| 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-six 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 forty-six years,
Ann M. Cashwell.
FLASHBACKS
SHINING STAR
TILL THE COSMOS RUNS DRY
QING MING
MOTHER OF GOD
SHINING STAR
TILL THE COSMOS RUNS DRY
QING MING
MOTHER OF GOD
"Flashbacks"
Widows and children
fresh with shock and trauma
eyes beyond expression
part of the crowd
mourners.
Black mourning band
on a shiny badge
ignored in the crowd
waiting with great dignity
mother.
A final salute amid
black shrouds and glasses
and gut-wrenching silence
then a piercing shrill
bagpipe band.
A grassy knoll
empty caskets
maybe a single body part
silently lowered
abyss.
©2009 John E. Cashwell [All Rights Reserved]
RETURN TO TOP
“Shining Star”
You are my shining star
Calling to me from afar
My heart and soul so forcefully implore
With a message I cannot ignore
You beckon to me through that strange door.
Flying on young wings to that mean place
Where my destiny you must embrace
To lift me up so I can see
The differences that are made
In the way things seemed to be.
So many visions it took to learn
A simple truth for most unborn
Till finally, yes, even I can see
The way life might always be
If only I can find such faith within me.
Far from your Cerulean home
By the Holy Mother sent alone
To prove your worthiness
Among savage beings in a world strange and unkind
So new white feathers on your wings might shine.
So many times to intercede
For sister, brother, countless more in need
Till at the end the air so hard to breath
You faint and fall away with only I to see
The new Avian you have come to be.
You are my shining star
Winking to me from afar
My heart and soul so forcefully implore
With a message I can’t ignore
Like a distant Quasar through that strange door.
©1996 John E. Cashwell [All Rights Reserved]
“Till The Cosmos Runs Dry”
When I was a child
I dreamed I could fly
Had no wings
No machines in the sky
I’d just sail on my imagination
Till the Cosmos runs dry.
When I was fourteen
I dreamed of nothing I’d never try
Invincible at everything
My days just fast-danced me by
And I’d sail on my imagination
Till the Cosmos runs dry.
When I was a father
I dreamed my children could fly
On the wings of their mother
High upon the horizon, they passed me by
Then I’d sail on my imagination
Till the Cosmos runs dry.
When I was an old man
I learned how to cry
Had no more dreams
No wings in the sky
So, I sailed on my imagination
Till the Cosmos ran dry.
©2002 John E. Cashwell [All Rights Reserved]
“Qing Ming”
A Festival of Pure Brightness you are
One of twenty-four seasonal stars
The one hundred sixth day
Following winter’s solstice
Raising temperatures and the rainfest
Making a right time for plowing and sowing
And a bright time for a proud occasion
Devoted to reverence and commemoration.
A new spring day
For all to see
Green seasonal changes
And colored boiled eggs broken
A symbol of the beginning of life
The pure and clean attracting
To athletic contests, dancing and singing,
And on the green
Picnics and kite flying
While in the capital
The Emperor does plant
His delicate cherry blossom trees.
Beginning humbly at one’s home
There offering elegant and delicious foods
Of beef, onion, chicken, eggs,
A spicy new sauce and rice—
The favorites one’s ancestors did cook—
To please their spirits
Lifting the most nutritious elements
On a soft wave of incense
All dishes and eating utensils carefully arranged
To bring good luck.
This time to remember
Those who came before
Making one’s path smooth and pure
There to honor and pay respect
To one’s deceased ancestors
A pilgrimage now for the whole family to save
Leaving one's home to perform
A filial sweeping
Of their graves.
Drawing nigh to a perfect feng shui—
The sounds of a quiet stream
Running through it—
A soft and grassy knoll facing south
Blessed with a grove of pin trees nearby
All comprising a lasting synergy
That creates a most excellent flow
Of cosmic energy.
Pulling weeds by their roots
Then dirt is swept away
Placing new offerings of flowers and food
Dry and bland now so not to please
The ghosts of others
Who might be at play
Burning new incense and paper money too
Before the memorial tablet
On this High Holy Day.
Till evening comes
Upon a magnificent orange
And falling sun
And children do the darkness chase away
With their kites of delicate bamboo paper
So frail to fly
A string of little lights forming each tail
Loosing God’s Lanterns
Into the night's sky.
©2009 John E. Cashwell [All Rights Reserved]
“Mother of God”
White Lilies of the Field
Your large trumpet-shaped flowers
Adorn our altars in quiet supplications
Rising from a mist of Easter showers
Filling our minds
With visions of a glorious Resurrection.
It is the Son’s Day
We always celebrate
His Passion of unhurried agony and pain
Painted upon the canvas of an old rugged cross
Preserved in iron spikes this unholy loss
The blood of our hearts forever to drain.
Then passing to Glory, He does rise again
In his Father’s name a new Prophesy to begin
Disciples a plenty the Good News to send
So graciously served with an eternal, Amen.
But what of the mother who once did begin
A time of torturous suffering never to end?
Hail, Mary, the Archangel cries
Acknowledging Her Holy state of Grace
Revealing to Her
A Mystery only Her heart can hold safe
A cruel time of misery and unrelenting pain
No other would dare; no other could face.
What parent a child’s death can understand?
What mother a son’s crucifixion can comprehend?
Does the whip cut deeper than tears of the heart?
How often we learn of the Passion of Christ
But what of the Mother so easily lost
In a song of the soul Her grief so rarely taught?
From a manger of soft hay to that rough ugly cross
On a hill hidden from the sun you suffered our loss
Grasping its base in supplication and fear
The last aching words of a mother’s son to hear
That ripped from your heart God’s promise of the “First”
Then left to die the death of ridiculed king, “I thirst.”
Our hearts are yours, Holy Mary
On this day of Mystery and Faith
The full truth of your suffering
We might someday learn
And so acknowledge with ardor
The name on your throne.
Here gratefully repeated
By this humble Bard
Once by the Archangel so reverently offered
Midst tears of the heart—this reverent token
The three most powerful words ever spoken . . .
“Mother of God.”
© April 12, 2009 John E. Cashwell [All Rights Reserved]