Submit Poems
Get Your Premium Membership

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

Search for Canon poems, articles about Canon poems, poetry blogs, or anything else Canon poem related using the PoetrySoup search engine at the top of the page.

See Also:

New Canon Poems

Don't stop! The most popular and best Canon poems are below this new poems list.

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

View all new Canon Poems

The Best Canon Poems

Details | Canon Poem | Share this poem | Create an image from this poem.

The Tourist

Have I been one 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
To claim to know, and then exclaim
I understand the sound of pain?

One who gawks, then talks of things
but has no clue of what they mean?
A stranger to a sacred place
ignoring reverence and the trace
of those who dug, then laid the stones,
to make this place a home?
 
Am I of one who claims to know
Who borrows someone's history?
To 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, hearing nothing, but the sound
of my own ego echoing...

Only here to click my Canon, take a shot
or quickly have the proof, the lot
to prove to someone back at home
what matters not to them, at all
Text 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 loss, 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?

______________________________________________________
Resubmitted For Contest: "Premiere Contest # 7"
Sponsored by Skat


Copyright © Carrie Richards | Year Posted 2015

Details | Canon Poem | Share this poem | Create an image from this poem.

SPEECHLESS SPOKEN WORD ARTISTE

SPEECHLESS SPOKEN WORD ARTISTE

So if my vocal folds can’t collaborate to produce sounds to communicate loudly to your beautiful mind that I have an endless mission of loving you, can’t there be any mere articulation in my vocal tract to do that? What are my tongue, lips, alveolar ridge, hard palate and velum doing? I never knew that emotions could shut my speech tract. How I wish my speech tract could connect to my heart, so that I can give you a cord of love inserted into my heart, for you to put it into your ears and listen to the words my heart says because I am speechless. I had it in my mind to tell you that you are beautiful, eloquent, and charming. When I drew nigh, I decided to start with the word ‘lady’ to show some decorousness. But I realized my lungs couldn’t even initiate the airstream for my glottis to either widen or narrow to cause my vocal tract to produce the voiceless and voiced sounds in the two syllable word, let alone the nine. Should I comply with those who say action speaks louder than words, so that I can gesture for you to get the feelings better? I thought I was one who could speak like a parrot, but I am now slides before you like carrots. But what could make a spoken word artiste speechless apart from the abnormal? OK! Let’s try establishing causality. The moment I saw you, you blinked your eyes, so probably that muted me. So if you could do that again, it may set me free. Don’t wait for me to tell you that you can cause distraction. Don’t go near a podium mounted by a performer, lest, you will cause distraction. Because that image you carry isn’t what you think. Not even a mermaid, more than strange. Please set me free because you are gradually becoming ‘head of Medusa ‘ , rays from your eyes are communicating with mine and making me motionless like lot’s wife is Sodom and Gomorrah. I came out of volition but it is now at your discretion to let me go, so please take off your eyes and set me free.

Tension within me had converted into electrical energy and burnt my speech tract. So what I am going through is beyond dumb. From a distance, I was in haste to meet you, but the moment I set my eyes on you, as though there were a speed rump- I started moving like a tortoise. What broke the camel’s back was when your eyelids became a canon camera and gave me flash, I became static. I wonder why I am speechless. I wonder why I am speechless. Because I am this man who can stand before a lady and produce lyrics more than ‘sarkology’ album, so I wonder why I am speechless. I could make a lady swim deeper in the pool of sweet words, so I wonder why I am speechless. Movement of my negative lips could attract positive ladies, so I wonder why I am speechless. Perhaps we are both negatives, so we repel. How I wish my vocal folds will touch along their edges from my thyroid and open slightly at my arytenoids to create a creaky sound like ‘huuh’ for you at least get the air of love, but none is working. I have thin vocal folds that can produce nice sounds like the lead guitar, so I wonder why I can’t even stammer. My phonetics is not working, let alone deploy my syntax for you to use your morphology in breaking down the words to achieve semantics.  How unfortunate it is that my speech tract couldn’t let out the words my mind has been saying since the beginning of this piece.

