Category Archives: nature

That Day – a poem by Paul Vincent Cannon

At dVerse Grace is hosting Meeting the Bar with an invitation to write about a time and, or, a place.

dVerse Poets – Meeting the Bar – Setting

Photo: avonadvocate.com the result of the Meckering Earthquake, October 14, 1968.

“An earthquake is such fun when it is over.” George Orwell

That Day

Thinking of that day,
past the cognitive dissonance 
created by voids of time since
my recollection of Hey Jude
and paisley, athletes down in
Mexico, the warmth of spring 
with a holiday sleepiness,
rattled by 6.5 that shuddered
its way into my body in a 
millisecond, before panic set in
and my mother's shriek to run
outside clear of the walls,
adrenaline better than caffeine,
fear driving hearts while news
poured in of little Meckering
pummelled to the ground,
the plaster of our ceiling
shedding dust and the 
windows crackling,
earth rumbling in waves,
shake, rattle and roll,
after-tremors wielding terror,
what can now be trusted but 
open space, in the spring of 68.

©Paul Vincent Cannon

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Something Ancient – a poem by Paul Vincent Cannon

At dVerse Sarah is hosting Poetics with and invitation to write about Fungi.

dVerse Poets – Poetics – Let’s Have Fun Guys

Photo: chinesemedicineliving.com

“Be not afraid of growing slowly, be afraid of standing still.” Chinese proverb

Something Ancient

Something ancient of generations
speaks from hidden forest places
into my fractured, fragmented life,
of something more than physical,
an awakening expansion of 
abundant life, an elixir of healing,
reishi, the Ling Zhi, bearer of deep
wisdom for all who share its
patient ferment.

©Paul Vincent Cannon

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Reper-cussions – a poem by Paul Vincent Cannon

VJs Weekly Challenge – Repercussions

Photo: The dove who got into the house but sadly hit the window attempting a way out.

“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

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The Drought – Haibun by Paul Vincent Cannon

At dVerse Frank is hosting Haibun with an invitation to write about the eagle.

dVerse Poets – Haibun – Eagle

Photo: https://publications.australian.museum/ showing a wedge tailed 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

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Fire So Soft – a poem by Paul Vincent Cannon

Photo: pixabay.com

“Softly the evening came with the sunset.” Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Fire So Soft

The sun, now tired, slowly
declined, but desired to paint
a masterpiece, brushing a glow
that kissed the river's silken skin
with fire so soft it burned beauty
into such a feeling where words
of meaning were meaningless,
could never be offered as pale 
praise and were quietly swallowed
in favour of receiving, knowing 
there was nothing I could add.

©Paul Vincent Cannon

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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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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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Fragments Of Delight – a poem by Paul Vincent Cannon

Photo: taken on the Jarrah Loop walk near Marranup Ford.

“It brought me to a new understanding of how, unless you’re connected with the land, you’re not really connected with yourself or the nation.” Joan Kirner

Fragments Of Delight

Aleatory fragments floating, spiralling,
dancing downwards as dry rain falling
softly, tenderly touching encounters
until resting, finally, alongs earth's way,
nature's carpet strewn together as
perfectly formed tapestries are, and
crackling underfoot as a gentle sonata,
releasing such a euphoria of eucalyptus 
to fill the senses as to be overcome,
and as I sat beneath it all marvelling,
my breath slowed, speeding my delight
in resting in this place, in this moment.

©Paul Vincent Cannon

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An Adventus – a poem by Paul Vincent Cannon

At dVerse Laura has invited us to choose from eight lines taken from mystic poets and use the line in a poem, perhaps even a form of octave. dVerse Poets – Poetics – Stepping off the Sidewalk

I have chosen the line: “Coming, going, the waterbirds don’t leave a trace.” Dogen who lived in Kyoto in 13th century Japan, and who became a Buddhist monk who was also a writer, poet, philosopher and the founder of Soto Zen.

Photo: Bunbury wetlands, two black swans passing by.

“The lack of mystery in our modern life is our downfall and our poverty.” Dietrich Bonhoeffer

An Adventus

Dappled ripples processed the roughed vestibule of my heart,
an adventitious solace arising in its perpetuated simplicity,
I traced a map in the parchment of my mind of 
all the comings and goings of sentient beings,
an adventus, unsurprisingly surprising, my breath was
captured by the wind of time and carried along for a span and,
knowing that, coming, going, the waterbirds don't leave a trace,
these quiet feathered gods, ever mercurial, are messengers of hope.

©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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