venice of the Desert
only 20 years of oil left
what then?
On the backs of camels—
disappearing into the light
t error merchants.
A desert backwater—
now an economic powerhouse
streets with no names.
Camel races in the desert
skyscrapers in the background
emirati vs capitalism.
Calls of the muezzins
echoing 5x through the desert
t hey are here.
Iranian saffron—
shell sandalwood and frankincense
a spice souk.
An unsure conversation—
entrusted to one who speaks twice
interpreter.
A modern gift—
insults that loosen the tongue
mikimoto.
Misdirection:
Crushed shell and coral—
blindingly fine, clean and white
the sand.
A port of call—
on an ancient trade route
dubai creek.
Shaved heads—
working the jalboots
abra captains.
On the water—
silver globes waxing and waning
the moon.
Winking, beckoning—
marking the sought after boat
a green lantern.
Silent ascension
out of the rain, into the storm
betrayal.
Powerful hands
pulling me up by my mouth
like a fish.
In the water again
dragged along the keel
a hopeless fool.
Swollen lungs
extreme water presence
forever broken.
Captivity:
A vast wilderness—
continuous body of sand
arabian desert.
Red dunes and deadly quicksand
oscillating extreme temperatures
alone.
Spiny-tailed lizards
cactus water and creature blood
sustenance.
Off on a tangent—
the name of a once popular song
wandering.
Blistered lips
dehydrated body and vapid mind
crawling now.
Tired eyes
and that familiar longing to die
almost finished.
A Turkish caravan—
plucked like the carcass of a jackal
rescue.
My body—
the final degradation
a currency.
An insane barter—
in sufficient quantity to buy
the weapons of war.
Delicious Revenge:
High in the Hajjar Mountains—
alongside a boarder with Oman
muhammad hatta.
Nomads dressed in dishdashas
camel herders roaming the desert
beodouins.
Dominating the village
built of stone and mud and palm tree trunks
fort hatta.
Room to room
kicking in palm-leaf doors
unproductive search.
Then the call of a muezzin
in the crowd now, seeking sanctuary
cowards.
Back against a stone wall
pivoting to kick open another door
prey revealed.
In the Mosque
flipping heavy metal cylinders
hand grenades.
Wild screaming—
amid thick clouds of smoke
a firefight.
Two dead assassins but—
numerous casualties, women and children
screw the collateral damage.
Things of the Heart:
An ancient aircraft—
roaring through a night sky
a place to rest.
Fresh water and food
accepted with great gratitude
a broken body to nourish.
A whisky priest—
too drunk to give absolution
my flying companion.
A shadow of its former self—
chiffon curtains and a wren’s song
our place.
A barren room now—
and a longing deeper than sin
emptiness.
A formal investigation—
picking apart each piece of a debacle
inquiry.
Denying her complicity—
easier than anything I've ever done
reverence.
Surrender—
admitting to a vaporous mind
exit strategy.
Caissons and caskets
amid knells of heavy bells
flags too, but none waving.
©2014 John E. Cashwell [All Rights Reserved]
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