Category Archives: grief

For The Best – a poem by Paul Vincent Cannon

Photo: found at addictionexperts.com

“You must work – we must all work to make the world worthy of its children.” Pablo Casals

For The Best

The child was starving so we made
a cake that only we could eat,
the child was suffering, so we offered
offered solutions in our double speak
buried so deep as to never see the 
light of day; the child was traumatised 
so we asked her to tell her story,
and tell it until we were gratified by
the salacious details of unfolding 
horror; the child was broken so we
asked how she could fix our 
consciences; the child needed 
support so we provided funding to
those who needed luxury cars and
dental plans, who wrote fictions about 
the child so that sequels could be
anticipated, and in the advent of  a
second mortgage, to ask a high fee. 
The child died and everyone congratulated 
themselves on how they had saved 
their lifestyle. Besides, it was for the 
best, just imagine living with that 
amount of trauma and suffering.


Copyright 2021 ©Paul Vincent Cannon
All Rights Reserved ®

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Of Things Past – a poem by Paul Vincent Cannon

At dVerse Linda is hosting the Quadrille (44 words) with an invitation to write about the word linger or any of its forms.

dVerse Poets – Quadrille – Linger

Photo: an old Ford truck – part of the history of Kookynie and mining.

“Grief is the agony of an instant; the indulgence of grief the blunder of a life.” Benjamin Disraeli

Of Things Past

The past lurks in the present,
intensifying the sense of wanting
to restore, heal, the original 
intention once the pride of purpose,
now a felt grief, an if only, raising the
question: can we overcome the grief
of things past that linger within us?


Copyright 2021 ©Paul Vincent Cannon
All Rights Reserved ®

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In Their Faces – a poem by Paul Vincent Cannon

Photo: found at jooin.com

“One needs others to get to know oneself.” Carl Jung

In Their Faces

When the harrowing voice pierced my body a
thick roke of darkness became my inward days,
feeling the essence of sorrows all around me,
reaching the fragile wraith of my heart into 
their deeps and seeing the innocent faces of
loved ones peering through the the threshold
of suffering as a multitude of all before,
as a sign of hope that the cliches of time 
are true enough in honouring the layers of
pain so easily stored in the flesh, now let
go in the moment I see myself in their faces.


Copyright 2021 ©Paul Vincent Cannon
All Rights Reserved ®

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Leaving Me Anguished – a poem by Paul Vincent Cannon

Photo: ak6.picdn.net

“What makes life worth living?” Zane Grey

Leaving Me Anguished

Blue strobe caressing my windows,
the anguished youth reaching inside
himself, clutching at the boiling darkness,
seeking an expiation that just won't come,
hugging the closeness of healing oblivion,
his nightmare vocal choking my senses
with a tar blackness spreading over my
angelic reach, which cannot touch him,
voices of necessity collapse him in a 
vain sugared hope, but I didn't hear one 
note of redemption in the poverty of his
trusting surrender, leaving me anguished,
reaching inside myself to find any 
semblance of meaning.


Copyright 2021 ©Paul Vincent Cannon
All Rights Reserved ®

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The Joy Of The Mellow – a poem by Paul Vincent Cannon

At dVerse De is hosting the Quadrille (44 words) with an invitation to use the word or its forms – Curiosity.

dVerse Poets – Quadrille – Curiosity

Photo by Monstera from Pexels

“Contentment is the greatest form of wealth.” Acharya Nagarjuna

The Joy Of The Mellow

I pass no judgement,
(and yet, of course, I do)
details are never important,
though to be curious is never
to be shamed, rather, celebrated,
as points of departure from the
sameness of repetitions,
as for grief, while aware, I'm
incuriously embracing the mellow.

Copyright 2021 ©Paul Vincent Cannon
All Rights Reserved ®

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She Walked Lightly – a poem by Paul Vincent Cannon

At dVerse De is hosting poetics with an invitation to write laundry poems.

dVerse Poets – Poetics – Put Your Words On Spin Cycle

Photo: http://www.thespruce.com

“Abnormal reaction to an abnormal situation is normal behaviour.” Victor Frankl

She Walked Lightly

Slowly she emptied the white enamel 
reliquary of all that was his and, like a 
crow, she picked over the bones of his
cottoned life, stored memories lodged
deep in her body, the dissonance of
happiness and sadness washing over
her in one slow wave as the sun 
warmed and opened her to feelings
held tightly in her chest, now aired,
set free, at last she walked lightly 
back to the verandah for the first 
time since that day when everything 
closed in and nothing seemed normal.

©Paul Vincent Cannon

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One Dog (Sasha) – a poem by Paul Vincent Cannon

Photo: Sasha, our beloved and unforgettable Dalmatian (she died six years ago).

“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

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Filed under death, Elegy, Free Verse, grief, life, love, poem, quote

For What? – a poem by 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

Photo: Ben Kerckx, pixabay.com

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

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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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2020 – a poem by Paul Vincent Cannon

Photo: izismile.com

“It’s been the worst day since yesterday.” Flogging Molly (Song: ‘It’s been the Worst Day’)

As I write and reflect I feel the weight of 2020 differently to other years – Paul

2020

This hard year offered her slender mean hand,
in a moment of my dystopic moodiness
I took her brittle bones and together we
wandered to the very edge of my sanity.

In a moment of my dystopic moodiness
the vast ancient well-spring of grief opened wide,
wandered to the very edge of my sanity,
only bitter herbs assuaged her dark love.

The vast ancient well-spring of grief opened wide,
her obsequies ever solemnised with rites of sorrow,
only bitter herbs assuaged her dark love
gleaned by the threshing floor.

Her obsequies ever solemnised with rites of sorrow,
I took her brittle bones and together we
gleaned by the threshing floor,
this hard year offered her slender mean hand.

©Paul Vincent Cannon

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