Photo: budgetguitarist.com
I have many memories, and many of those memories are located by music of the time, I’m sure many of you will know that experience for yourself.
When fret is a board life takes a different tune,
from trouvere to the gods of rock,
the manipulated gut over brass
sometimes announced by a subtle, inescapable squeak,
where vibration becomes memory.
©Paul Vincent Cannon
Paul,
pvcann.com
Filed under Five Lines, Free Verse, music, poem
Photo: mymoodonmymind.com
We met in a tempest
and kindled a furnace of love,
I drank of her deeply,
yet my thirst was unquenched,
and I knew that I must drink of her again.
©Paul Vincent Cannon
Paul,
pvcann.com
Filed under Five Lines, Free Verse, love, poem, Uncategorized
Photo: cfsrecoveryproject.com
My inertia sailed in on a full spinnaker
on a Sunday afternoon,
of course I had other things to do,
but my mind was unmade
and my limbs undirected.
So I took a moment,
and toasted the afternoon,
and I thought,
for the briefest of moments,
that I might just sail back again,
but instead I stayed and talked to the dolphins.
©Paul Vincent Cannon
Paul,
pvcann.com
Filed under Free Verse, life, poem
Photo: pexels.com
When it’s wrong it’s wrong,
but it’s never wrong when we say it is,
as soon as the words are spoken
their foolishness becomes apparent.
Who?
Who might cast the first subjective stone?
You see,
an immaculate deception
colonises the mind of a wounded ego,
to create the perfect world,
in our own image.
Well trained horses don’t bridle,
so, ergo,
go we,
to offer silence
as our only rebuke,
of the fractures in our mind
we’d dare project
as a fantasy of singular truth.
©Paul Vincent Cannon
Paul,
pvcann.com
Filed under Free Verse, life, poem, psychology
Photo: blackwhiteanddraw.com
You were always highly strung,
tense to a C,
higher than my G,
your tailpiece was sure fine,
and your finger board?
Well, what can I say?
When my bow struck your strings
your F holes resounded
as I played you with such finesse.
©Paul Vincent Cannon
Paul,
pvcann.com
Filed under Free Verse, music, poem, Quadrille
Photo: https://media.iwm.org.uk/ciim5/36/103/large_000000.jpg
A World War 1 trench, not quite the Hyatt, Hilton or whatever, way beyond my experience.
I Hope Someone Remembers
Trenches could not be loved,
they were open tombs,
flooded, muddied, with
congealed wire garlands and
sodden timber treads,
and the stench of the living dead all round,
their sunken eyes testimony to
the glue of resignation and guilt.
Our feet blackened for love of country,
our minds already lost
in battles of their own,
Dante’s Inferno come to life,
with the sting of gas and metallic chatter,
always the thudding, crumping, shells
that shake our bones
and reshape our vision.
Our thoughts occasionally turn to
going home, could it be?
But that thought is scotched
as machine guns lace the air,
and the referee’s whistle calls play,
all the while the unrelenting cries
of death and pain rain down.
No more to hold a hand or taste her lips,
no more to cup her breast or hold her close,
what chance of laughter, to share life’s joys?
But then I dare not think of her,
such thoughts have no place here,
they could hold me in this tomb.
The whistle resounds,
my bayonet gleams,
a macabre accessory,
one I may yet wear.
Ladders ready,
up we go,
king and country,
I hope someone remembers us.
©Paul Vincent Cannon
Paul,
pvcann.com
Filed under Free Verse, history, life, war
Photo: imgur.com
I got to thinking but, I let it go and instead, I let my mind wander
to Shangri-La, Asgard, Xanadu, and Kunlun,
such places of beauty that penetrated my heart with a wound of joy,
I’m back now, but I fly out again tonight,
and somedays I imagine I might just stay out there.
©Paul Vincent Cannon
Filed under Five Lines, Free Verse, life, mindfulness, poem
Taken recently at the Bunbury Wetlands (Big Swamp), mother and children 🙂
Of kith and kin
and shared blood,
resembling much likeness,
yet only in the heart of hearts,
for all else is naught,
save for the love I have for all
living things,
kindred spirits
in this great adventure of life,
where all things are my cousins.
©Paul Vincent Cannon
Paul,
pvcann.com
Filed under bush walking, Free Verse, poem, Quadrille
Photo: listverse.wpengine.netdna-cdn.com
Guy Fawkes effigy. If you remember 🙂 the gunpowder plot set for the 5th November, 1605 when parliament was due to be opened by James the 1st of England & 6th of Scotland, by a group of Catholics who wanted to end the persecution of Catholics in England. This was during the period of the Reformation in England and there were strict laws governing any expression of the Christian faith other than that authorised by parliament, and the Catholic Church was very hemmed in by regulation. The architect of the plot was Robert Catesby. The plot was foiled and Fawkes was captured. Under torture he named all the plotters. All were captured and sentenced to be hung drawn and quartered. Fawkes avoided this excruciating death by jumping from the ladder for the scaffold and broke his neck and died.
The parliament named November 5 as a National Day of Thanksgiving which morphed into a bonfire night, and later fireworks were added to round out the Gunpowder Plot aspect. Fawkes was never burned, though others at that time were, but bonfire night caught on nonetheless. The question in my mind is do people get what it was about, and do they understand the reason for the plot? Not only that, the pure barbarism to hang draw and quarter? I’m not one to support murder, but nor am I one to support state sanctioned torture or murder either.
How did it come to this?
That you would cease to breathe this day,
your body smashed and broken,
your heart and passion gone.
That you dreamed of freedom,
believed for better,
for rights held by others,
but not by you or yours.
You were squeezed for servitude,
under those who looked down on you.
A king was your hopeful prize,
your evening bulletin,
but in truth he was an effigy of ill,
and your surprise was sprung against you,
then the scaffolding was strung.
Yet you beat the plot against you,
and found your freedom at last,
as you left the ladder of doom.
Centuries would pass before
freedom came to yours,
now I see you everywhere,
not least on tindered heaps,
more in the masks of dissent,
where freedom is eroding,
and we must leap the ladder
of protest once again.
©Paul Vincent Cannon
Paul,
pvcann.com
Filed under Free Verse, history, poem, politics
Old miners house at the historic Gwalia townsite.
That house,
our first house,
where I traced the lines and holes,
trod its carpets bare,
ever eyeing the sagging plaster,
where dust was our friend
and spiders paid their way,
even the rodents were not destitute.
Well that house we painted boldly,
with the brightest colours of our love.
©Paul Vincent Cannon
Paul,
pvcann.com
Filed under Free Verse, life, poem
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