 


Copyright © CHRISDAD KOJO ARTHUR | Year Posted 2016

Details | Canon Poem | Share this poem | Create an image from this 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.
Sulking,
alone.

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
SUDDENLY...
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
10/17/09
Asavvy1


Copyright © Jared Pickett | Year Posted 2009

Details | Canon Poem | Share this poem | Create an image from this 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 | Year Posted 2010

Details | Canon Poem | Share this poem | Create an image from this 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 | Year Posted 2011

Details | Canon Poem | Share this poem | Create an image from this poem.

Symphony in the Desert

Ragged notes of unsung sorrow
stretch toward the heavens
in undefined
agony

trails of symphony
aching for forgiveness
follow in pristine  pitch

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

A canon in perfect D
floods my heart
in answer

I return ragged notes
in gratitude.



Copyright © Jill Martin | Year Posted 2006

Details | Canon Poem | Share this poem | Create an image from this poem.

A ambiguous music of love

Still  could feel the saccharine notes
played on the alluring eyes where I lost myself
for a while.
It flattered  the  vanity of the  mysterious silence 
I wished to last long !

The innocence psyche of a stranger
enthralled the shadow of a crimson light ,
shinning towards a unknown desire.


But time flies...
before could open the door of a  shadowy charisma,
a ray of canon coalesced into a flash called alter ego.

Everything redesigned here after 
and a new hail embellished a new sky.
The essence of the rain drops 
introduced with the new river passed nearby.

I became totally bewildered
may be  was missing the passionate silence,
that was whispering a lot without making any noise.

A ambiguous music of love 
was drifting on the ocean of my heart.
And finally the fragrance of moderated emotion
propelled me to sink into the depth of the river.

Still the river is flowing 
and am too with all its up and downs.
I don't know about those eyes;
either closed or hold the story still alive !

Wish them a happy journey with new sight
to greet the soul and heart without any finest sacrifice.





Copyright © Nilima Deb | Year Posted 2016

Details | Canon Poem | Share this poem | Create an image from this poem.

Silence

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 | Year Posted 2013

Details | Canon Poem | Share this poem | Create an image from this 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


A.Ertsland
April 4th 2012





Copyright © Arild Andresen Ertsland | Year Posted 2012

Details | Canon Poem | Share this poem | Create an image from this 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 | Year Posted 2015

Details | Canon Poem | Share this poem | Create an image from this poem.

a real relationship

I want a relationship that'll bring championships. 
I don't want to be reading fake scripts. 
I want something that's real. 
So my heart won't ever have to heal. 
I want that kind of thrill. 
Some people had said this. 
And still went on to have a fake kiss. 
I'm not like that. 
I like to chat. 
I'll listen. 
And I'm a Christian. 
I don't want a random companion. 
I want a companion that'll help me become a champion.
I want someone who shares the same beliefs and not someone who thinks I'm underneath. 
I want someone who can handle my jokes. 
Not someone who'll give me strokes. 
I don't want someone to change my personality. 
I want someone who can adapt to my family. 
I want someone to love. 
Not someone to shove. 
I don't want drama. 
That always comes with karma. 
I want a girl. 
And definitely not hurl. 
Maybe your that companion. 
Just let me shoot you out of a Canon to be sure. 
And let's see if your mature. 
Honestly I don't know where to go now. 
If you have a cow. 
I'll help you chow down. 
Oh boy I hope I meet clown.


Copyright © Dakota Burroughs | Year Posted 2016

Details | Canon Poem | Share this poem | Create an image from this poem.

TABLE MOUNTAIN

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 http://www.youtube.com/user/New7WondersOfNature Picture of the King Protea, the national flower of South Africa: http://www.nigeldennis.com/stock/pages/21.htm


Copyright © Suzette Richards | Year Posted 2013

Details | Canon Poem | Share this poem | Create an image from this poem.

