Monthly Archives: October 2021

Loud – a poem by Paul Vincent Cannon

Photo: menshealth.com.au

“There is no nobility with bad manners.” Ali ibn Abi Talib

Loud

He spoke loudly
like a thunderstorm,
he always spoke loudly,
everything about him shouted,
he consumed his habitation
with absolute, unbridled gusto,
the way he dressed and moved,
the way he chewed and talked
simultaneously revolting the room,
oblivious to the polite, unaware of
eyebrows raised in his dubious honour,
he ploughed on untouched, his
hunger growing louder.


Copyright 2021 ©Paul Vincent Cannon
All Rights Reserved ®

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For One Brief Glimpse – a poem by Paul Vincent Cannon

Photo: found on pinterest.com

“Then stirs the feeling infinite, so felt in solitude, where we are least alone.” Lord Byron

For One Brief Glimpse

The ambered silence of sun's departure a
most glorious death the colour of woven
meditation rising from the russet humus of
solitude's joyful farewell, life's tributary
offering pause for breath along the plane
of letting-go the bubble and babble of 
fakery, prostituting the real for one brief
glimpse of an unmemed self.


Copyright 2021 ©Paul Vincent Cannon
All Rights Reserved ®

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My Question – a poem by Paul Vincent Cannon

Photo: Dimhou at pixabay.com

“If you wait for perfect conditions, you’ll never get anything done.” (Unknown)

My Question

I think there's a question lingering in 
the back of my labyrinth circling round,
touching me carelessly with waves of
emotion, four seasons in one day, 
although winter persists in stealing 
spring's energy, grasping at warmth
with cold, that old familiar habit not 
lost on me in a world of futile striving,
and my question forms, can I let go of 
my winter soul?


Copyright 2021 ©Paul Vincent Cannon
All Rights Reserved ®

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The Light Of Darkness Shines – a poem by Paul Vincent Cannon

Image: wallpapercave.com

“Halloween is a celebration of the inversion of reality and a necessary Gothic hat-tip to the darker aspects of life, death and ourselves.” Stewart Stafford

The Light Of Darkness Shines

The club-foot dragging march of time
chases me past the lifeless stone
inscriptions of dated, stumbled meaning,
affronting my sense of ordered steps,
slough wasted feet hold me back fast to
the thin path between trod worlds,
a halo of the darkly rising unreal.

The club-foot dragging march of time
awakens me to the light of darkness,
a shining mantle of bone-dry feeling
in a river of emptiness before me,
darkening visage of truth bent stories,
weighted sore on my night-scape soul,
ever the stir of breath unseen on my neck.


Copyright 2021 ©Paul Vincent Cannon
All Rights Reserved ®

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Filed under Duodora, Free Verse, Gothic, poem, quote

Smug Orbs – a poem by Paul Vincent Cannon

At dVerse Lisa is hosting poetics with an invitation to write about an irritating human trait and an extra challenge to try writing a duodora form.

dVerse Poets – Poetics – Halloweeny Humans

Photo: albtechrva.com

“The gaze that sees is the gaze that dominates.” Michel Foucault

Smug Orbs

He wore saucers upon his face
like some weird, bug-eyed alien
with bobbled stalks, moving in
grand comic waves of distraction,
pretending not to see that, indeed
I could clearly see that he was
searching my moral failings.

He wore saucers upon his face,
those bulging smug orbs of
judgement thrust against me
like long, sticky blades of spite
steeped in bitter misunderstanding,
lost in fragmented distortions of
not seeing what he is seeing.


Copyright 2021 ©Paul Vincent Cannon
All Rights Reserved ®

58 Comments

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All The Souls Shall Stir – Haibun by Paul Vincent Cannon

At dVerse Frank is hosting Haibun with an invitation to write about something fear.

dVerse Poets – Haibun – Fear

Image: wallpapersafari.com

“Samhain is a good time to celebrate the lives of all wise elders ….” Caitlin Matthews

All The Souls Shall Stir


The beady owl cries a deep hoo from the dry papered tree for the sake of the covered bones whispering below my feet, while mossy headstones pull me from my gait to their thrall. Iron spears line the way, rusted as bloody. Tentacles of ivy grab at my heels, as the witching hour creeps in when all the souls shall stir about me and merrily dance around my urgency. I pass by the gatekeeper's house and sense his gaze upon my back, not a candle to be seen. Along the shadowed road I see a hearse, its horses lathered in sweat, but as I turn and look again it has vanished along the icy breeze. If I run it will be too soon and give the game away. I close the door behind me. Tomorrow I shall walk the dead again, but not as tonight, tonight the past lives.

Autumn bares trees
cherry blossom memories
crane flies over me




Copyright 2021 ©Paul Vincent Cannon
All Rights Reserved ®

Note: in Japanese culture it is said that the crane (Tsuru) is symbolic of longevity and good fortune.

43 Comments

Filed under death, Gothic, Haibun, Haiku, life

The Breaking Wave – a poem by Paul Vincent Cannon

Photo: Rocks along Cape Leeuwin

“One can be the master of what one does, but never of what one feels.” Gustave Flaubert

The Breaking Wave

Standing on the shore of feeling,
watching the horizon, waiting,
being engulfed, thrust beyond
in swirls of murky images, thrown
beyond the foaming crest into
the boiling current of deep 
inner turmoil, full of dangerous
rips along jagged coral memories,
finally resurfacing in the calm 
of the breaking wave.


Copyright 2021 ©Paul Vincent Cannon
All Rights Reserved ®

30 Comments

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Which Is All There Is – a poem by Paul Vincent Cannon

Photo: sunrise over the Blackwood River.

“Forever is composed of nows.” Emily Dickinson

Which Is All There Is

When the present is all there is,
what does it mean to be fully present,
or do you sneak off in to the melancholy
of the greying past, or do you inhabit the 
anxiety of tomorrows never arrived,
rather than allowing yourself to be pulled
into this moment, which is all there is?


Copyright 2021 ©Paul Vincent Cannon
All Rights Reserved ®

39 Comments

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Like A Version – a poem by Paul Vincent Cannon

Photo: Geralt at pixabay.com

“Don’t compromise yourself – you’re all you have.” John Grisham

Like A Version

I'm not sure where to start,
looking, always looking,
for something beyond the
in-between, that place where
nothing is familiar, where risk 
rises, even for a moment, 
until curiosity calls me to
let go and play at new versions
of me in those unknown spaces,
where nothing is certain, only
versions of me.


Copyright 2021 ©Paul Vincent Cannon
All Rights Reserved ®

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The Baggage Handler – a poem by Paul Vincent Cannon

Photo by cottonbro from Pexels

“We may define therapy as a search for value.” Abraham Maslow

The Baggage Handler

I paid her for the letting go,
those harboured thoughts
pushed down,
now surfacing again.

She listened from her somber chair
to my every grief,
her silent compassion
a soft incise carefully drawn.

My many wounds released,
those neatly folded feelings
that have travelled long within me,
she drew my truest sense of self.


Copyright 2021 ©Paul Vincent Cannon
All Rights Reserved ®

35 Comments

Filed under awareness, Free Verse, life, poetry, psychology, quote