Category Archives: Farm

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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Nature Mocks – a poem by Paul Vincent Cannon

Photo: taken in the wheatbelt on old “Southbourne”

“The only fence against the world is a thorough knowledge of it.” John Locke

Nature Mocks

A fence appeared on my horizon,
a remnant of some thought
contained in an ideal once potent,
real, now long forgotten, and the lie 
of the truth is in the light, whereby 
the clouds tell of black as new posts,
while the sun speaks clearly of rusted 
ages, the story of a time of certainty 
now questioned, no longer true, and I 
wonder who put it here and what they 
had hoped for in this place where 
nature gives no quarter and slowly
mocks the fence.


Copyright 2021 ©Paul Vincent Cannon
All Rights Reserved ®

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Shooting The Breeze – a poem by Paul Vincent Cannon

At dVerse Sanaa is hosting Poetics and exploring the poetic genre looking at the verse epistle.

dVerse Poets – Poetics – Verse Epistle

Photo: found at businessinsider.com.au

“Once wealth and beauty are gone, there is always rural life.” Mason Cooley

Shooting The Breeze

Dear Jacko, it's been a while,
I do hope you and yours are well,
still fencing out dingoes I suppose,
last we spoke the windmill was like
the townies here, lost its bearings,
and fallen beyond the pale,
I wish I was out there with you,
chasing roos and watching twenty-eights,
eating wild plums and swimming at the 
water hole, instead I'm stuck here,
it's gone to shit what with all the
rules and vacuous fools, galahs, who 
run the place, oily bastards who bleed that
old disease of privilege built on plastic 
lies and unicorns, like we're entering
the promised land, but all we have is
alarm clocks, deadlines and rising costs
strewn down the asphalt of insane hope,
lost in the cobwebs of my mind. I'd love to 
go on a bit more but I must go mate,
I'll let you know when we're coming,
just so you can lock up the .22, I might
well cock the hammer and shoot the 
plasma screen. I can hear you laughing,
"Silly bugger", let's shoot the breeze
instead and, of course, some beers.
Well mate, must go, that's stirred me 
up no end.

©Paul Vincent Cannon

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Even In This Fierce Place – a poem by Paul Vincent Cannon

Photo: Old Southbourne Farm, Bakers Hill

“When the wind blows the grass bends.” Confucius

Even In this Fierce Place 

I love the way the wind brushes the dry grass,
and when I tread its tired winter youth
it crackles like a fire, sending shards into the air,
and not to wanting to be forgotten, it gifts me
with burs and seeds to adorn my socks at once
firmly attached for immortality, that cycle of
life where it dies, yet it lives again, even in 
this fierce place of parched soil, and I take
heart that shall rise again like a phoenix
from the ash of this desiccated season.

©Paul Vincent Cannon

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Emerging – a poem by Paul Vincent Cannon

At dVerse Sanaa is hosting Poetics with an invitation to write about November, which in the north is Autumn while in the south is Spring.

dVerse Poets – Poetics

Photo: ‘Southbourne’ farm, Bakers Hill, the drive to the shearing shed.

“Can words describe the fragrance of the very breath of spring?” Neltje Blanchan

Emerging

Velvet cinnamon nights,
swirl-tongued around feelings
twined with gilt laden stubble
in halo vested fields where
warmth seeps into my bones,
restoring the ravages of winter's
scars once again, nested with 
feathered joy and such vaulted
awakening as if chrysalis like,
taking first breaths in a new
scape novembered almost, 
but not quite as before,
emerging adventitiously 
as no other.


©Paul Vincent Cannon

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The Very Fruit – a poem by Paul Vincent Cannon

Rosemarie at dVerse has invited us to write a poem using the word wheat, or any of its derivatives. dVerse Poets – Poetics – Wheat

Photo: wa.gov.au Combine harvester working a wheat paddock in Western Australia.

“In the very end of harvest, scarcity and want shall shun you; Cere’s blessing so is on you.” Ceres – ‘The Tempest’ Act 1V Scene 1 – William Shakespeare

The Very Fruit

Mungo hummed a tune as he circled
the paddock in steely revolutions,
a sacrifice to the gods as the
whirling blades cut swathe after
swathe of golden denison, 
the very fruit of Ceres hips,
sown broad in ripe April's arms
detined to crust his lips
with loaf and brew along
that old Friday fertility rite,
and Mungo hummed a tune.

©Paul Vincent Cannon


Notes: 
Denison is a wheat strain used in parts of W.A.
Ceres is the Roman goddess of the growth of food plants. 

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All In A Moment – a poem by Paul Vincent Cannon

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Photo: northerndailyreader.com.au

 

“The wind whispered secrets in its own incomprehensible way.”  Tracy Rees

All In A Moment

I noticed the way
the wind whipped across the paddock,
barley dancing playfully,
swaying this way and that,
at once catching the light,
now becoming shadows,
swirling, bowing, rising
to the applause of the stringybark
and squeaked approval of mudlarks,
all in a moment,
as if just for me.

©Paul Vincent Cannon

Paul, pvcann.com

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Never Forgotten – a poem by Paul Vincent Cannon

VJs Weekly Challenge – Bits And Pieces

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Photo: found on pinterest.com

“Leftovers in their less visible form are called memories stored in the refrigerator of the mind and the cupboard of the heart.”  Thomas Fuller

Never Forgotten

That one moment where you create time
when there isn’t time and you dare to
venture to the cupboard,
to the draw full of
silvered memories,
the symbols of a life in a
house of histories,
restored to mind and yet,
never forgotten,
rubber seals and old matches,
that old separator spanner,
a marble, a pen, a tack,
candles for birthdays,
the rest are nameless now,
these bits and pieces of a
resurrection.

©Paul Vincent Cannon

Paul, pvcann.com

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Every Time – a poem by Paul Vincent Cannon

RDP Sunday – Masterpiece

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Photo: from hyperactivz.com and the story “Forty Years Ago This Man Planted A
Tree That Created Amazing Opportunities For His Island” by Lauren Fazackarly –  The Story of Jadav Payeng who began planting trees at sixteen and is still going.

Please note: this is only one story, there are several stories from all over the world of people doing similar feats to greater or lesser extent.

 

“Society grows great when old men plant trees whose shade they know they will never sit in.”  Greek Proverb

Every Time

He settled in the dust of his soul,
the sun beating down and
mocking his every effort
drawing his moisture to his brow,
and yet every day he rose and
without fail, made his way
to his field of dreams
that barren canvas of life’s struggles,
of course, without knowing,
passers-by smiled their condescension,
to them he was an eccentric farmer,
while in his own mind he was an
investment banker, and adventurer, a rebel,
and every time he planted a tree he knew
he was painting a masterpiece
whose abstract nature only he could explain.

©Paul Vincent Cannon

Paul, pvcann.com

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The Old Farm Gate – a poem by Paul Vincent Cannon

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Photo: Farm gate – found on Pinterest

“Men are not so much the keepers of herds as herds are the keepers of men.”  Henry David Thoreau

The old Farm Gate

I leaned on the old gate as I was wont to do,
and it seemed a good thing,
the gate offered no objection
rather, a welcome to reflect as I
leaned and looked out at all that was before me,
in the dry of the day the rust
like barnacles clung to the wizened steel,
but some flaked and powdered
and I felt its roughness
a reminder of the many winters it has endured
since it was hung in less complicated times
when boundaries were respected and a
gate was merely a choice of
coming or going, to be in or out,
this gate might not make another hundred
but for now it has more stories to tell.

©Paul Vincent Cannon

Paul, pvcann.com

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