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Best Canon Poems

Below are the all-time best Canon poems written by Poets on PoetrySoup. These top poems in list format are the best examples of Canon poems written by PoetrySoup members

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New Canon Poems

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not worthy of the canon by Goodman, John
CRITERIA OF THE JEWISH CANON 11022011 by Mendoza, Jacqueline R.
HISTORY OF THE PROTESTANT CANON 11022011 by Mendoza, Jacqueline R.
DETERMINATION OF THE BIBLE CANON 11022011 by Mendoza, Jacqueline R.
CANON OF THE BIBLE 11022011 by Mendoza, Jacqueline R.
Canon in D II by Farmer, Jemmy
Winter-Spring Canon by Caliri, Matt
Ace Cannons' Canon by storm, solomon
Self portrait / T. C. Canon by Guzzi, Debbie
T. C. Canon: Woman with Umbrella by Smalling, David

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The Best Canon Poems

Details | Canon Poem | |

-Greater Consciousness-

Have I been among the chain?
Of those who come in awe, and strain
to point a finger, poke a nose
into a past, that I don't know
and claim to know it, then exclaim?

One who gawks, then talks of things
but has no clue of what they mean?
A stranger to a place
ignoring reverence and the trace
of those who dug, then laid the stones,
to make a place a home?
Am I of one who claims to know?
Who borrows someone else's history, 
I journey here, in tourist clothes,
as if this place were mine to own...?

Who stirs the dust and tramps the grounds,
pointing, laughing, checking pamplets
yet, feeling nothing swirl around
not reaching out to hear the sound?...

Only here to click my Canon, take a shot
or quickly have the proof, and called
to prove to someone back at home
what matters not to them, at all
to someone far, who doesn't care,
that I've been here or there...?

Have I been one?  So far, so near?
Never  conscious while I'm here
of those who came so long before
Of someone's love, who laid the stone
or someone brave who called this home?

Who leads me to a crooked  tree
once planted by a family
where lies a child
another, child and all the while
I smile and carry on

Compelled to come....yet, do I know?
I did not own, the years that tell
Nor mine to own, are tears that fell, ...

two hundred years ago?

8/22/15  For Contest Sponsored by Mystic Rose

Copyright © Carrie Richards

More great poems below...

Details | Canon Poem | |

Teardrops In Paradise Protest Write II

We`re on our way
Visiting good old friends from Norway
Now living in Turkey
Its the smiling country

We got everything we need..and more so
Romantic evenings with candlelights on the table
Eating out everyday,and watching the perfect sunset
The scenery is beyond spectacular

Not so nice sceneries comes sneaking into my thoughts
TV news shows an infant,shot to death..right through her chest
Another infant penetrated by grenade splints,now laying dead on a table
Her father screams in pure anger,anxiety and endless grief
More than 200 innocent civilians found,sliced to death by the army
Schools..hospitals are being used as canon targets
Civilians being forced to walk infront of tanks..defenceless kids most of them
Just in case resistance groups should make any attempt to stop these heavily armed forces

They are used as living targets
All within the hour from a holiday paradise in Turkey

Tears are shed for you..brothers and sisters
Your life is bleeding out of you..but your spirit will fight `til the bitter end
How cruel..How unfair it all is in this world
My thoughts and prayers are with you Syria

April 4th 2012

Copyright © Arild Andresen Ertsland

Details | Canon Poem | |

The Revolver

Scene 1:

There once was a man
filled with joy
a wife, a home
and a cute infant boy

Everything was grand
with twins on the way.
A spontaneous dog
who liked to play.

One day in the spring
He'd receive a call.
It was about his family.
the phone would suddenly fall.

Scene 2:

The car came out of nowhere
smashing head on the passenger side
Killing the infant son immediately,
in the ambulance his wife would ride.

Para-medics rushed frantically
to relieve the blood draining from her head.
With the severity of the wounds
death was inevitable,
They said!!

At one thirty-four this spring afternoon,
Four citizens were pronounced dead.
Someones wife, someones children
That is what the obituary read.

Scene 3:

A month later in the basement
of his quaint little country home.
He sat for hours thinking.

The thoughts of re-uniting
with the family he once had.
Drunk now thinking suicide,
he knew it would be bad.

