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 forty-five years,
Ann M. Cashwell.

                                 “Above the Cliffs”


                                 
In the
Great Hall
Of the
Great Library
Of the
Lakota Nation
There is a
Vast stillness
Imposed by
The stacks
Of writings
Of all the
Great books
Of learning
And knowing
Assembled in
One quite room
Where polished
Long tables
Under shaded
Green lights
Offer resting places
For History
And Knowledge
Below the soft
Multi-candled
Chandeliers
That rise up to meet
The great arches of time.

Where a mural
Of his life
History
Is painted
With the tears
Of all
Who once rode
In harmony
With the
Animals of
The Land
And the
Birds of
The Sky
Who were
Their gods
Their food
Their allies
By the
Plentiful waters
The lakes
The roaring rivers
Even the
Oceans
Although
The chief
Had said
He took
His pleasure
From the
Streams of
The mountains
Where the
White and Purple
Flowers
Blossomed
Rather than
The sea.

One with
The land
Where the
Gifts of
Life and love
Are free
Like the wind
In the
Feathers
Of his hair
As his horse
Gallops
Above the cliffs
Seemingly
Relentless
Ever renewed
By the
Miracle
Of creation
A refuge left
To him by
His father’s
Father
Known to himself
And to his son
Until called
By the unknown
And the unknowable
Where is the
Final refuge
Of a clean,
Pure, primal
Awareness.

Wherefrom comes
A message
Of the Cosmos
Seeing without
Eyes or tentacles
Suffering
Without understanding
Rising
Without loosening
Up from where
Life began
In a spontaneous trauma
A deep, deep abyss
That now lies dormant
Awaiting the call
Of the Chief
To regenerate itself.

Calling to him
While others read
Or sit idly by
Gossiping
Some
Above a whisper
Never looking up
Where history
Abides
Realizations
Of original images
Of a greater
Communion
Of men and the land
Women and their children
Who cry Huku Ina
With outstretched arms
To a foregone time
Like the specters
Of Skibbereen
Hanging from their
Mothers’ teats with
Their bloated bellies
Of starvation
Rising from
The hovels
Of Great Britain’s
Occupation
Filled with the
Famished
And Oh So ghastly
Skeletons
Of the children
To all appearances
Dead
But when approached
Found by
A low moaning
To be alive
With an eternal fever
Spewing from red
And empty eyes
And the tears
Of that History.

There is something
So similar
Hauntingly
The same
In this moment
It flickering softly—
A history unlearned
To be repeated again
With equal parallels
To draw—
For now he sees
Looking up into
His father’s face
So square and tall
And yet so distant
And full of dread
Into the face of
Tatanka-Iyotanka
In the mural
On the ceiling
Of the Great Hall
Proud on his
Painted pony
Above the cliffs
Looking down
With sad eyes
Into his
Many canyons
Where once
He did ride
So tall, so swift
His head dressed
In a crown
Of many feathers
Whose number
Sent a message
Of high position
The deep lines
Of his face
Like a torture map
Of his home
Scarred forever
By the White man’s
Vast abrasions.

There is a scream
In his heart
Making him
Weak
Desperate to
Explode outward
Echoing through
The Great Hall
Decrying that
Great Evil
Word:
Reservation
Modern home of
All the victims of
Avarice and greed.
“It is not your land!”
His silent scream
“You stole it from us!”
Like thieves in the night
Until comes
A greater
Understanding:
This shall not stand
Like the sands
Of a desert
This,
Like all desecrations,
Shall be
Blown away
Renewal following
Under the land
Above the sky
For
The Great Evils:
Ownership
Victimization
Occupation
Molestation
Are not
The enduring
Gifts
Of the Great
Mother
Earth.

He will not
Speak of it
His people rootless
Even landless
Victims of the
Great Evil of a
Sour history of
Empty dates
And treacherous
Timelines
No ancestral
Spirit of origin
Or even the
Feel of the flesh
Of his own kind
No shared
Belongings
To the land
Below the
Powerful
Facades of
A kingdom
Of never-off
Bright lights
Above thickly carpeted
Runways to
The “Craps” tables
In the illicit casinos
Of broken Indian hearts.

In the
Great Hall
Of the
Great Library
Of the
Lakota Nation
There is a mural
Of the Great
Indian Chief
Calling to the
Markers of the dead
Willing them
Out of the grave
To ride again
Above the cliffs.

                                                  ©2009 John E. Cashwell [All Rights Reserved]
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