“Suffering does not necessarily ennoble you.” Henry Louis Gates
Ended When did we valorise the threshold of pain creating heroes of suffering as if bloodied carcasses were somehow a thing of beauty and terminal bodies were heavenly portraits of masochistic willpower, a pulsating distorted erotica, but when the cow lay beyond help out in the paddock, it was the vet who ended the worship with a liturgy of love. Copyright 2021 ©Paul Vincent Cannon All Rights Reserved ®
At dVerse Lisa is hosting poetics with an invitation to flip the meaning of a poem written by self or other, or to write a Diamanté form poem (seven lines) which flips the first word at the end. I have attempted a Diamante form.
dVerse Poets – Poetics – Flipping Meanings
“Getting old is like climbing a mountain; you get a little out of breath, but the view is much better.” Ingrid Bergman
Passing Flesh smooth, creamy inviting, inciting, enfolding, youthful, erotic, mature, parched ageing, dwindling, passing old, dry bone. ©Paul Vincent Cannon
“Dogs do speak, but only to those who know how to listen.” Orhan Pamuk
One Dog (Sasha) We shared a language of love, none of it written, except deep in our being, and we knew our joys and disappointments, miscued expectations held in tension, and those sad eyed looks accompanying disrupted routines, or the sense of betrayal when visiting the vet; you hid from the thunder in out of way places and pined when we journeyed without you, you pulled us on walks and ran like a teen, even in your dotage, you weathered the pain of ageing until you lay down to rest; but it's never just the stories or fun, you are part of the family flesh a companion ever held in our circle of love. ©Paul Vincent Cannon
“If my decomposing carcass helps nourish the roots of a juniper tree or the wings of a vulture – that is immortality enough for me.” Edward Abbey
Thoughts On A Decomposition Still, as dead today, hide glistening in the sun, unmoved by summer's straight glare, no more to roam this land now laid on this roadside bier for all to mourn tomorrow, as the days are counted and flesh and blood decompose into the hungered soil where nothing is ever lost, even immortalised, in the great giving back. ©Paul Vincent Cannon
Filed under Country, death, Elegy, environment, Free Verse, life, nature, poem, quote
At dVerse Mish is hosting Poetics with an invitation to write about an aspect of colour. dVerse Poets – Poetics – True Colours?
“Black is like a broken vessel which is deprived of the capacity to contain anything.” Leonardo da Vinci
I Wanted To Shout Who coloured the rules of perception and mood, that we should believe, my mind ran to blends and melds as we prepared to lay him in the ground, his widow insistent that her black mood of absence paint the sky that day so that we could feel her abstract soul while I wanted to shout spectrum across the air of sorrow that hung idle and impotent over us, choking the very soil awe stood on, and I wanted the freedom to breathe a homemade palette nuanced for all my feelings rushing like a train. ©Paul Vincent Cannon
VJs Weekly Challenge – Repercussions
“Death is not the opposite of life but a part of it.” Haruki Murakami
Reper-cussions Soft percussion tears, sombre funeral beat, who will mourn her choice of passage or dare to judge the repercussion that is her ending or, perhaps, her beginning, this dove at peace, but it was I who left the door ajar and the window closed. ©Paul Vincent Cannon
At dVerse Bjorn has invited us to write about war. dVerse Poets – Poetics – War Poetry
“Only the dead have seen the end of war.” Plato
Whispering Suicide Cheap little saccharine songs for mud, manufactured jingles to make you numb to death, mixed ideologies competing for your mind, hollow promises for free, tacky coloured rectangles of cloth whispering suicide to the flesh of youth who dream of becoming, who are the heroes in this moral vacuum of life's bitter ebb, where are the children of this rancid death cult now. ©Paul Vincent Cannon
Filed under awareness, creativity, death, Free Verse, life, poem, quote, war
At dVerse Frank is hosting Haibun with an invitation to write about the eagle.