Palms sweaty, vision blurred.
Vexed, praying for what comes next.
Reaching for the instrument,
his mind perplexed.

Scene 4:

He lifts the Smith & Wesson revolver
from its resting place.
Thinking of nothing but his family
placing it in the middle of his face.

Pulls the trigger,
at that moment all went black!!

Scene 5:

He wakes up
His puppy licking his eye.
He looks at his dog,
then begins to cry.

When pulling the trigger
of this canon of a gun.
Instead of death he passed out.
As for bullets, there were none..

Jared Pickett

Copyright © Jared Pickett

Details | Canon Poem | |

volga 1 - 3

( while taking a tour through those poems readers are requested to keep in their hands,  a
feather from the pea-cock’s tail )

Volga - 1 

there might have been some provocation 
on the part of the  rat’s bible  

it is not known when and how 
every piece of sleep that spatters  
from the oesophagus of the dip-swimming  
has stick to the c-sharp 
of the newly-purchased tooth-brush

the air within the wish-bicycle 
figures nothing less

how much is it necessary now
to murder the blue-hue  with the study 
that can be saved by the depression of the Ganges-basin 
to develop the snap-shot of the garland-exchange with the 
antiseptic cream

would you think it for some moments 
my lord
the lord of the market

before sending any secret e-mail 
to the cyclone 
residing in the room 
behind the stair-case
let the Volga be read once more 
with all its clothes 
and hair-styles 

Volga - 2

the winter of the water-canon 
oxidised by the fireflies
wants to touch every bamboo-flute 
of this soil, it seems

as if it plays
in the body of every cauliflower 
 the total memorising-skill 
of  the blue and yellow pyramid

and if some lines of changes 
in the planet be added
the birth-day of the bolster 
that goes to the sea
may learn with a lesser effort 
the pollen-efficiency of the nail-marked walls

how much should I scold the squirrels 
who don’t want to swim
in the still-water of the black-board  

Volga – 3

the green-circuit of the fried-almonds
that was submerged 
in the open-hair of the afternoon
the whole-night workshop 
has taught 
the thumb-impression is to be put 
how far below it 

if the autobiographies are planted 
into the drawer of nature 
the solubility of the river-reed 
gets it done too late at night 

all the plus-signs around
from their etiquettes
come down   

so many foot-notes
caused by the season-changes

so before planting life 
to the address of the wall-lamps
it seems the cotton-flower
written by the oceans 
began yawning

Copyright © murari sinha

Details | Canon Poem | |

Beautiful Oblivion

Sit and watch the thin, blank dawn
that never quite sweeps you off your feet.
Wrestle with memories that don't want to be suppressed,
and repress the urge to canon-ball into the ocean. 
(sinking: sinking slowly, because you never learned how to swim.)

Listen to rainbows churning in oil-spill puddles,
and wait for the beautiful oblivion to take its toll.
Somewhere inside you know things will never be the same again,
but that's okay with you, sickening as it seems.
(you want to float away into seaweed forests and play fetch with the big, bad wolf.)

Dream of living a full, happy life
while you tear your world apart.
Sell your body to those dark, dank demons in your cerebrum,
whimpering and wondering deep into the night. 
(praying for a chance to show your worth while you still exist.)

Sink low beneath the foaming sea,
wring out your hands and paint your thighs with scarlet letters.
Let the wolves lap the salmonella from your fingertips
and wrap yourself in red - lay face down in the snow, don't breathe too deeply:
(someone dances in snowflakes nearby.)

Watch the thin, blank dusk
that never quite sweeps you off your feet.
Wish for brazen arms and a warm crook of the neck to rest in.
Hug yourself beneath the covers and silently cry; you know now...
(no one wants to comfort a girl who craves suffering.)

You will never be what anyone wants. 

Copyright © Elizabeth Nathaniel

Details | Canon Poem | |

Symphony in the Desert

Ragged notes of unsung sorrow
stretch toward the heavens
in undefined

trails of symphony
aching for forgiveness
follow in pristine  pitch

night sky alive with 
unearthly splendor, eclipsing
moons, stars and planets
in its utter

A canon in perfect D
floods my heart
in answer

I return ragged notes
in gratitude.

