Category Archives: Pantoum

Mystery Is The Deepest Emotion – a poem by Paul Vincent Cannon

Photo: pixabay.com

“Anyone who isn’t confused really doesn’t understand the situation.” Edward R. Murrow

Mystery Is The Deepest Emotion 

I'm not sure how to begin to share these things,
mystery is the deepest emotion we encounter
across the ever persistent illusion of time,
whose mood challenges notions of truth.

Mystery is the deepest emotion we encounter,
seeing but not understanding the blurred moments,
whose mood challenges notions of truth,
those corners of my mind where possibility resides.

Seeking but not understanding the blurred moments,
that deep end of life where I take refuge in surprise,
those corners of my mind where possibility resides,
where the wisdom of feelings is the glue of sanity.

That deep end of life where I take refuge in surprise,
across the ever persistent illusion of time,
where the wisdom of feelings is the glue of sanity,
I'm not sure how to begin to share these things.

©Paul Vincent Cannon

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Hopeful Fire – a poem by Paul Vincent Cannon

Image: istockphoto.com

“Set your life on fire. Seek those who fan your flames.” Rumi

Hopeful Fire

Passers by as books unread, their pages unturned,
unnoticed icons in microcosms of suburban worlds
drifting typecast in local dramas of someone else's,
while I'm running erratically full of hopeful fire.

Unnoticed icons in microcosms of suburban worlds,
that vertiginous challenge of self-making ex nihilo,
while I'm running erratically full of hopeful fire
past the the vendors of pleasures and values.

That vertiginous challenge of self-making ex nihilo,
tearing up my mundane existence playing out
past the vendors of pleasures and values
who pedal their own sad delusions of fantasy.

Tearing up my mundane existence playing out,
drifting typecast in local dramas of someone else's 
who pedal their own sad delusions of fantasy,
passers by as books unread, their pages unturned.

©Paul Vincent Cannon

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My Quiet Treasury – a poem by Paul Vincent Cannon

At dVerse Lillian is hosting Open Link Night. dVerse Poets – OLN

Photo: pixabay.com

“When you do things from your soul, you feel a river moving in you, a joy.” Rumi

My Quiet Treasury

I sat inside my quiet treasury of peaceful self
amidst a field of reliquaries sculpted from dreams,
with the eyes of the hidden ones watching closely,
sentinels of the night in communities of acceptance.

Amidst a field of reliquaries sculpted from dreams,
along narrow stone paths of adventure unknown,
sentinels of the night in communities of acceptance
who silently speak in defence of all that is valued.

Along narrow stone paths of adventure unknown
I plumbed the forest's deep guilty pleasures
who silently speak in defence of all that is valued,
and offered as generous joy overflowing.

I plumbed the forest's deep guilty pleasures
with the eyes of the hidden ones watching closely,
and offered as generous joy overflowing,
I sat inside my quiet treasury of peaceful self.

©Paul Vincent Cannon

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We Are Much Greater – a poem by Paul Vincent Cannon

Image: ihealthfeed.com

“This is the precept by which I have lived: Prepare for the worst, expect the best, and take what comes.” Hannah Arendt

We Are Much Greater

We are much greater than we could ever conceive,
more things are possible than all our small dreams,
when we refuse to take our lives for granted
and accept our blurring vision of reality.

More things are possible than all our small dreams,
we must liberate ourselves from panacea reality 
and acceptor blurring vision of reality,
a gaudy carnival enshrined in meaningless routine.

We must all liberate ourselves from panacea reality,
those institutions of our moralised fantasies,
a gaudy carnival enshrined in meaningless routine,
the obligatory lie that is its own judgment.

Those institutions of our moralised fantasies,
when we refuse to take our lives for granted,
the obligatory lie that is its own judgment,
we are much greater than we could ever conceive.

©Paul Vincent Cannon 

			

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We Might – a poem by Paul Vincent Cannon

Photo: http://www.azeg,org an earth fissure in Arizona.

“The only journey is the one within.” Rainer Maria Rilke

We Might

We might have carved a fissure in our world
so fine that it seemed inconsequential 
in the dreams we held of plains and smoothness,
outside of time yet to be gathered.

So fine that it seemed inconsequential,
understood only in the loneliness of crowds,
outside of time yet to be gathered
with small gestures of compassion.

Understood only in the loneliness of crowds
where the silence is complete in the noise
with small gestures of compassion,
exploring every felt prospect of hope.

Where the silence is complete in the noise,
in the dreams we held of plains and smoothness,
exploring every felt prospect of hope,
we might have carved a fissure in our world.

©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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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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Those Who Are Awake -a poem by Paul Vincent Cannon

Photo: soulvibe.com

“You were born with wings, why prefer to crawl through life?” Rumi

Those Who Are Awake

Awareness comes to those who are awake,
to those who refuse to be imprisoned to
beliefs and the rightness of certain actions,
and to those who have befriended death.

To those who refuse to be imprisoned to,
by the expectations of popular diatribes,
to those who have befriended death
and who stare down life's insoluble foibles.

By the expectations of popular diatribes
one could live one's inner darkness,
and who stare down life's insoluble foibles,
are those who are uncertain winners.

One could live one's inner darkness,
beliefs and the rightness of certain actions
are those who are uncertain winners,
awareness comes to those who are awake.

©Paul Vincent Cannon

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Dare I Look Forward – a poem by Paul Vincent Cannon

Image: painting by Duy Huynh – ‘Time Flies With Strings Attached’ found at escapeintolife.com

“You will never ‘find’ time for anything. If you want time, you must make it.” Charles Buxton

Dare I Look Forward?

A hundred years passed in an hour,
dare I look forward to another
while the day empties of its hours
as the moon begins its vigil.

Dare I look forward to another,
even now remaining passive
as the moon begins its vigil
of silvered light over my brow.

Even now remaining passive
in the face off a new language,
of silvered light over my brow,
making strange the words spoken.

In the face of a new language,
while the day empties of its hours,
making strange the words spoken,
a hundred years passed in an hour.

©Paul Vincent Cannon

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And Cut Them Into Pieces – a poem by Paul Vincent Cannon

At dVerse Peter is hosting Meeting the Bar with an invitation to explore endings/beginnings.

dVerse Poets – MTB – Endings/Beginnings

Photo: pixabay.com

“I’m interested in memory because it’s a filter through which we see our lives ….” Kazuo Ishiguro

And Cut Them Into Pieces

I lived the secrets and cut them into pieces
lest they find me and undo my perfect belief
that I am indeed my true self and not another,
a mere codicil to a footnote of self-deception.

Lest they find me and undo my perfect belief
that I am merely myself and no purified saint,
a mere codicil to a footnote of self-deception,
lost in the annals of myopic delusions.

That I am merely myself and no purified saint,
exposed to the world, bared in all emptiness,
lost in the annals of myopic delusions,
accusing me or mirroring myself to my face.

Exposed to the world, bared in all emptiness,
that I am indeed my true self and not another,
accusing me of mirroring myself to my face,
I lived the secrets and cut them into pieces.

©Paul Vincent Cannon

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