Photo: algoafm.co.za
We were drafting cows one afternoon
when Graham
treading in a pat
exclaimed, “Shit!”
And laconically I agreed
noting his tautological tendencies
without so much as a smile.
I said “We’re covered in it mate.”
“What?” He was so utterly confused.
“Well, between the stock agents,
the tax office and the pollies,
We’re up to our necks in bovine effluent.”
©Paul Vincent Cannon
Paul, pvcan.com
Photo: agrilife.org
I’m not sure why I stopped
in the sharp heat of the day
particularly here,
I walked the firebreak for a while
and though I didn’t stir the soil so much,
my shoes were coated in a pale dust
as if the old days wanted to come with me,
those accretions of experience
which stick to the back of the mind
and come in dust.
Hours later,
when I’d arrived home, I
determined that I would not
clean my shoes.
©Paul Vincent Cannon
Paul, pvcan.com
Filed under Country, Farm, farming, Free Verse, life, mindfulness, poem
Photo: abcb.gov.au
“Just because you have baggage doesn’t mean you have to lug it around” Richie Norton.
Sometimes,
I do go back to those days,
of dusty sheds with oily tractors
and bags of grain,
the smell of rust and diesel
pungent phosphate, O
those poor broken saws,
musty canvas,
the bale loader which made us slave,
and wrestling with rams
as we fleeced them.
Endless days of heavy lifting,
good clean muscling
and nights of easy sleep,
but nothing like days of heavy bearing,
where the heart is loaded,
carrying a lifetime of feelings,
that can never be weighed,
but which need tender love
that they might ever be lifted.
©Paul Vincent Cannon
Paul, pvcann.com
Photo: cdn.newspapi.com.au The current drought in New South Wales.
The dust laments its loss of grass
as the wind whips it to and fro,
while the windmill creaks
and groans to turn a drop,
but the rains have never come.
Call came through this afternoon
that Davo’s shooting sheep,
I guess ours will soon be gone.
There’s nothing for the dogs to do,
no money for the list,
hell, we’ve been down this path before,
and we’ve bounced back,
but I guess I’m older now
and I’m less inclined to fight.
This land of my father’s,
this Eden all dead and dry,
will soon be taken by the bank,
and I’ll be roaming on,
but until the last
I’m standing by,
my eyes fixed for a cloud,
hoping the charity of heaven might come,
O these loathsome bloody days.
©Paul Vincent Cannon
Paul,
pvcann.com
Filed under Farm, farming, Free Verse, poem
Photo: pexels.com
It was the same every morning,
he raked the coals
and urged the kettle on.
Forlorn the stained enamel mug waited
for the sacrament of tea,
as he washed over the basin,
knowing the day ahead.
the exact times of fences and sheep.
©Paul Vincent Cannon
Paul,
pvann.com
Image: pexels.com
As summer progressed
the buffel grass yellowed and the wattle dried,
tinder to a flame.
Our lemon tree shrivelled its fruit
preserving its moisture,
as dust drifted in from far paddocks,
signs of a long dry ahead.
The unrelenting sun burnt into the tin roof
and we sweated every move.
That summer
we dared to start a fire
a tempest like no other.
We could barely speak,
nothing would extinguish it,
pure combustion.
That summer we started a fire,
a tempest like no other kindled our hearts
your hair like flames,
eyes alight,
my lips burned.
©Paul Vincent Cannon
Paul,
pvcann.com
Every year the creeks would dry up, the rains would cease, summer would arrive, the heat would brown the paddocks and turn the soil to hardpan. As summer streched into pseudo summer, the early part of autumn, we’d be craving the rains. The damns would be low, the pools down the creek almost gone, and the land crying in thirst.
But then the rains came, slowly, a shower here and there. And then the heavens would open, and down it would come. Some days after the water had prepared its own path, soaking into the creek beds, the soil would take no more and, at first a rivulet of water would appear, then a trickle, and then a flow, and the granite would shine, wet and glossy, the cascade decked with white froth. The sound of running water, a sound that brings joy, relief nd new life fills our ears. Soon the frogs would be calling.
Nature’s like that, it gives what is needed, it takes what is needed.
The economy is a whole other world. Conservative politicians the world over talk of ‘trickle down’ economics. Give the money to the rich and it will eventually trickle down to the poor. It never has, it never will. The economy, unlike nature, takes and takes and keeps on taking and only gives back to the rich and those in power.
I my view, an economy that is based on sharing, taking only what is needed and also giving back is a balanced one, but one that ensures there are less cracks to fall through, less barriers to surmount for the poor, more opportunity for all. A shared economy has to bid farewell to greed and selfishness, and requires a change of heart towards consumption. The dog-eat-dog cycle we’re in is doomed and the world cries out for releif and justice. But we are the change that needs to happen.
For my part that requires an ever growing awareness of others needs both near and far. It requires an awareness of my responsibility in my love affair with nature. It requires that I give back in generous ways. It requires that I model the economy I beleive in by not consuming the very lives of others. If everyone dropped a pebble in a pond it would cease to be, but if everyone took a breath and backed off from supporting the madness of consumption we’d make a dent. Of course, realistically, the other thing we need to do is exercise our vote with discretion towards those goals. And then the trickle will flow and become a stream, a river, a torrent of justice, a rivulet of hope.
The late Brazilian archbishop Helder Camara, an advocate for the poor, especially the slum dwellers, named it when he said: “When I give food to the poor, they call me a saint. When I ask why the poor have no food, they call me a communist.”