Words

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 | Year Posted 2014

Details | Canon Poem | Share this poem | Create an image from this poem.

Denial

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 | Year Posted 2012

Details | Canon Poem | Share this poem | Create an image from this 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 | Year Posted 2012

Details | Canon Poem | Share this poem | Create an image from this poem.

A SWAN SONG

Strutting with swagger while singing along.
I am the epitome of arrogance a hundred percent strong.
Trying my dynasty to destine the cause,
I formed a voice of expression.
Walking in mediums to speak to the crowd,
My poetic mien capitalized.
I am a Diva now.

This demeanor was everlasting as I learnt the score.
I epitomized to be discovered.
I published my poetry in a philosophical style,
A rhetorical performer renowned writes about religion, politics, and life.
Quixotic philosopher orates to down-to-earth people today.
Fulfilling a void that may have manifested via slavery.
Palpable to mind, body, and soul as the words she speaks inner cores.

A Poetry Diva and a voice -
A political powerhouse has been a canon among us.
Her swan song is in perpetuity.  

A s
S tandards suggest
W e must live life to its fullest
A s
N oetic beings
S o we can form vision to explore
O f life and of recourse.
N oesis possess.  
G odspeed we are within.
______________________________________________________|
Scribe August 26, 2015!


Copyright © Verlena S. Walker | Year Posted 2015

Details | Canon Poem | Share this poem | Create an image from this poem.

SEASONS OF HAIKU

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)
Collectively
Mistrustful

Since x=y
Earth exists
And will be


Ghewroucvsf
Chaos?
Right?


1123!
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
Earth
And a Japanese welcome



Ängsälvor
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

p
A mirror
q

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".

©RAJAT KANTI CHAKRABARTY
15th October,2015  19:35:29




Copyright © RAJAT KANTI CHAKRABARTY | Year Posted 2014

Details | Canon Poem | Share this poem | Create an image from this poem.

WOMAN WRITER

WOMAN WRITER

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 | Year Posted 2014

Details | Canon Poem | Share this poem | Create an image from this 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
Indeed
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
Too
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 | Year Posted 2015

Details | Canon Poem | Share this poem | Create an image from this 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 | Year Posted 2014

Details | Canon Poem | Share this poem | Create an image from this 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 | Year Posted 2011

Details | Canon Poem | Share this poem | Create an image from this 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 | Year Posted 2015

Details | Canon Poem | Share this poem | Create an image from this poem.

Soul Stance River - 5

The delegation arrives in a procession of handsome, barbaric lineage
rugged in animal accoutrements and subdued in the presence of the future's skin,
the women, fine in wild beauty are bejeweled in beads, white and blues
that accent their pretty brown bodies like flowered earth
they present Clark and I with small parfleches illustrated
with rituals of season worship, each containing a fruit and flower
particular to each, and watermelons have been brought,
I am chagrined because their principal chief, Little Thief is not with them,
he is at the homestead, and so we must rely on his deputy, Chief Big Horse
to represent and convey our purpose, 
we commence with a demonstration of regimented military drill steps,
our soldiers, attired in full woodland Commando battle dress
marching along to the drum and bugle's lust for synchronized storm fury,
Big Horse and the Braves seem enamoured by the order and ingenuity of it,
upon finishing the presentation of power the keelboat's mounted brass canon
is fired into the treeline of the opposite bank exploding the wood
with invisible lightning from the God of dissolution himself,
to say they are startled is an understatement, 
I cordially present the Otoe Deputy an American flag
which he receives respectfully while Sharp Eyes, whom seems to be a senior warrior
wraps the "Stars and Stripes" around his shoulders like a cloak of sorcery,
also, several coats of various fabric and color are given with some knives, paints
and beads, which are a form of currency amongst the widespread Indian nations,
it is my responsibility, Meriwether Lewis, to orate on behalf of the United States of America
which are presently seventeen States strong, I must inform these peoples
whom have made this land their birthplace,  their life and their crypt for millenia
that there is a new Great Father for them, for us all in the East,
that a revolution in law, trade, religion and warfare
is upon them like a new sky
which can bring an atmosphere of happiness,  or marvelous wrath,
cooperation with the United States and it's people is vital for survival, 
the Otoes shall not impede the pathway 
or injure any White Man traveling the Missouri or Plains,
the Great Father Jefferson also desires that the Otoe maintain friendly relations
with all of it's neighboring tribes, we must become branches of the same fruitful tree,
we also ask that your Chief Little Thief visit Washington,  our capitol next summer,
when I finished speaking I gifted the leaders each a Jefferson Peace Medal,
the speech was translated through Old Dorion and the French traders
and everything indicates that the Otoes
understand the situation like brain understands hunger,
Big Horse loaded his calumet, carved in the image of a lady hawk, slender and virtuous,
we smoked into the night, settled some quaint suspicions
and then he asked, if we be so mighty then the U.S.
can make peace between his Otoes
and their enemies amongst the Pawnee, Omaha and Sioux
to which I replied that the Corps of Discovery
must move forward with it's primary objective
as the sun must journey the horizon without pause
and has not the opportunity to settle such things now
but that these quarrels will be quelled very soon by the medicine of wisdom,
together, our two troupes ate buffalo tongue and drank warm spirits,

