Carl Scharwath

Carl Scharwath is an American photographer, short story writer and poet. His passion is running and he is very active in enjoying his hobby as well in winning many races. He lives and works in Florida, US.

Night Cemetery Vision

 

Moonlight bathes headstones

In elongated shadows,

Casting a cynical glow.

 

Perfectly aligned mercenaries

Long ago legions,

Covenants to life’s carnage.

 

Brittle cement markers

Forgotten names etched and

Adorned in plastic flowers.

 

Resurrected in moments,

Dream state paralysis-

Are you remembered tonight?

NATALITY

​
​Every baby is born to greatness
there is a stainless beauty
installed in a clean heart
love and tolerance
wired into the soul

The Latin Vulgate
an icon of purpose
imbues and cicerones
the steady hand
of a mother and father

Lost in luminescent daylight
and memories of thermal water
to what end
humanity awaits
its glorious creation

                                                                                                                                              

RETENTION POND

 

     The alluring woman next to him at the bar was not his wife. Ron's son was waiting to be picked up after high school football practice and his father was drunk again. 

    Ron had a very stressful new career. He was a sales manager who had been required to meet very aggressive quarterly numbers to keep his job. The local bar provided a great relief where his troubles swirled in the bottom of a highball glass and evaporated before the third drink. The beautiful woman anchored next to him was just another bonus that night. Her smile seemed to help him forget about his failed marriage, his drinking problem and the very expensive cost of his son's college education. 

    The third drink was gulped down as if his sanity depended on it and he had bounded out of the bar to get his son. Never mind that the woman was in the restroom and had returned to an empty stool and a missed promise of adventure. The only remnant of this strangely attractive man was a twenty dollar bill on the table and the squealing of tires outside.  

    As Ron had sped to his destination, the murky sun slung a darkened bronze halo across the shadows of his vision. The road and the landscape were in a strange visual, drunken rhythm; a sepia-washed canvas that demanded concentration from his impaired vision.

     A dull thump jarred Ron, like a pine-cone heavy with snow descending to its final resting place on the roof above his bedroom. The rear-view mirror held a ghostly scene, as he had stopped to look. In the small rear window portal, the cyclist convulsed. The body moved in a defiant dance and a small trickle of blood had painted the road. Ron saw no other cars on this country road and decided to leave the accident scene. The accident would  have ruined him; he already had one driving under the influence charge and a second one would  forever mark his life.   

    The next morning Ron refused to watch the news.  He was not interested in the plight of the cyclist, as he already was resigned that this must have been a nightmare. The car did not have a scratch and that was his validation this indeed never happened. 

    Three months had passed before he traveled that same road again. A road side memorial and the picture of a teenage boy solemnly looked out at him as he drove by. Ron looked into the rear-view mirror but his tears clouded the view of the funeral flowers. The mirror held his attention long enough to distract him off the road and into a dramatic slope of grass and softened earth. The car rolled once into a large drainage ditch, upside down and was ready to fill with water. He had ingested his first gulp of contaminated liquid and seconds before he lost consciousness the sound of cars and the voices in the distance, had filled him with eternal hope.