I Relish The Rocks – a poem by Paul Vincent Cannon

Photo: the shore at Skippy rocks, Leeuwin

“To escape and sit quietly on the beach – that’s my idea of paradise.” Emilia Wickstead

I Relish the Rocks

I do enjoy soft sand, and
wading slowly in the shallows,
but I relish more the rocks where I 
can perch like a gull and scuttle
like a crab along crevices and nooks,
pools of clear water, and weather 
beaten granite, watching the sea-weed 
waving to me, fish caught in tidal
moments, sitting, waiting for release,
the crabs braving daylight, and the 
sensation of water rushing in, 
receding down the rocks in tender,
soothing wash.


Copyright 2021 ©Paul Vincent Cannon
All Rights Reserved ®

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Waiting – a poem by Paul Vincent Cannon

Photo by Wesner Rodrigues from Pexels

“One cannot think well, love well, sleep well, if one has not dined well.” Virginia Woolf

Waiting

Sweet, sticky juice,
the way your fingers caressed the glass,
your lips upon that long, slender straw,
while your eyes offered private conversation
as the world passed by in blurred abstractions,
your smile takes me prisoner once again and
I await the consummate dessert.


Copyright 2021 ©Paul Vincent Cannon
All Rights Reserved ®

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The Trauma Dance – a poem by Paul Vincent Cannon

At dVerse Ingrid is hosting Poetics with an invitation to write from a place of pain.

dVerse Poets – Poetics – From A Place Of Pain

Photo: differrencebetween.com

“I’m not lazy. I’m just exhausted from fighting my way through every single day.” Mimi Love

The Trauma Dance

The light,
dim the light,
the sound , the noise jars,
turn it down, no, turn it up,
lock the doors, hold the 
blankets tight, shut the 
curtains, no, open the curtains,
what, no, I thought you meant,
O, I know, this is weird, I'm in
the midst of, well, something,
I don't know that I can give 
voice to the sound in my throat,
in my mind, down my spine, 
my body, why am I so sweaty, 
hot, so cold, why can't I feel,
so detached, everything shouty,
angry, not present, totally present, 
so, up, no down, crying, dry,
heart like a freight train, heart
failing, thumping, no feeling,
my head, aching, thoughts so 
fluid, stimulated yet exhausted,
talking like a jet, craving silence,
craving crowds, wanting solitude,
shut up, please tell me more,
will I bother, will I open my front
door, will I feel, will I ever be real?


Copyright 2021 ©Paul Vincent Cannon
All rights Reserved ®

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Fierce Beauty – prose by Paul Vincent Cannon

At dVerse Mish is hosting Posery with an invitation to using a line form TS Eliot’s poem ‘The Waste Land.’

dVerse Poets – Prosery – The Waste Land

The line offered and which must be included is: “What are the roots that clutch, what branches grow out of this stony rubbish?”

Photo: an example of eremophila taken at Niagara near Kookynie.

“According to ancient mythology, trees link the earth to the sky. In this respect trees link humans to another world.” Richard Allen

Fierce Beauty

The eastern goldfields suffer only the strong or determined living in the extremities across these vast open plains of mostly dry laterite and also quartz, granite and sandstone outcrops populated by shy fauna and rugged flora. The summer is merciless, the winter winds penetrate layers. The rainfall is pitiful, the reason the state government commissioned the grand and ambitious Goldfields Water Supply Scheme in 1896.

When the rains do come they seem to evaporate before they touch the surface soil, and it is a wonder that anything could grow in such a place. Which raises the question, what are the roots that clutch, what branches grow out of this stony rubbish? Dozens in fact, varieties of eucalyptus, acacia, eremophila, grevillea, and callistemon tenaciously hang on out here where humans wilt. When the sun is fierce, the soil unforgiving, the trees are beautifully fiercer.

Copyright 2021 ©Paul Vincent Cannon

All rights Reserved ®

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Nature Reflecting – a poem by Paul Vincent Cannon

Photo: Oak Park, a wetland reserve between Goomalling and Wongan Hills.

