We Never Even Noticed – a poem by Paul Vincent Cannon

What Do You See?

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Image provided by Willow Poetry

 

We Never Even Noticed

How we solaced in the truths of our elders,
to hold to pristine shibboleths of hollow ground
that all was hallowed in a superstition
of moralised purity,
that we promptly set in stone,
and there we held you in mawkish admiration
so unfounded, somehow projected,
believing that you held us too
because we were so good at our own game
given to saccharine views of life,
there we were, fulminating righteous wrath
against love itself
the very given of nurture,
and we called on your name as talisman
without so much as a fibre of authenticity
preferring indulgent expectation
dressed and redolent in disconnect,
and you, imprisoned in your architrave,
looked on in sorrow and wept
in your powerless state where
our dogmas kept you,
yet you dared to ask from your eyrie
disturbing our common good,
What moved us or
how did we reach into the pain of neighbour?
Indignant silence was
followed by sanctimonious justification.
Your loud shout of anguish rent the air
then a mighty crack
as you effaced in surrendered humility,
recognising our inability to be aware
so selfishly content that
love was adulterated,
poisoned,
defunct,
perpetually crucified,
and we never even noticed.

©Paul Vincent Cannon

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Paul, pvcann.com

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The Lines They See – a poem by Paul Vincent Cannon

Anomaly – VJs Weekly Challenge

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Photo: quotesgram.com

The Lines They See

I leaned against a friend the other day,
they shook their leaves in welcome
though it may have been the breeze,
and we looked out at all before us and
noticed how people seemed to love
variety and creativity,
yet lived stultified in a gridded lock
like a mangled paste tube
all squeezed out,
with nothing left but
lines to follow in fruitless purchase
of who knows what,
frowning on those who live outside
the lines they see,
not realising that the
irregularities they fear to indulge
are in truth,
the very life that nurtures.

©Paul Vincent Cannon

Paul, pvcann.com

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Demulcent Love – a poem by Paul Vincent Cannon

Balm – RDP Monday

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Image: hdwallpapersrocks.com

 

Demulcent Love

The wounding of living runs deep
though I sometimes do not speak it,
and sometimes I’m unaware
till a time of its awakening
fully felt in all its bruising,
and I would hold these wounds,
these bruises,
and nurture the pain all the more
were it not for your soothing
whispers, your demulcent touch.

©Paul Vincent Cannon

 

Paul, pvcann.com

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Letting Go – a poem by Paul Vincent Cannon

Revel – Word of the Day

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Photo: pexels.com

 

Letting Go

The bacchanalian spirit has infused life
since memory began,
to shed our skin
laugh hysterically
drink some and
then some more
and not look back,
to sway,
to flirt,
to let go
and live past ordinary moments
in recognition of the valve
that is the ancient jester,
to love it all
and want even more, even
to regret it for a moment as
the guilt of our forebears
trampling our conscience,
then letting go once more
lest we become our elders
and live in despair
of a lost mythical age.

©Paul Vincent Cannon

 

Paul, pvcann.com

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Surrender – a poem by Paul Vincent Cannon

Friday Fun – Waves

Video taken July 2018 at Redgate Beach, Western Australia. It was so windy I was having trouble balancing as testified by the camera wobble. As I pan to the left, what should be open sandy beach is awash with waves and sand loss. It has been stormy here again this week as autumn gives way to winter once again.

 

Surrender

The old engine is thrumming again,
nature’s pistons pounding the beach,
sand ever giving way,
what other choice could there be
in the face of such force?
Resistance?
Or surrender
and be one with all,
either way is death,
but only one is enlightening.

©Paul Vincent Cannon

 

Paul, pvcann.com

 

 

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The Real Life – a poem by Paul Vincent Cannon

Following – Word of the Day

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Photo: pixabay.com

“But by the time you’ve worked long enough, hard enough, Real Life (which insists on being capitalised as if it were a personage with a proper name and a right to barge into this rental unit called your life) begins to reveal itself as something other than effort, other than accomplishment. Real Life wishes to be left to its own purposeless devices.”  Patricia Hampl  ‘The Art Of The Wasted Day’

 

The Real Life

I set a course some moons ago,
plains of windmill grass and dianellas
were simple pleasures,
creeks with flooded gums along blue grass banks and
granite outcrops boasting ghost gums pleased the eye
as much a solace as any company of kind,
while the hills challenged my humble frame,
just as human contact did at every turn
and over time I lost my way
as other, lesser things, intruded.
One day I heard the kookaburras laugh
and I took it personally,
what a fool this way travels they sang,
chastened, I quelled my madding mind,
and reset my compass heart
for deviations, tangents,
the real life.

©Paul Vincent Cannon

 

Paul, pvcann.com

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Young Maggie – a poem by Paul Vincent Cannon

What Do You See? – Willow Poetry

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Image provided by Willow Poetry

 

Young Maggie

Big Daddy braved the hot roof
and brow-beat young Maggie with a
“Where’s he hiding?”
kind of look;
“O Brick?” said Maggie,
“He’s just hanging out,
I guess he’ll drop in later.”

©Paul Vincent Cannon

 

Referencing Tennessee William’s play ‘Cat On A Hot Tin Roof’

Paul, pvcann.com

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The Man From Locksley – a poem by Paul Vincent Cannon

Green – VJs Weekly Challenge

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Photo: contracts.com

 

The Man From Locksley

Marians made to work inside
while sheriffs roam in Armani
through forests of towers
shards and spires,
but where is the one from Locksley?
Perchance his quiver is full,
distracted, he sates elsewhere,
while the city in torpor despairs
unrequited the Lincoln green.

©Paul Vincent Cannon

 

Paul, pvcann.com

28 Comments

Filed under challenge, Free Verse, history, life, Mythology, poem

Beautiful Hurt – a poem by Paul Vincent Cannon

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Photo: outfitideashq.com

 

Beautiful Hurt

Stocking fire,
my hands were burned,
you smiled
afterwards,
meanwhile, the agony
was beautiful hurt.

©Paul Vincent Cannon

 

Paul, pvcann.com

25 Comments

Filed under Free Verse, love, poem, relationship, romance, Sex, Uncategorized

Pedlar – a poem by Paul Vincent Cannon

5 Lines – Compliment – In Other Words

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Image provided by Patricia’s Place

 

Pedlar

Hand wringing vestige of a lapdog
always angling down your own road
schmoozing oily paeans for gain
dripping your heart’s desires so secret,
you selfish panegyric pedlar.

©Paul Vincent Cannon

 

Paul, pvcann.com

10 Comments

Filed under Five Lines, Free Verse, life, poem