Category Archives: awareness

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 ®

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The Wound Is Old – a poem by Paul Vincent Cannon

Photo: a fallen trunk of a Jarrah tree, taken at Jarrah Loop Walks, between Bridgetown and Nannup.

“Masculine and feminine roles are not biologically fixed but socially constructed.” Judith Butler

The Wound Is Old

The wound is old, though not 
completely grown over,
showing its dark promise
through the soft, feathered edge,
trying to rejuvenate its center,
the turn from shame and the 
imposition of guilt, which down
the long grain of time has
squandered the meeting of 
masculine and feminine, a 
denial of possibility, the loss of
a trust barely formed in myths of 
carefully constructed obscurantism,
those fictions of favour cemented
in the decline of life.


Copyright 2021 ©Paul Vincent Cannon
All Rights Reserved ®

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Cinereous Beauty – a poem by Paul Vincent Cannon

At dVerse Sarah is hosting the Quadrille (44 words) with an invitation to write about ash.

dVerse Poets – Quadrille – Ashes to Ashes

Photo: lahacienda.co.uk

“In order to rise from its own ashes, a phoenix must first burn.” Octavia E. Butler

Cinereous Beauty

I went down to the pit of shame
and sat in the ash now cold, now
penitential, itching my skin as it was 
supposed to do, but not forgetting 
that ash left long in the ground turns 
to coal, which sometimes turns to
diamonds.


Copyright 2021 ©Paul Vincent Cannon
All Rights Reserved ®

Note: Cinereous refers to a colour – grey tinged with black – of ash. To sit in ash and wearing sackcloth goes back historically to ancient semitic culture, and predominantly to Hebrew culture as a mark of grief, penitence or shame.

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Salad Days – a poem by Paul Vincent Cannon

Photo: found at thecharmingdetroiter.com

“The whole future lies in uncertainty, live immediately.” Seneca

Salad Days

I ordered a mushroom and feta open sandwich,
enhanced with a thick, sweet, balsamic reduction
drizzled around the plate, I finished wanting more,
and even in restaurants worlds can collide,
I heard someone say that the air was thick with
uncertainty, and I wondered, are these the salad 
days where the air is laden, drizzling sickly sweet, 
and yet everyone asking for more?


Copyright 2021 ©Paul Vincent Cannon
All Rights Reserved ®

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Love’s Repair – a poem by Paul Vincent Cannon

Photo: pixabay.com

“One must pass through the circumference of time before arriving at the center of opportunity.” Baltasar Gracian

Love's Repair

When did you begin to remember that
there are many ways to move even though
you wouldn't have said it like that and,
it might be your imagination speaking
forgotten confessions, knowing now that
you cannot escape yourself no matter the 
distance travelled you always arrive at you,
and did you notice that there are versions
that arise from the scars of the journey,
did you also notice that none are beyond 
love's repair?


Copyright 2021 ©Paul Vincent Cannon
All Rights Reserved ®

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Living For Real – a poem by Paul Vincent Cannon

Photo: pixabay.com

“The only journey is the journey within.” Rainer Maria Rilke

Living For Real

There's a strange beauty in the borderlands,
a place of no arriving, yet always returning
to the seeds of joy, everywhere rooted in 
searching for the irresistible experience of
validity beyond the culture of individualism,
beyond the turgid order of rules, beyond the
comfort of middling against extremities,
walking deeper than the surface of feelings,
touching something of life's thin, determined, 
thread which holds the mystery of moving 
forward in a retreating moment, living into
impossibility.


Copyright 2021 ©Paul Vincent Cannon
All rights Reserved ®

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Fierce Beauty – prose by Paul Vincent Cannon

At dVerse Mish is hosting Posery with an invitation to using a line form TS Eliot’s poem ‘The Waste Land.’

dVerse Poets – Prosery – The Waste Land

The line offered and which must be included is: “What are the roots that clutch, what branches grow out of this stony rubbish?”

Photo: an example of eremophila taken at Niagara near Kookynie.

“According to ancient mythology, trees link the earth to the sky. In this respect trees link humans to another world.” Richard Allen

Fierce Beauty

The eastern goldfields suffer only the strong or determined living in the extremities across these vast open plains of mostly dry laterite and also quartz, granite and sandstone outcrops populated by shy fauna and rugged flora. The summer is merciless, the winter winds penetrate layers. The rainfall is pitiful, the reason the state government commissioned the grand and ambitious Goldfields Water Supply Scheme in 1896.

When the rains do come they seem to evaporate before they touch the surface soil, and it is a wonder that anything could grow in such a place. Which raises the question, what are the roots that clutch, what branches grow out of this stony rubbish? Dozens in fact, varieties of eucalyptus, acacia, eremophila, grevillea, and callistemon tenaciously hang on out here where humans wilt. When the sun is fierce, the soil unforgiving, the trees are beautifully fiercer.

Copyright 2021 ©Paul Vincent Cannon

All rights Reserved ®

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Galleons Rising – a poem by Paul Vincent Cannon

At dVerse Bjorn is hosting Meeting the Bar with an invitation to write a poem using the form cadralor or to write a poem about the author Abdulrazak Gurnah who won the Nobel Prize in Literature.

dVerse Poets – Meeting the Bar

Image: found on http://www.pinterest.fr

“The stars, like dust, encircle me in living mists of light ….” Isaac Asimov

Galleons Rising

(1) The place of my being is so deeply wounded,
    though unrelated to what we might agree as original
    innocence of knowing, perhaps an unknowing if,
    truth be told, of all that has passed through me.

(2) What of the night darkened soul that lies behind
    my moistened eyes of longing for the white dove,
    to see the road clearly now the map has ceased,
    while clouds press inwardly to the journey.

(3) Grey winter has pleased not one of its friends,
    offering the discomfort of predictable uncertainty,
    the continuity of intermittent falling patterns
    going deep to the bones of an unframed life.

(4) The eastern shore of the lake clear yet impenetrable
    leaving the tortoise to carry its own burdens,
    those dreams of galleons rising to the stars far,
    collecting surprises along life's paradoxical way.

(5) Do you know the field of expectation's weediness,
    un-mended fences demand no sense of belonging,
    the place is riddled with interlopers of no conscience,
    time to slip away free-range, ebullient, rising.


Copyright 2021 ©Paul Vincent Cannon
All Rights Reserved ®

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Who Will? – a poem by Paul Vincent Cannon

Photo: Uwe Jelting at pixabay.com

“What is more generous than a window?” Pat Schneider

Who Will?

Who cares for the sill,
that faithful ledge of old
who holds the pane in high 
esteem and kindly thwarts
the elements of nature's unruly
love for us, now the blistering,
powdered paint exposing deep,
ancient cracks and shrinking,
the frame so loose, a sliver 
missing from the edge, no 
longer crisp and plumbly square,
wearing as the days inexorably 
roll along, and nature still calls by,
wondering, who will care for the sill?


Copyright 2021 ©Paul Vincent Cannon
All Rights Reserved ®

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I’m Glad For The Gate – a poem by Paul Vincent Cannon

At dVerse De is hosting the Quadrille, with an invitation to write about stones.

dVerse Poets – Quadrille – Throwing Poem Stones

Photo: mandalelimestone.com

“Stone walls do not a prison make ….” Richard Lovelace

I'm Glad For The Gate

There's nothing as handsome as a dry-stone wall,
a certain beauty in its rugged, chiselled symmetry,
stone upon stone against any sense of predation or
unwanted attention and, even though I crave this very 
boundary, I'm glad for the gate which lets me choose.


Copyright 2021 ©Paul Vincent Cannon
All Rights Reserved ®

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