Category Archives: beach

In Winter – a poem by Paul Vincent Cannon

Photo: southern most section of the Leeuwin – Naturaliste National Park, a typical winter’s day.

“… one cannot look at the sea without wishing for the wings of a swallow.” Sir Richard Francis Burton

In Winter

In June the southern ocean

reflects the winter sky

turning to a foreboding battle-ship grey,

an apt colour for an angry boiling sea

whose tentacles reach out along the shore

to snare the unaware beachcomber,

shooting gouts of dark water everywhere,

swallowing sand as if it were sponge cake,

spewing sea grass and cuttlefish,

and still there are those who dare to

push out into this maelstrom in a tinny

and wrestle the waves,

whereas I prefer my feet on the shore

in winter.

Copyright 2023 ©️Paul Vincent Cannon
All Rights Reserved ®️

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My Father’s Hands – Haibun by Paul Vincent Cannon

At dVerse Frank is hosting the Haibun with an invitation to write about memory.

dVerse Poets – Haibun – Memory

Image by StockSnap from Pixabay

“My father took my hand and said, ‘Let’s go.'” Stephen Joseph Mitskavich

My Father’s Hands

My father’s hands are always with me. they were sometimes dark and sinister when riled, indifferent when preoccupied, and tender in my best memory. His hands were strong, at times too strong, a miner’s hands all dented and calloused, a boxer’s hands like steel, a gardeners hands covered in dirt. His hands were too big for fine work, instead he dug the yard, a quarter acre, all fruit and veg. He once lifted the back end of his ford while I changed the flat, I couldn’t argue with that.

My fondest memory lingers, a holiday at the seaside, a bucket and spade and sand castles. Walking in the water, walking home, my bucket in one hand, my other in his hand, the sun at our backs, adventure ahead. No matter the times of fear which came later, then he made the world right, the waves and paths, the people, all was well, we marched together and took the world. I can still feel those hands.

My father’s big hands

sometimes tender, mostly work

he was winter and sun.

Copyright 2023 ©️Paul Vincent Cannon
All Rights Reserved ®️

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The Long Dry – a poem by Paul Vincent Cannon

At dVerse Lillian is hosting Poetics with an invitation to choose two or more provided song titles to use in a poem.

dVerse Poets – Poetics – Come Sing With Me

I have chosen two titles:

A Long December (Counting Crows)

Let It Go (Idina Menzel)

Photo: Ocean Beach near Denmark, Western Australia.

“Summer passes and one remembers one’s exuberance.” Yoko Ono

The Long Dry

There's no steeling oneself for a long December,
the time when the long dry commences
and only a brave cloud would dare to mar the sky,
while gum leaves are leathered and turned
to the cicada chorale coursing the thermals,
with faint stirrings of Matilda dancing,
infused with a waft of sea and a splash of sun
which crusts the earth and fills me along with a
tease of rosemary, lavender,  or jasmine,
there's no need to steel oneself,
no time for winter's sorrow,
only time to let it go for summer's halcyon days.


Copyright 2022 ©Paul Vincent Cannon
All Rights Reserved ®️ 

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Wrong Way – a poem by Paul Vincent Cannon

#2022 November PAD Chapbook Challenge

Day 3 3.11.22

Prompt: Misdirected

Wrong Way

The ocean languid turquoise
lapping the shore,
glinting of sun,
inviting us in.
Above us clear sky,
except for the gulls
piercing the air,
sand so soft as we
dig out the four by four,
swapping recriminations 
and directional guilt.


Copyright 2022 ©Paul Vincent Cannon
All Rights Reserved ®️ 

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I Ran Too – a poem by Paul Vincent Cannon

Photo: Nowaja at pixabay.com

“I watched the seagulls, I thought, that’s the road to take.” Nikos Kazantzakis

I Ran Too

I was lost in this day,
it all moved so beautifully,
to breathe,
to see,
taste,
feel it all,
first the tree then
the waters edge
where the joggers ran past,
running and running,
until they took feather,
soaring over the glistening water,
and I ran too.