Copyright © Jill Martin

Details | Canon Poem | |


Silence captured words in your cold eyes,
And passion snuggled to last feeble ties,
And optimism clung to a heart about to die,
O, patience allow me time for a loyal lie.
O, my sweet soul; look at me once more,
Look at me tenderly in peace as before,

Then lie where thou once walked following the turtle to the plain,
While I was watching you waving in the warm rain,
The meadow loved the way you followed the tortoise to the field,
And I loved thy roaming about when it disappeared,
While thou laughed ,and chuckled the green reed,
Then you withdrew your hands and head into thy shell coat,
And lively danced in the pasture of wild oat.

O, my love, the canon was quieted for unpredictable reason,
And the rifles breathed a last fatal treason,
Which bloomed with red flowers on thy warm chest,
See, in the place, thy spring's beauty shone upon the rest;
Me, the anemones, the damp rocks and the merciful death,
And seized my soul and obliterated our life's myth. 

Copyright © jamal Abboud

Details | Canon Poem | |

A Pirate Drinking Song

A Pirate Drinking Song

Yo-Ho-Ho and a bottle of rum
Pirates sing to the pipe and drum
North wind blows with a Gale's horn
Snapping the canvas with a deafening mourn

Battles are fought, plunder is sought
To ports abound, it is Rum that is bought

We ride the waves seeking adventure and plunder
It is Neptune’s wrath we curse, by thunder
The sea, she bares a woman’s desire
To set each sailors heart a fire

Battles are fought, plunder is sought
To ports abound, it is Rum that is bought

Canon and cutlass, powder and gun
We cut down are foes, one by one
To Davy Jones locker our souls will sleep
A funeral of apathy in the briny deep

Battles are fought, plunder is sought
To ports abound, it is Rum that is bought

With a hardy crew and an open sea
It’s a pirating life I want for me
Till then we will sing of the scallywag scum
Yo-Ho-Ho, Another bottle of Rum

Copyright © Brian Cecil

Details | Canon Poem | |


That an oral tradition has had such a lasting impact on humanity is astonishing.
Since they first came out of the mouths of people, 
they have shot forth like an ever expanding bullet. 
Through the barrel of time, always changing; morphing into other languages,
distorting and splattering themselves onto pages with God as the culprit.
1455: Gutenberg disassembles that power at the pulpit, and with his machine made it safe to handle the story, and for it to continue--fully automatic in the hands of the people.  
Loaded onto ships, cocked back, bound in leather, and overseen by sages they became
canon fodder for vast bodies of people.  Left to ponder this; the power of the old English word, and if all the dead had heard.

Copyright © Joshua Pracchia

Details | Canon Poem | |


The mild Cape Town winter weather triggers blooming of the Heather. The Erica shines their lanterns among the Foxtail Ferns. The white clouds overhead feather. The Silver Trees create a foil against which the flora toil. The King Proteas are gearing up to supply a feast for birds to sup. The Cape Cobras in slumber coil. The Aloes have many a use and can withstand much abuse. The fiery red Cape Honeysuckle led the cultivated hedges to buckle. Mountain fires lit by the obtuse. Our proud heritage was in full bloom - a rambling pathway the only room. Scorched earth, naked and black; sustenance of the soil now sadly lack. The canon on Signal Hill booms.
Official New7Wonders Inauguration of Table Mountain in Cape Town: 2 December 2012 Picture of the King Protea, the national flower of South Africa:

Copyright © Suzette Richards

Details | Canon Poem | |

The Tigers Eye

My Canon SLR, is set, night light on, but it’s only still dusk
Positioned waiting hoping for the promised elephant with tusk
Crouching low a rustling in the hot scrub grass close by
I turn slowly hoping, but look straight into a tigers golden eye…

An overpowering smell my nostrils do detect
A deathly smell of blood, on my life I do reflect
The eye of the tiger with its golden hue
He seems so neat, almost manicured too…

The white stripes round his wide open eyes
The crackle of dry grass, the buzz of the flies
The sweat does drip, down my nose
My heart beats fast, the shutter won’t close.

His small ears on such a large head do mesmerise me
The long, long whiskers twitch, so I believe it is a he.
Do I move? Do I breathe? What am I to do?
A tiger with black pupils, why didn't I bring a crew.

