Friday, May 17, 2019
Thursday, March 8, 2018
Piano-forte, does it matter?
Soft or loud? Press down
and the keys push back.
God in the machine
Good in the person
The work gets harder.
The noise is harsh.
The keys hold the power.
In the center lies the music, that sweet spot - freedom.
© Gay Reiser Cannnon - 3-8-18
All Rights Reserved
Monday, April 10, 2017
projected my sadness
onto my garden.
Rose petals shed
shamelessly in the breeze.
Seasons stopped in
Grisly clouds crouched
near the fence, as the
cats cowered and
forgot to breathe.
I turned back
counting my steps
(c) Gay Reiser Cannon - 4.10.17
posted @dversepoets for 44 word
Saturday, April 2, 2016
a habitually mean scare-crow nun
tortured my tenth year by terrorizing
my fifth grade nights and days
heart-stopping in the recurring nightmares.
The single ray of light that year
occurred when I was released
to take piano lessons. Her retribution
took form in winds of hate that
directed manic strikes with a hickory stick.
It shred my hands and arms, at any
time almost always for imagined
infractions of some unspecified law.
No recourse, no mercy, and no understanding
and now I feel the same for that institution
that preaches love and practices hate.
© Gay Reiser Cannon * 4.1.16 * All Rights Reserved
Thursday, January 28, 2016
ground no way to get unwound
more all the time out of reason
full of sound -- sleeping, waking,
coming 'round every day
night on silver
slipping silent then slow later on
feel the wind blow then quicker
as only you & the water
& the stars swirl around
hall and inward
to the branch
forward then to the dark space
by the stair, later on, the clock sounds
take three steps back
try not to fall
© Gay Reiser Cannon * 1.28.2016 * All Rights Reserved
Saturday, February 28, 2015
The earth leans,
the waves rise up,
the raindrops fall,
the snow piles.
We feel nature's complexity
and reassurance in
steady Bach measures;
the perfect interweaving
of chordal harmonies
fortify our spirit.
Patterns ever changing,
calm and comfort us
with the same warmth
as the kitchen table,
a baking apple pie.
Our spirits lift.
We forge ahead.
(c) Gay Reiser Cannon * All Rights Reserved * 2.28.15
Friday, February 6, 2015
Each idea designed as a garden house
conceived from spaces freed from dreams.
I draw the empty benches of my soul;
sketch rooms full of chrysanthemums.
Each petal a shaded nuance as forms unfold.
I measure words in sets of columns, stanzas rise from written lines,
give background to emotions. I plan heavy with passion,
then deliver delicate blueprints where hidden closets may be found.
The poem becomes a landscape filled with vagaries; memories
float through skies, drip rain, and shine through sunny days,
tinted in pastels - a lawn with lake, hedge-bordered, graced with fountains.
Its foundation is the trees whose winter lines seem like
those traced upon my palms elevated to a metaphor for life
executed in relief upon the soft clouds of a winter sky.
Nouns; house, painting, closets, chrysanthemums, park, cloud, trees, bench, fountains
Verbs: create, discover, conceive, fill, research, design, measure, draw, elevate, execute
for Connect the Dots @dVersepoets pub - today hosted by Claudia
(c) Gay Reiser Cannon * 2.6.15 * All Rights Reserved
Thursday, January 22, 2015
set the falcon on its wing,
let it soar, let it swing,
let it roll, trace the scroll
through lightning bolts
scrape the skies, soar, turn, dive;
teary-eyed, crush the mold
fill anew, stretch, fold
watch it leave dark skies, arrive,
surprise, implode the status quo
devise, change course, rub smooth
eschew the groove, rise, raise, lift from stress
digress, unseat the goddess Poetry
reject the prize, incline toward the stars.
Regard the urge to flee, release and it flies free......
free form sonnet, internal and end rhyme, no set meter, no set rhyme scheme
for Brian's latest break the form mold prompt at d'Verse poets.
Gay Reiser Cannon * 01.22.15 * All Rights Reserved
Friday, November 21, 2014
I like the color yellow
but to color a banana makes
my stomach ache
I want to leave this space
children stand and wave from
the tops of little wash houses
the houses are made of red brick
the children are black
their smiles become lights in their faces
but they don't make me happy
they might fall off the roofs
onto the grey clothes lines
I find a four leaf clover
growing in the sandpile
It is my grandmother...
she is brightly made of green
she sounds like songs
tunes of green and luck
painted far away
the dollhouse flies off the car
as we leave for somewhere else
the pink dolls blow away
when we stop, the world's
cold, brown and blue
I eat white bananas and
swallow the yellow
along with the ache
© Gay Reiser Cannon * 11.21.14 * All Rights Reserved