“Fierce eagles do not produce timorous doves.” Horace
The Drought
45c and the road, straighter than straight, rolling beyond what the rusted sign advised. Blues, liquid, twelve bar, driving through this dry land. Paddocks hollow and stricken, rain forsaken for so long now, nothing holds in this dust. Crows picking the eyes out of everything that ceases to move, that cadaver buffet for pall bearers. The gates blur in fifth, the barbed wire whispers strained songs of lament and I weep as I pass the delusion of hope trying to bale non-existent hay, the sadness of twenty bales to a hundred acres. And I weep for this place where endings complete and there are no obvious beginnings. I slow as I see the spectre eyeing emaciated sheep. The angel of death eyes me and I nod in deference, better an ending than tortured horizons. I wave my blessing, thankful that the feathered euthanasia will ease the shepherds pain. In this moment the eagle is surgeon, priest and mourner, holding a ritual, taking death for life.
Life now surrendered throat offered for sacrifice feathered friend loves life ©Paul Vincent Cannon
At dVerse Sarah is hosting Poetics with an invitation to share a poem that has called to us, affected us in some way, positively or otherwise, and to write a poem in response. dVerse Poets – Poetics – A Conversation
I have chosen Wilfred Owen’s poem ‘Anthem For Doomed Youth’ and riffed on that a little. I despise war and I see it as a failure of humanity to sit down together. Wilfred Owen fought in the British army in WW1 and died at the age of 25 in 1918 one week before war’s end. For a detailed biography see The Wilfred Owen Association
Anthem For Doomed Youth by Wilfred Owen What passing-bells for these who die as cattle? - only monstrous anger of the guns. Only the stuttering rifles' rapid rattle Can patter out their hasty orisons. No mockeries now for them; no prayers nor bells; Nor any voice of mourning save the choirs, - The shrill, demented choirs of wailing shells; And bugles calling for them from sad shires. What candles may be held to speed them all? Not in the hands of boys, but in their eyes Shall shine the holy glimmers of goodbyes. The pallor of girls' brows shall be their pall; Their flowers the tenderness of patient minds, And each slow dusk a drawing-down of blinds.
“Men make war to get attention. All killing is an expression of self-hate.” Alice Walker
For What? Passion flowered blue in the fields of sheets set for their love of each other and, soon enough, their fruit was ripe for picking, the suckling ripped from breast to trench, unprotected by the hollow words of those faceless ones who send anyone but themselves, valorised by suited cowards and coercive saints, left alone in mud, and cold, diseased; grief flowered red in the fields of France, as life bled out for the shame of piety voiced in cathedrals of death. ©Paul Vincent Cannon
At dVerse Frank is hosting Meet The Bar and inviting us to write a death poem, Jisei – Haikai, Haiku, Tanka, Senryu, etc.
dVerse Poets – Meet The Bar – Jisei
“There are no shortcuts to any place worth going.” Beverly Sills
The koi are less lived in my lotus dreams of night the eve I long for ©Paul Vincent Cannon
My path less traveled. Rediscovering self after surviving the abuse that almost sunk me. Goal of strengthening and thriving on my adult legs. 👣🙏🏻 #recovery #forgiveness
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A deep dive into various lives.
My path less traveled. Rediscovering self after surviving the abuse that almost sunk me. Goal of strengthening and thriving on my adult legs. 👣🙏🏻 #recovery #forgiveness
Being OTD and How it Affects my Life - Recovering from Domestic Abuse - Finding peace and hoping for a happy future...
Write for Ilhan - Join the Global Campaign
Review books, TV series, movies
We only live once. Hence, let's not stop dreaming
The Poetry Project
Empowering creatives and consumers
poetry and collage art by Constance Bourg
Each has his past shut in him like the leaves of a book known to him by his heart, and his friends can only read the title.
WordPress & Blogging tips, flash fiction, photography and lots more!
Poetry on demand
Camping Ideas and Recommendations
I'm a shattered mirror. Poetry holds my broken pieces together.
Explore the other side!
Roses are a Symbol of Beauty and Passion
Favorite song lists, reviews, featured indie artists, and music commentary.