Looking through my lens, I see his nose twitch a little bit
I am on his menu it was then the shutter did click
I’m drenched in sweat; he lowers to pounce, this will be goodbye
My prayers are said, my life relived, I know it’s time to die…

Straight through the lens, but what I really did not see
He’s looking to my side, my prayers are answered it isn't me
A sigh escapes, I dare to breathe, I turn as slowly as I dare…
That’s when I spot a flock of gazelle; one of them will be his fare

© 26/11/2012 ~GG~

  Contest Entry for: Viewing Life Through A Lens

Copyright © Mandy Tams The Golden Girl

Details | Canon Poem | |


Johnathan, Innsley, Marie, and Paul ---
Tom, Trish, Bea, and Jack:  all of them.
Black, white, asian; Jew, gentile, zen...
Sex, art, love, mores revolved,
entering ever-shallower circles of discovery.
Clear ice cubes clanked on glass;
religion, sex, quality imported Scotch
and Cuba made the rounds.
Conversation calmed, each with his own idea:
the ultimate word.
Fake furs, donned, drifted into oblivion.
Feeling alone, J. C. cleaned up.
From the dulled Johnson's Wax luster
on a genuine Duncan Phyfe table,
his distorted rumpled reflection
stared up at itself.
J. C. looked away, noticed four new white rings,
picked up a soiled Canon towel,
and wiped away three beads of water,
a few ashes, and himself.

Copyright © Leo Larry Amadore

Details | Canon Poem | |


From chaos to cosmos
From cosmos to Barbados
From Barbados to Cricket

Fifty odd years
CAT EEG Resurrection
An original me?

If you know
The fundamental difference
Between 1 and 2

First comes the moon
Second comes the yellow
Last come the clouds and bats

They move cannons
Blasting chicken fodders
Canon of polite society

The sun moves
From east to west
From Angels to Demons

12 billion years after
Jesus rose
To shed his blood

Shadows and the lights
A road between, a pass
Tomb and randomizer truss

F=(x, y, z)

Since x=y
Earth exists
And will be


A big number
But small

Translation x
Interpretation y
Transportation z

There is no one like you, 
And there is no God but you
Why kill?

The arrows
And a Japanese welcome

Swedish meadow elves
Warped, frame of reference

We are in God
Dead shall come alive again in God
There will be one house, hearth, Lord

11.2 km-secs
Escape velocity
To earth, to earth, to home

Blowing out a candle
Heaven interpretation
Nirvana, a candle

My opponents
Brought an oxymoron
For me, pretty ugly

A mirror

Lost in translation
Nothing lost in mistranslation
But you

Pigs are social insects
Bees are feral pigs
Cats are ants in a defense colony

Women in default mode
Susan, Mary, Debbie
Shower love on everybody

Bats and beeps
Critter’s wings
Pandora’s pigs

They smashed squirrels
It had happened, to a great extent
With us

If you need fire
Go to a dragon
A female dragon

With all calculations
I could not find
Her hemming and hawing

They died in summer
Drove car in winter
And married in fall

He misspelt 'love'
He was dead fifty tears back
In the act of correcting

Some chimps
    Some elephants
            Some ants

Let's go out to the field
And then and only then
Cain slew Abel

Note: They are not Haikus by form or convention but they are not null-haikus, non-haikus, proto-haikus, pre-haikus,rogue-haikus,rig-haikus or anything like that. They are haikus by " spirit".

15th October,2015  19:35:29


Details | Canon Poem | |

The Legend Of Alfred Packer 'Cannibal Extraordinarie'

In the winter of 1873, Alfred Packer was hired to guide a prospectin' trek.
In the San Juans of Colorady they'd heard of gold that they wanted to check.
Alfred claimed that in Colorady minin' camps he'd driven wagons of ore.
He guaranteed he'd show 'em the valuable stuff that they were lookin' for!

They visited sage old Chief Ouray and he warned 'em to wait 'til spring,
To cross those rugged tors, but no, they wanted to press on and do their thing!
So foolish Albert and five of the group decided to trudge on through the snow!
Of the blindin' snow, lack of grub and perilous paths, little did they know!

A few months later Packer appeared at an Indian Agency lookin' fit and well!
He said he'd been left behind due to injuries, one of many tales he was to tell!
His story changed several times sayin' one man went berserk and killed the rest!
There was evidence that cannibalism was involved but old Albert never confessed!

