Category Archives: life

Suddenly The Kitchen Was A Zoo – a poem by Paul Vincent Cannon

Photo: still from the original Jumanji movie – monkeys in the kitchen scene – found at hookedonhouses.net

“In cooking you’ve got to have a what-the-hell attitude.” Julia Child

Suddenly The Kitchen Was A Zoo

Suddenly the kitchen was a zoo,
salamanders and elephants everywhere,
rolling and roiling in a raucous ruckus
scrambling to lick the laden spoon.

Salamanders and elephants everywhere,
the centre island no longer a refuge,
scrambling to lick the laden spoon,
too many cooks spoiling the moment.

The centre island no longer a refuge,
flour in the air, the oven on fire,
too many cooks spoiling the moment,
just trying to feed the monkeys.

Flour in the air, the oven on fire,
rolling and roiling in a raucous ruckus
just trying to feed the monkeys,
suddenly the kitchen was a zoo.

©Paul Vincent Cannon

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Filed under Free Verse, Humour, life, poem, politics, quote

No Surrender – a poem by Paul Vincent Cannon

For a double dare by Beverly Crawford, and with sympathy for Jane Dougherty, following my poem The Next Dance.

Photo: found on pinterest.com

“There is a grandeur in winter, stern and wild it may be, but a grandeur which speaks to the soul.” CJ Peterson.

No Surrender

The sly cocktail dress sits sublime in ice
upon the line all formal and smooth,
while my dungarees have actually taken shape
as if possessed by a ghost, all stiff and 
starched, no wrinkles or sag like the sack 
of potatoes they normally pose draped upon me, 
the ice has claimed the denim and holds it in 
its steely grip as if fit for Ned Kelly's last 
stand where there will be no surrender until
the sun breaks free.

©Paul Vincent Cannon

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The Next Dance – a poem by Paul Vincent Cannon

At dVerse Grace is hosting Meeting the Bar with an invitation to personification and imagery.

dVerse Poets – MTB – Personification and Imagery

Photo: sierraclub.typepad.com “The Right to Dry Movement”

“But what about those windy spring days? You know the drill, you fight the sheets onto the line. Then the wind catches them and makes them want to sail into the next country!” The Texas Homesteader

The Next Dance

Sick of line dancing, she wanted
to cut loose with a tango or a foxtrot,
even a rouge can-can would do it and,
once safely pegged, she gave herself to the 
sea breeze throwing her legs up, her head back,
tossing her skirt about with laughter just like 
linen flapping in the wind, and soon the others
joined in the fun, swirling and twirling
along the good time, refreshed and waiting 
for the next dance in the sun.

©Paul Vincent Cannon

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Below The Culture Line – a poem by Paul Vincent Cannon

Photo: Black Cockatoo Reserve, Mundaring

“Without stories, the land turns to real estate.” Mark Abley

Below The Culture Line

When time was local the land had a story
rich in the beautiful greys of paradox,
carefully nurtured in mutual surrender,
we touched under the pulsing canopy.

Rich in the beautiful greys of paradox
we slipped below the culture line,
we touched under the pulsing canopy,
a language unspoken so openly felt.

We slipped below the culture line,
searching ourselves for beginnings,
a language unspoken so openly felt
as to be present in each other.

Searching ourselves for beginnings,
carefully nurtured in mutual surrender
as to be present in each other,
when time was local the land had a story.

©Paul Vincent Cannon

Note: The concept of time shifted in the mid 1800s to a broader sense of time as universal, prior to that time was local.

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Filed under awareness, bush walking, environment, life, nature, Pantoum, poem, quote

And I Float – a poem by Paul Vincent Cannon

VJs Weekly Challenge – What pulls on your soul?

Photo: pixabay.com

“You are an aperture through which the universe is looking at and exploring itself.” Alan Watts

And I Float

Where the wild iris blooms by itself,
in the deep forest of my unmask,
where my heart runs white water,
my mind surrenders to gladsome song.

In the deep forest of my unmask
all attachment falls to the ground,
my mind surrenders to gladsome song,
and I float as a peace dove sails.

All attachment falls to the ground,
its redemption uncertain in this humous,
and I float as a peace dove sails,
a feathered turtle in the sands of time.

Its redemption uncertain in this humous
where my heart runs white water,
a feathered turtle in the sands of time
where the wild iris blooms by itself.

©Paul Vincent Cannon

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A Spade Is More Than Itself – a poem by Paul Vincent Cannon

At dVerse Mist is hosting Poetics with an invitation to write a poem describing an object.

dVerse Poets – Poetics – Object Poems

Photo: harpersnurseries.com

“All my hurts my garden spade can heal.” Ralph Waldo Emerson

A Spade Is More Than Itself

This is a story maker,
a dream builder of futures,
of kingdoms and complex lives,
weeding out the inconsistent
lines of irrelevance and tedium;
this is a creator of new things like 
turning over one's life and 
planting seeds of posterity,
to be remembered  among the 
vines of hope distilled as love;
this is my father, my family, my
friends, my neighbours and
with each thrust a memory
comes and grows.

©Paul Vincent Cannon

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To See – a poem by Paul Vincent Cannon

Photo: perfectness.ca

“Look in the mirror. The face that pins you with its double gaze reveals a chastening secret.” Diane Ackerman

To See

The mirror sets up a silent but knowing
conversation of self, a soap opera thinly
disguised as drama now exposed to all
of myself to see what others see beyond
the image of heavily invested self-deception,
masking myself to self, but the mirror shifts,
begging the eternal question, what is good, 
what is bad, to which I have no answer,
knowing only that things just are and I just 
am and not only today, this is somehow a 
moment, an epiphany, that sustains.

©Paul Vincent Cannon

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Orange Fish – a poem by Paul Vincent Cannon

Orange Fish

A school of orange fish swam
so gently through my breakfast,
spreading out across the crusty sea,
cresting amber waves and buttery coves
under the shadow of Damocles sword
poised to slice the moment in two,
and be caught in the net of mine.

©Paul Vincent Cannon

“I got the blues thinking of the future, so I left off and made some marmalade.” D.H. Lawrence

Photo: media.istockphoto.com

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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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I Remember – Haibun by Paul Vincent Cannon

At dVerse Lillian is hosting Haibun with an invitation to write about something personal in regards to a new beginning, and to include a seasonal reference in the Haiku. dVerse Poets – https://dversepoets.com/2021/01/04/happy-new-year-2/

Photo: Jasmin Sessler – pixabay.com

“Gardening is an instrument of grace.” May Sarton

I Remember

Sometimes old tricks return, seemingly of their own volition. The mind puts on front, suggesting that it never forgets, but it does. Sometimes old tricks are left in dark corners simply because their pleasure faded. And sometimes old tricks return, not by will, but by motion rooted in embodied memory. To once again pick up spade and shears, to don hat and gloves and fold into the joy of memories turning soil.

The joy of a garden is so primal, so simple, yet so profoundly felt. To rejoin my elders in time honoured pleasure is a rediscovery that refreshes my soul. Sanatorium, health-spa, surgery, clinic, call it what you will, it is healing in every way.

And that’s the thing, remembering. Remembering is a strange thing, a rebuilding, putting back together what has been lost though not forgotten. It’s in the word itself. To remember is to re-member, to narratively, even practically, put that past back together in some semblance of knowing. There’s a host of saints in my collection of dearly departed who taught me to garden and impassioned my green spirit. And, as I lift my spade and plunge in rhythmic moves, I fondly recall them one by one in this eden.

Chocolate tilth sits
fertile in my memory,
transcending seedtime.

©Paul Vincent Cannon

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