We still need to ask why!
politicians lie money will not trickle down let love flow instead ©Paul Cannon
Paul,
pvcann.com
Filed under Economics, Farm, Haiku, history, life, mindfulness, nature, politics, quote, Uncategorized
As bricks and mortar age they fret, or wear away. The photo shows Balladonia Station homestead (c. 2007 © P. V. Cannon) on the Eyre Highway, east of Norseman. It is a conglomerate of 1890s to 1930s construction, but even the 1930s parts are showing their age, the mortar between the bricks has been fretting and someone has made a hasty repair to prevent the bricks falling away. The stone and bricks are also fretting.
The owner was in process of repairs, but it would be an enourmous task and very costly (distance from any city would mean high transport costs). We were fortunate that day as the manager was home and showed us around and gave us quite a bit of the history of Balladonia. One snippet was that Balladonia was part of the crash site for Skylab in 1979 when it re-entered earth’s atmosphere (the local roadhouse has memorabilia pieces from the Skylab on display). A lot of history has passed through this place.
Buildings tend to fret on the outside earlier due to exposure to the elements of weather. We tend to fret on the inside ealier because, unless we take care, we are exposed to the ravages of hurt, grief, anger, worry, anxiety … which, while normal life experiences, can become embedded and drive us, wear us down, drag us low.
We really need good boundaries, supportive relationships and conversation with deep empathic listening, even having accountability partners who hold us to account on our issues. An ability to reflect, journal and meditate can be a wonderful help. Reality is perception, but comfort and solace is human friendship, the very best antidote to fretting. The old saying, prevention is better than cure, rings true, though it’s never too late to make repairs.
The Roman poet Aulus Persius Flaccus (34 – 62 CE) wrote: “We consume our tomorrows fretting about our yesterdays.”
Living in the present moment is one of the few ways of not being consumed by our yesterdays or even our tomorrows. Maintaining perspective is another. That’s why we need others around us, they can help to keep us grounded and true to ourselves.
Paul,
pvcann.com
Image from b-i.forbesimg.com
Lyn’s parents left us a milk separator, and butter paddles, there was even an old milk churn in the shed, but no butter churn. Milk separators do just that, separate the cream/butter fat from the milk. Milk churns are misnamed in my view – they’re just a large metal container for transporting milk. Butter paddles and butter churns do something else, they turn the butter fat from the milk into actual butter, they produce something.
Emotionally we churn. Surely you’ve heard the term butterflies in the stomach, a reference to mild worry. I don’t make a habit of it, my stomach rarely churns, but there are those rare occasions. If I’m going to churn it will be heights. I was fearful of flying, and my first few flights were nerve wracking, but I’m getting better at it. I engaged with abseiling, that was certainly nerve wracking, but I found I could even enjoy it. But with each activity, the night before I would be churning, worrying, mulling it over. By the morning I was no better, often exhausted from all the useless churning because my sleep had been interrupted or prevented by all the worry. Now it’s different, I find a mindful approach is helpful.
All the ancient cultures and religions relate strong emotional fellings to the stomach, hence the term “I have a gut feeling.” A churning stomach is, for many, a far too regular experience. Churning stomach often results from anxiety and stress. While the habit in days gone by (in the West) was to prescribe something, eventually there was a realization that worry was different to stomach ailments or sickness. A churning stomach is simply the body getting our attention that we need to make some adjustments to whatever the body is registering.
The ancient cultures and religions, (and now) modern medicine, suggest more simple, even commensense remedies to help end the churning: Adjusting diet (reducing sugar, caffeine and alcohol, other stimulants, large meals in general), exercising, and ensuring adequate sleep. In addition, and more importantly, a mindful approach is beneficial: adjust your breathing (awareness, calm breathing), relaxation, reduce stress (awareness), meditate, rest, and adjust whatever it is that is the cause of your churning. If we don’t take steps to adjust and change, then why expect anything to be different? For me, rest, creativity (simply writing or painting is a wonderful reframing), exercise, and meditation make all the difference. Stop, breathe, reframe, and arrest the churn.
Paul,
pvcann.com
Filed under Farm, life, meditation, mindfulness, psychology, religion, self-development
Just about words
A toxic zephyr, a beautiful catastrophe.
Creative Writing
Private rantings of a poor soul!
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लिखावट में कोई बनावट नही है, सिर्फ भावनायें है कोई सजावट नही है
Detailing my adventures as I travel the world
By Sandra Js Photography - Make the rest of your life the best of your life.
Books-Random thoughts-Creative writings
A Hotelier By Trade and A Traveler At Heart
Thoughts and experiences penned down
Wanda Sanders Poems
Author of Young Adult Fantasy
I write because I read. I read because I write.
Life from a Different Perspective
Life is a broadway musical and everyday is a song. These are mine manifested as poetry.
Writing to Help Others Overcome Darkness
Get in the best shape of your body
Flash Fiction, Poetry, and Short Stories
Thoughts from the Heartland
blogger
Fun, Frugal France
Just about words
A toxic zephyr, a beautiful catastrophe.
Creative Writing
Private rantings of a poor soul!
Welcome to Beans, Pen & Nirja, stay connected 💞
लिखावट में कोई बनावट नही है, सिर्फ भावनायें है कोई सजावट नही है
Detailing my adventures as I travel the world
By Sandra Js Photography - Make the rest of your life the best of your life.
Books-Random thoughts-Creative writings
A Hotelier By Trade and A Traveler At Heart
Thoughts and experiences penned down
Wanda Sanders Poems
Author of Young Adult Fantasy
I write because I read. I read because I write.
Life from a Different Perspective
Life is a broadway musical and everyday is a song. These are mine manifested as poetry.
Writing to Help Others Overcome Darkness
Get in the best shape of your body