“One’s destination is never a place, but a new way of things.” Henry Miller (Probably riffing on Marcel Proust’s comment)

Nature Reflecting

Nature took a photograph
and held it steady for me to see
how water is contemplative,
reflecting what it sees in its
moments of undistracted, centred, 
stillness, embracing the beauty of
all its surrounds, holding the sacred 
space of song and winter's leafy
bounty, that I might rejoice in the
conversation we subsequently
engaged with deep, silent passion.


Copyright 2021 ©Paul Vincent Cannon
All Rights Reserved ®

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Filed under bush walking, Country, Free Verse, meditation, mindfulness, nature, passion, poem, quote

Who Holds The Fantasy? – a poem by Paul Vincent Cannon

Photo: Evelyn Simak

“There are no safe rooms, no safe truths, no safe secrets to tell.” Veronica Blade

Who Holds The Fantasy?

Tell me, what isn't divergent,
who holds the fantasy of singular truth,
who believes the carbon smudge of news,
do you begin from what you know or do
you trust your enthusiasm for wanting to
believe that you can compose your life
from the elements of a surety that you
actually know the vagaries of the cosmos
right now, trusting in your belief of things,
despite the amalgam of realities before you,
knowing full well that everything bends,
everything is disordered, and that there 
are always more ways diverging?


Copyright 2021 ©Paul Vincent Cannon
All Rights Reserved ®

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Darling Entropy – a poem by Paul Vincent Cannon

“Only entropy comes easy.” Anton Chekhov

Darling Entropy

Shards of chaos brightened my day,
making me smile at my fumbling attempts
to bring order to a universe that slides 
off every evening around six, sweeping 
away all hope of a grand regimen in this
unhinged shizzle-shuzzle, like trying to 
put a yolk back into its shell or turn 
back time, or the nonsense of trying to 
make sense of the nonsensical, that there
might be footholds on the cliff face of 
life that hold forever a way of return,
but I welcome the entropic reminder that
it is half past fractal, which I've never
experienced before, and now with glee.


Copyright 2021 ©Paul Vincent Cannon
All rights Reserved ®

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Galleons Rising – a poem by Paul Vincent Cannon

At dVerse Bjorn is hosting Meeting the Bar with an invitation to write a poem using the form cadralor or to write a poem about the author Abdulrazak Gurnah who won the Nobel Prize in Literature.

dVerse Poets – Meeting the Bar

Image: found on http://www.pinterest.fr

“The stars, like dust, encircle me in living mists of light ….” Isaac Asimov

Galleons Rising

(1) The place of my being is so deeply wounded,
    though unrelated to what we might agree as original
    innocence of knowing, perhaps an unknowing if,
    truth be told, of all that has passed through me.

(2) What of the night darkened soul that lies behind
    my moistened eyes of longing for the white dove,
    to see the road clearly now the map has ceased,
    while clouds press inwardly to the journey.

(3) Grey winter has pleased not one of its friends,
    offering the discomfort of predictable uncertainty,
    the continuity of intermittent falling patterns
    going deep to the bones of an unframed life.

(4) The eastern shore of the lake clear yet impenetrable
    leaving the tortoise to carry its own burdens,
    those dreams of galleons rising to the stars far,
    collecting surprises along life's paradoxical way.

(5) Do you know the field of expectation's weediness,
    un-mended fences demand no sense of belonging,
    the place is riddled with interlopers of no conscience,
    time to slip away free-range, ebullient, rising.


Copyright 2021 ©Paul Vincent Cannon
All Rights Reserved ®

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Filed under awareness, Cadralor, dreams, Free Verse, life, poem, quote, Uncategorized

Who Will? – a poem by Paul Vincent Cannon

Photo: Uwe Jelting at pixabay.com

“What is more generous than a window?” Pat Schneider

Who Will?

Who cares for the sill,
that faithful ledge of old
who holds the pane in high 
esteem and kindly thwarts
the elements of nature's unruly
love for us, now the blistering,
powdered paint exposing deep,
ancient cracks and shrinking,
the frame so loose, a sliver 
missing from the edge, no 
longer crisp and plumbly square,
wearing as the days inexorably 
roll along, and nature still calls by,
wondering, who will care for the sill?


Copyright 2021 ©Paul Vincent Cannon
All Rights Reserved ®

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Poem accepted

My poem ‘As Before’ was published recently in the delightful publication Spillwords (which many of you know and read), you can read the poem here:

As Before – at – Spillwords

Kind regards,

Paul

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