Copyright 2022 ©Paul Vincent  Cannon
All Rights Reserved ®️ 

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The Question – a poem by Paul Vincent Cannon

Photo: DariuszSankowski at pixabay.com

“No human being, however great or powerful, was ever so free as a fish.” John Ruskin

The Question

The question formed in my mind,
do fish ever swim backwards,
but I guessed it to be true enough,
for what can go forwards
can surely go backwards,
humans do it so well,
and a new question formed,
do the scales of a fish prise open
as they swim backwards?
And I wondered, naturally,
how this might feel.


Copyright 2022 ©Paul Vincent Cannon
All Rights Reserved ®️ 

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Does It? – a poem by Paul Vincent Cannon

Photo: Rain along the Blackwood River.

“The sound of rain needs no translation.” Alan Watts

Does It?

Does it rain in the city
like it rains in the countryside,
where the organic myth has taken hold,
and rain is more rain than anywhere?

But that is merely a parochial opinion,
though the man at the bus stop has
a bag over his head and no coat,
and he is slowly being drenched
in his obvious denial.

Rain is rain on any plain,
or so it is widely held,
even so, it is felt differently and
without a lie, it rains in the city,
but is it real like the rain in the 
country where the sky is open?


Copyright 2022 ©Paul Vincent Cannon
All Rights Reserved ®️

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Days Come As They Are – a poem by Paul Vincent Cannon

Photo: The beach at Skippy Rocks, Cape Leeuwin.

“Enjoy the little things, for one day you may look back and realise they were the big things.” Robert Brault

Days Come As They Are

I make no demands on my days
although some may disagree,
days come to me as they are,
and I respond to them as I am,
which seems to me the best way,
to conduct time through a lens of 
moments holds a richness not
ordinarily found in planned time,
which is just a straight-jacket
found in diaries which I liken
to cattle corralled, held captive
to the agendas of others,
there is an indescribable 
feeling in risking the freedom
to be, risking spontaneity, love,
not because it delivers anything,
but because it may not deliver
anything at all, and that mystery 
is the very best.


Copyright 2022 ©Paul Vincent Cannon
All Rights Reserved ®️

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Those Coral Crowns – a poem by Paul Vincent Cannon

Photo: the Southern Ocean of Augusta.

“We sail within a vast sphere, ever drifting in uncertainty, driven from end to end.” Blaise Paschal

Those Coral Crowns

If you drift,
do you roll with it,
hold the gunwale,
laughing into the wind
that slights your face
with the spit of seas,
wrapping your ache
in strands of sea-grass
too slippery to bind,
or do you cast your fate
to the crystal depths
and plunge life with
every stroke forward,
tooth and scale,
seeking coral crowns?


Copyright 2022 ©Paul Vincent Cannon
All Rights Reserved ®️ 

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When Water Dies – a poem by Paul Vincent Cannon

At dVerse Sarah is hosting Poetics with an invitation to write about one of the four elements: Earth, Fire, Water, Wind. I chose water.

dVerse Poets – Poetics – The Four Elements

Photo: Taken the day after a winter storm at Cape Leeuwin.

“They both listened silently to the water, which to them was no just water, but the voice of life, the voice of Being, the voice of perpetual becoming.” Hermann Hesse

When Water Dies

The swash and slap of the limpid roll
for languid lolling in a temperate zone,
as flounder flap and take the bait
now unaccustomed to the oaken creak,
a gift from the depths suppered for two,
I recall the taste of salted lips that
burned even as I licked them so,
the smells are joy though my nostrils flare,
and I catch your weeds of no compare,
and my line is tangled, but without you 
I cannot bear the grief of dryness
that your death will bring,
and so I cup my hands that I may
drink one more draught of your 
wet love.


Copyright 2022 ©Paul Vincent Cannon
All Rights Reserved ®️ 

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