J.A.B.


Copyright © Justin Bordner | Year Posted 2015

Details | Canon Poem | Share this poem | Create an image from this poem.

Bharathidasan's Pulikku nAy enta mUlai, Translated by T Wignesan


Bharathidasan’s “Pulikku nay enta muulai” (To the Tiger, the Dog knows no safe dwelling!) translated by T. Wignesan 

Bharathidasan (1891-1964) was a self-proclaimed disciple of the eminent Brahmin poet: Cuppiramania Bharathiyar (cf. two poems of his already posted). Born in Pondicherry – a French enclave in Tamil Nadu - he solded a lasting friendship with Bharathiyar during the 1910s when the latter sought refuge there from the British Adminstration as a political agitator.  For more details, check my article at

http://www.stateless.freehosting.net/BHARATHIDASAN.htm 

For Tamils, Tamil is their mother-tongue, we said 
For Tamils, Tamilakam is their motherland, we said 

In Tamil Nadu what might the stranger yet seek to wreak? 
From the pouncing tiger where might the dog refuge seek? 
Drowsily withering subjection Tamils have known - enmity 
Won’t it be reduced to nought the day they wake up?

The ill-intentions of those in the North, their bones
Might crushed be given the might of the Tamil people. 
Let each in his own land freely make his home - let
The coveting of another’s land be crushed with force! 

Let a carefree existence the whole world envelope! 
Raised hands should good works accomplish before rest! 
There was a time the world cowed to the Tamil people - then 
Did the Tamils think of setting up their own colonial rule? 

Arrogate the right to property over other peoples’s goods 
Were there those amongst us who wrought thus back then

Transliteration

Pulikku nAy enta mUlai! 
tamilarkkut tamilE tAymoli enrOm 
tamilakam tamilarkkut tayakam enrOm 
tamil nAttil ayalark kini enna vElai? 
tAvum pulikkoru nAy enta mUlai? 
tUnkiya tuntu tamilarkal munpu - pakai 
tulakum anrO elunta pinpu? 
tinku purikinra vatakkarin enpu 
sitaintitac ceytitum tamilarin vanpu 
avanavan nAttil avanavan vAlka - mar 
rayal nAttaic curantutal atiyOtu vilka! 
tuvalata vAlkkai ulakellam sulka! 
tUkkiya kaikal aramnokkit tAlka! 
tamilanuk kulakam nAtunkiyatuntu - ankut 
tannatci niruvita enniyatunta? 
tamatE enru pirar porul kontu 
tamvala enniyOr enkular pantu! 

