Category Archives: seasons

July 23, 2021 · 3:37 pm

Winter’s Expiation – a poem by Paul Vincent Cannon

Photo: segment of Lesmurdie Brook along the cascades and falls, Mundy Regional Park.

“The journey between what you once were and who you are now becoming is where the dance of life really takes place.” Darbara de Angelis

Winter's Expiation

Between the source and its ending
comes the journey unscripted, untold,
though bounded by ancient guides
and rhythms, the journey is its own
making of none foretold or known,
only its own drive to quench the thirst 
of its banks so long withheld before 
pooling in aesthetic delight, having 
been poured out as winter's expiation 
for summer's bold insufficiency
long endued.


Copyright 2021 ©Paul Vincent Cannon
All Rights Reserved ®

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June 15, 2021 · 3:31 am

As Before – a poem by Paul Vincent Cannon

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

dVerse Poets – Quadrille – Smudge

Photo: The point where the brook feeds into the ocean – Ellensbrook – its indigenous name is Mokidup.

“The land knows you, even when you are lost.” Robin Wall Kimmerer 

As Before

The wind pierced me so
in beautiful ways, of which
words fail in the telling;
clouds painted the sky,
touching your rays and I
took them by the hand,
knowing, as before, your
joy would wash the earth
and smudge my soul with
gratitude.

Copyright 2021 ©Paul Vincent Cannon
All Rights Reserved ®

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May 13, 2021 · 2:37 pm

Stirred – a poem by Paul Vincent Cannon

Photo: javardh at unsplash.com

“Hope is the thing with feathers that perches in the soul.” Emily Dickinson 

Stirred

Autumn stirred its breath which
stirred the air all around,
pausing a feather in my midst,
which I took from the space right
in front of me as it hovered so
lightly without burden, as a phrase
couched so beautifully in an 
invitation that seemed so tenuous,
and yet as strong as an ox in the
most delicate way, as ox feathers
can be in the moment of vulnerability,
that leads me a feeling of wanting
to fly on the air of hope.

Copyright 2021 ©Paul Vincent Cannon 
All Rights Reserved ®

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April 25, 2021 · 3:10 pm

Finally – a poem by Paul Vincent Cannon

Photo: Jarrah Loops Trail, autumn.

“Delicious Autumn! My very soul is wedded to it.” George Eliot

Finally

Autumn finally arrived,
although it was already quietly
lurking in the corner of my eyes,
having slept in, ignoring summer's
alarm well past the expected,
slowly disrobing to bare limbs
and those austere, rosy tones,
precursors to winter's grey wilds,
and cosy, snug hibernation.

©Paul Vincent Cannon

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March 30, 2021 · 2:34 pm

Come Join Me – a poem by Paul Vincent Cannon

At dVerse Frank is hosting Haibun with an invitation to write about cherry blossoms.

dVerse Poets – Haibun – Cherry Blossoms

Photo: Hans Braxmeier at pixabay.com

“To find yourself, think for yourself.” Socrates

Come Join Me

Going to hell in a handcart seems infinitely better than joining with the elite ignorance of those who presume they're on for a visit to the angel bar in the ether. How can it be that we tolerate the essence of ego over integrity, where is the authentic one, where the grounded reality? How is it that we have put a gun to the head of community, in pursuit of self-indulgence?

Of course, it is infinitely more valid if we charge a small fortune  for courses that enable wrong choices to look like someone else, someone who knows the mantra. Surely it is time to self-prune, to take stock and account for the present moment? Whatever your disposition, my handcart has plenty of room, so come join me on the road to the hell that is not really hell, it is not what you'd imagine, but then, the path to a constructed heaven is just an irony of marketing, so what have you got to lose?


An autumn pruning
safeguards generous spring 
cherry tree smiling

©Paul Vincent Cannon

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March 14, 2021 · 3:18 pm

Autumn Days – a poem by Paul Vincent Cannon

Photo: pezibear at pixabay.com

“Let the rain kiss you.” Langston Hughes

Autumn Days

The air hung in thick threads, heavy and wet,
pressing into my empty thrumming temples,
all the while the humid demon possessing my
skin in a slick of salt that would never be 
expunged, dissolving into the fabric of my
dreams over the longest time and shaping 
my inward cries in search of nothing,
existing in the in-between, pulled by 
junctures and polarities, raising my arms to
the sky, touching horizons, floating into the
place beyond, waiting for the ring of thunder
and the catharsis of rain deep in my soul
that washes the world weariness from the
creases of my mind.

©Paul Vincent Cannon

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November 23, 2020 · 3:24 pm

Beyond – a poem by Paul Vincent Cannon

Photo: State Forest, Mundaring.

“If you go into a far, far forest and get very quiet, you’ll come to understand that you’re connected with everything.” Alan Watts

Beyond

The forest edges to newness and I want to 
run into it, roll, sit, walk stand in it,
embody the quiet growth as the dry 
relinquishes to life renewed, breathing
after breath too long held, to fill my 
senses to an ecstasy beyond the big O
as every sound, smell and sensation
rushes through my desiccated soul,
till finally, overcome, I want to sleep
with her silence.

©Paul Vincent Cannon

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October 25, 2020 · 2:32 pm

That Time Again – a poem by Paul Vincent Cannon

Photo: wallhere.com

“The night walked down the sky with the moon in her hand.” Frederic Lawrence Knowles

That Time Again

Tilt for tat,
the ground shifted so,
it was that time again when
moon put on her evening wear
and danced a little anticipation
of solstice in advent of summer's
welcome return to evenings of 
wine and stars on cicada wings,
and thermal balm as love floated
so gauche with seasoned knowing.

©Paul Vincent Cannon

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October 7, 2020 · 3:01 pm

Everything – a poem by Paul Vincent Cannon

VJs Weekly Challenge – Pathetic Fallacy (conveying emotions/mood using references to weather).

Photo: Leeuwin-Naturaliste National Park – Hamelin Bay

“An optimist is the human personification of spring.” Susan J. Bissonette

Everything

My vulnerable bones fulminate against winter's lingering 
chill and my mouth speaks mistily of earth's grand tilt
south up, as Helios smiles dispelling the grey oppression
of now parting in weak resistance to the coming light 
that warms a promise of hope as nature speaks in loud 
colours of life, birthing out of rain's pregnant desire for 
something fresh, new, verdant, in my deepest self,
where buds are coiled in wait of springing forth into the
very next moment of the unmeasured joy of everything.

©Paul Vincent Cannon

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September 16, 2020 · 3:45 pm

At My Drifting Edge – a poem by Paul Vincent Cannon

Photo: Jack Gilbert, pinterest.com.au

“Hope is the thing with feathers that perches in the soul.” Emily Dickinson

At My Drifting Edge

How to desribe the bigness of life
with the impatient failings of words
that judge and hem us in
making meaning so small,
skirting round the yeasty feltness
of things that desire to rise and grow,
life is big, love is bigger, an encompass
of the wholeness of we,
but I found at my drifting edge
of view a simple grey feather,
a dovely gift of no decimal value
that in its dullness shone
with promises of hope,
that all the coin of the world
could never be given receipt.

©Paul Vincent Cannon

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