Packer was jailed in Saguache but later made his escape to Wyoming state!
He was nabbed and returned to Salt Lake City for a trial and sentencin' date.
"They was seven Dimmycrats in the county", pronounced the judge from the bench,
"But yah man-eatin' sunuvab**ch, yah et five of 'em, fer that yer neck'll wrench!"

Later the sentence was reduced to manslaughter and he was given forty years,
To be served at the pen in Canon City, Colorady, but no one shed any tears!
He was paroled in 1901 and moved to Denver where he hung around.
Now his molderin' bones rest in peace 'neath a grassy burial mound!

Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
© All Rights Reserved

Placed No. 7 in Carolyn Devonshire's "Legend" Contest - April 2011

Copyright © Robert L. Hinshaw

Details | Canon Poem | |

Nuff Said

A blue whale's tongue weighs more than an elephant Now aren't you really glad you tuned in? There are two hundred million insects for every human Wouldn't have gone camping if I knowed that! We weigh slightly less when the moon is directly overhead Due to the gravitational effect Too bad the moon isn't shining all day long 100 lightning strikes occur worldwide every second Stay indoors!!! Humans grow about 8mm every night while asleep But revert back to their normal height the next day Oh so glad, otherwise we'd spend a fortune on new clothes 250 people have fallen off the Leaning Tower of Pisa Guess they leaned a little bit too much 1 in 28 American school-aged children Have a parent in either state or federal prison Holy crap! A really great example to follow A single healthy human male produces enough sperm In two weeks to impregnate every fertile woman on the planet Uh! I volunteer my services... no charge! Although gold is a heavy dense metal It is generally considered non-toxic Gold flakes may even be ingested in foods or drinks No wonder restaurant meals are so high Pope Francis once worked as a bouncer in a Buenos Aires bar “Doing God's work?” Mozart wrote a canon entitled “Leck mich im Arsch” Which literally translated means “Lick me in the arse” Nuff said!!! © Jack Ellison 2014

Copyright © Jack Ellison

Details | Canon Poem | |



If interviewed on the subject of the sonnet
What man has brought me endless cups of tea?
They’ll say I’ve got a Queen Bee in my bonnet
The male groupies will not type my poems for me.

What golden mother lives without inspiration?
What sister can be truly herself, and tackle
The canon in the patriarchal cold, the purgation
Of miles of libraries with the truth a hackle?

The worst thing is that there’s no male muse - 
I don’t feel the marginalisation or the neglect
Quite as much as the possibility I might lose
The reader in the absence of his call-collect - 

And I must be very careful with my man - 
I lose a husband if I kiss a fan.

by Rosemarie Rowley

Copyright © Rosemarie Rowley

Details | Canon Poem | |

Once upon a time

-Once upon a time-

In the faraway cloud
Where listening lies,
Where river smiles,
When words speak
And meant to be,
Where wants and needs
Aren’t misconstrue,
Where lizards and gizzards
Wet, calm, hunt and meet and prey.
Tis by this extreme realm
That this goal is set.

One dream
One night
In all nights
Is what’s in need,
That the mission 
And vision
World awaits
Will emerge.

Sacred, odd
And silence
Are night themes.
This one night
Comes a fright-
Fire outbreaks,
Catches homes 
And fences.
And the news
Reaches the Mighty helm.
“I’m your lord
And is my duty 
To protect,
While your right 
Is to serve, me- lord”.

This leader leads
The fire extinguishers
To bring an end
To the inferno-
Where canopies
Are eating
And where sapiens
Are sentenced to death
By abrupt blaze.
Canon night meets morning
When the darkness runs
And leaves the heavens
With puffs of smoke
And burn- to-ash
In the arena 
Of both half and fully
Baked human skins
And open skulls
And myriad of 
Closed facial identities.

The King sobs, 
For the Kingdom.
Calming by his chiefs
And calmly walk 
To the palace;
Where his ancestors 
Roam and home.
And there
He speaks and pleads
With his ancestors
On the causal of this
Unforgotten night visitor.
Then and there they
Weep while saying
For this they do not know.

Silence the king,
Paces and shivers.
At this moment
His ancestors 
Turn phantoms
And stay hidden
Behind the walls.