Some reflections (abridged here) on the above poem with respect to the Tamil classical literary corpus: 
     Classical Tamil literature of the Cankam period, around the 2nd to the 5th century A.D., and the post-Cankam epic and religious compositions up to about the 10th century or so is handed down to us in strict prosodical structures and clothed in literary conventions whose canon was already laid down in the ancient treatise on linguistics, prosody, and poetics: Tolkappiyam, according to conservative estimations, as early as the 3rd century B.C. The reason for this is evident. Until the printing press was implanted at Tranquebar, a little to the south of Pondicherry, when Father Beschi, an Italian Catholic missionary who wrote and translated from the Tamil into Latin, in the early 17th century, all of Tamil literature was written down and preserved in perishable palm-leaf manuscripts whose longevity was limited to between two to three hundred years, depending on the quality of their conservation. As such, almost all of pre-nineteenth century Tamil writing was committed to memory, and learning by rote constituted the essential mental exercise for the very young in age. 
      The colonial European “enemy” of the past set aside, he then takes on, in the following quatrain, the indigenous northern Indian Aryan as the “enemy” who may be construed as forming part of the Brahmin minority - though infinitely powerful caste - in Tamil Nadu. 
     The final quatrain then holds up the Tamil glorious mediaeval past as an example of conquerors who were unwilling to play the colonial master. Paratitasan, of course, is here refering to the great Tamil Cola kings: Rajaraja I (985-v.1014) and his son, Rajendra I (1012 - 1044), and Rajendra Kulottunga Cola I (v.1070-1120), whose army and naval forces conquered Sri Lanka, Southeast Asia, and the lands leading up to the Ganges River at Benares from the Southern Peninsula and the Deccan, after having defeated the Calukyas of the northwestern Deccan with their army of nine-hundred thousand soldiers and followers.[Sastri:1984, 140- 341] 
………………….
     Let us next look at the prosodic organization of the poem. At first glance, the rhyme scheme: end-rhymes or iyaipu, is as follows: aa bb cddd efff ghii. If we put aside the taniccol or separate word common in Tamil prosody in c, e, and g, there is only h which detracts from the almost perfect scheme of rhymes. But then, in actual fact, barring the taniccol, all the end rhymes are perfect: aa bb cccc dddd eeee (cf. the transliteration). The only ending, in the fourteenth line, which appears to deviate from the norm is actually made up of tuntu and a, the latter being an interrogative particle. Further, excluding the first couplet which is a mere statement of fact preceding the body of the poem, somewhat like an epigrammatic quotation, the three quatrains with the second couplet placed at the end could make for a Shakespearean sonnet. 
     Tamil poetry still places much store by alliteration or monai, a poetical device which enjoyed much appreciation in all forms of mediaeval poetry. The first three words of the first two lines, the first two of the fifth, the first and third of the ninth - are all appropriate examples. 
    Another basic requirement of Tamil prosody is the initial rhyme or etukai which falls on the second syllable of the first word, repeated in successive words or lines. The first couplet is a perfect example of initial rhymes. Others may be found in the last two lines, and so forth. 
     
The above excerpts are taken from a chapter in my book on Tamils and their literary achievements. T. Wignesan. Rama and Ravana at the Altar of Hanuman: on Tamils, Tamil Literature and Tamil Culture.  Chennai: Institute of Asian Studies, 2006 & Allahabad: Cyberwit.net, 2008, 750p..


Copyright © T Wignesan | Year Posted 2015

Details | Canon Poem | Share this poem | Create an image from this poem.

A HORSE'S TAIL

A HORSE’S TAIL

Let me tell you a tale in my horse voice
which of course, is quite hoarse, so listen well
I knew a loose cannon; made lots of noise
In the square, by the old cannon, he’d yell
of canons; cannonading till ears fell!

Daily this canon would shout himself hoarse
To stop him was like beating a dead horse
So fed up, some fellas did horse about
Blasted the old cannon; its booming force
cannoned the canon and his noise right out!

(3/16/2016)


Copyright © San Woo | Year Posted 2016