His mother, 
Thanks destiny,
Is alive-
Hale and healthy
“Do see my mother 
To my Chamber now”.
For his mother 
She comes and
The mother he tells.
Her one reply is
"For this, my son
I honestly don't know"……


Copyright © Abdulhafeez Oyewole

Details | Canon Poem | |

The Old Testament

It was apostolic tradition that the Church discerned writings
To be included in the list of Sacred Books
This complete list is called the canon Scripture
It includes 46 books for the Old Testament
45 if we account Jeremiah and Lamentations as one

The Old Testament is dispensable part of Sacred Scripture
Its books are divinely inspired and
Retain a permanent value
For the Old Covenant has never been revoked
The economy of the Old Testament was deliberately so oriented
That it should prepare for and declare in prophecy in the coming of Father Christ
Redeemer of all men
Even though they contain matters imperfect and provisional
The books of the Old Testament
Bear witness to the divine pedagogy of Eternal God’s saving love
These writings are a storehouse of sublime teaching of Eternal God and
Of sound wisdom on human life
As well as a wonderful treasury of prayers
In them
The mystery of our salvation is present in a hidden way

Christians venerate the Old Testament as true Word of Eternal God
The Church has always vigorously opposed
The idea of rejecting the Old Testament
Under the pretext that the New
Has rendered it void (Marcionism.

Copyright © Jacqueline R. Mendoza

Details | Canon Poem | |

Captain's Condition

Tropical shores rarely see explosions by their waters
Being places of tranquility, peace and love
Captain sank his ship between two islands
Paradise opened up a hole on the horizon
A condition, a catastrophe brought on
By the lunatic in charge of pirate lives
Canon aimed down on center deck and fired
Floor board’s splintered
The boat went down just like a rock
Crew knew too well their leaders mental state
More than an argh could save the day 
Mutiny was out of the question
Boat was gone, down and wet
Their mad man ordered them to dance on water
To drink rum and shave their faces clean
Pirates are preoccupied however
Not with orders to be obeyed 
Such absurdities will have to wait
When swimming from the sharks afraid
Beneath the pretty tropic waves 

Copyright © Earl Schumacker

Details | Canon Poem | |


Freedom for Americans did not come silently.
It came like firecracker pops, with guns and canon blast!
Rebel shouts would shake the world, and a glorious past
Echoes still in our nation's collective memory.
Celebration of our story comes the fourth of July.
Remember that our many rights did not come quietly.
At the height of celebration, think beyond the revelry,
Cacophony that rules the night, and lights that blaze the sky!
Knowledge must be passed on down, never to be lost.
Everything the patriots did, our children must learn why!
Revolt was loud. It sparked a fire led by a battle cry.
Sacrifice and brave souls' lives were our freedom's cost.

Written July 3, 2015 for the Celebrate Independence Poetry Contest of Kim Merryman

Copyright © Andrea Dietrich

Details | Canon Poem | |

grandpa's last wish

I wished that your last moments
were to be the best that you had saved for the last
you were barely old but the gold in you kept streaming
you liked to dress in suits like the gentleness that trailed before you
it would take a miracle to see your smile fade
but just as firm the monument so was the canon
I watched dad neel besides you
his feet afixed to the cemented floor
the door to the room slightly opened
 my emty eyes creeping between the wooden fissures
a mute cry, a melting ice
you opened your mouth only that words had died long before
I could tell it was a goodbye entangled within the 'g' sounds
and I new that the time had come
the concrete roofs couldn't keep off the angel of death
who abreastly trailed unoticed

I ran to your death bed and hugged you

fulfiling your final wishes

and I felt your skin cold
- See more at:

Copyright © Kizito Sidegu

Details | Canon Poem | |

Tremors in Troy

I’m well rested on this bed of cold cement
With passersby borrowing me their eyes for a blanket
Oblivious to the fact that I now lay victorious 
Adding salt to my open wounds

I put words into action as my compass
With passion and determination my gate pass
And challenge the barriers that came and stood before
Internalised gatekeepers that I chose to ignore
   laugh at my insignificance
   feed on my intolerance
But still seek residence inside me like repressive laws
To the battlefields, to epic sword fights
To fears piercing hearts
To lies testing the truth
To honour giving birth
To a purpose, I fight for
Stand for, and am willing to die for

Every weakness a potential target
With the odds against me I must erect 
   a strong defence
And an even better offense
Irrational and methological 
Biblical and methodical
Sacrifices to the Gods and Zeus
Prayers to God and the unborn Jesus
And mast the highest sail
Strategies and plans of attack to foil
To propel my battleship with gale force winds
With canon fire passed sinking minds 

An army of ten thousand strong charging against
Whatever manner of creature may metamorphose
From the deepest part of my conscience
Troy was destroyed from within
Superstition, a weak mind to begin
   and self glorification a mental disease
The enemy will attack
Prepared, victory I will take

Copyright © Thabang Ngoma

Details | Canon Poem | |

Jack's War

There is a fine poet named Jack
Spreading humor his usual tack
Firing salvos around
with plenty of sound
a flat out and full blown attack.

Fortunately for us, it’s contagious
albeit, often outrageous
sucks us right in
right up to the chin
With ease, Old Jack does engage us.

Many have joined in the fray.
Why not? We’re invited to play.
First Tim and old John
Now Carol’s along
What?  Now others you say?

Can’t write this stuff quick enough.
I’d better get off of my duff.
Jack’s always plannin’
and fire’n his canon
Come on! Let’s call his bluff!

Copyright © John Wulf

Details | Canon Poem | |

Words, vows and squawks

A faint hearted silhouette, 
Of a life once thought,
Surveyed the silent terrain 
Of a forest plot.
Searching for creeds
In the bones of deeds
Her net came up empty 
Only whispers were caught.
A canon of dreams,
Battles of air,
Toothless virtues, 
Knuckles gone bare.
Damning a fight, 
Stood a farmer trembling,
With fear he looked
At a rabbit’s cold stare.
A word adorned 
In glory diamond frill
Longed for a text 
To shine upon its bill.
Weaving in grammar, 
With vain notes of a stammer
A loin cloth, a rag, 
A fettered letter’s 
Poisoned pill.
An immodest figure
Of hair-chested speech
Watched over squawks 
Of birds on a beach.
Steaming in smothers 
Of mosquito-like brothers
A bellicose vein 
With nothing to leach
Bled profusely 
For compassion to teach.
A steely vow thunders 
At the grimace of night.
Speechless candle sermons 
Brightens the light.
Wondering if dead means 
Off with the head
A guillotine’s guilt 
Came down from its height.
A voice of timber 
Stood alone 
Upon earth’s stage,
A guard with silent strength
A worker of our age.
Holding a wounded dove 
With flower power 
Tears of love
A woman revealed
How truth is concealed. 
Daring to design,
At great risk of a  fine, 
She wove a garment
For our age: 
Eden’s dress in brutal rage.

Copyright © Yorn Called

Details | Canon Poem | |

Originating From the Sun

That’s what she calls herself who boasts of the longest reigning monarchy in the world, producing a short of one to twenty Nobel Prize winners as only two colleagues beat her to global wealth. Her buttocks sit on the red hot coal of the deadly pacific ring of fire. Her cultural and innovative influence, already clinging on global corners with their webs. The sushi, sashimi and the tempura; the karate, judo, sumo and ninjutsa; the Toyota, Sony, Nintendo, canon and Panasonic, all testaments of her hands of influence. She’s a home to over six thousand pieces resting on large waters to stay as one. Three-fourth of her landscape is forests or mountains and so industrious to make possible the Asimo. Her short poems have been globally popularized with almost every of her citizens literate, while some of her streets still remain nameless. She must have acquired lots of black cats to reach such a height of civilization and power; Beauty comes with teeth not quite regular, visiting the vending machine to satisfy ones need for a beer, possessing the largest trade center for fish in the world but publicly blowing the nose and tearing off a gift’s wrap converts her cool countenance into a bad mood. She has centers for drinking and taking alcoholic shots so also for enjoying the fluid of lactation for adults. Ironing a shirt with a speed of light is her special craft and yardstick for a serious competition. Population of pets outweigh that of children; her appetite for Basashi and expenses for the melons invite controversy to any form of human reasoning. Immigration then is highly regulated to give continuity to such traditional and economic history.

Copyright © Funom Makama