Cannon Poems

Red Banner, No Quarter

Early on a cold March morning
a handful of men took a stand
in the year of eighteen thirty six
when a sabre drew a line in the sand
it was victory or death for the valiant few
outnumbered and out-gunned
surrender and be spared an ultimatum they knew
with a cannon shot by Travis it was shunned
even as the day was

Eleanor Cannon

In time, in time, always in time
The prophets always say
There is no time in heaven
It just gets in the way
Perhaps the madness of my life
Has seeped inside my mind
Perhaps the sadness of my heart
Has reaped the poorest kind
For chains and locks are what they gave
To middin folk as me
And others hang from castle wall
Or from

Tubing On the Cannon

Echoed giggles remain hysterical in Spring
Abundant greenery grows tall along the river
Both sides of the banks merge their foliage
Connecting branches together overhead     
Trees become an arching canopy above it all
Creating shade for children paddling on 
Now bouncing on the Cannon traveling down
On inner tubes absconded from some ugly trucks
Filled with air

The Whisper of the Cannon

When all the words a king may say
Lay lifeless on the ground
And windstorms blow them far away
With not a single sound.
Then no one any worry pays
As acquiescence he seeks
But ears awake and eyebrows raise
When e'er the cannon speaks.

She speaks to warriors from the east
And armies from the south.
And words of wisdom should, at least,
Fall tumbling

There's a Bloke In This Museum Dressed As a Cannonball

the kids are going nuts
one almost keeled over

one inquires about the whereabouts
of the large-caliber pipe pistol

one gives the spheroid
a handshake and hug

the arm like an tartarean
eclipse with a surreptitious

star-nosed mourning
mole on the end of it

one gives the projectile
a high five, invented by a

basketball player with
four fingers 

but what about him?
who is he under the 

cycloidal

In Memory of Cannon Hinnant

Little five year old boy
Just riding his bike
When a man came along
And cruelly ended his life

The boy was sweet
And gentle as can be
How could anyone take a life 
With such Animosity?

He had his whole life ahead of him
And it was sadly cut short
His beautiful smile, his laugh
Are no more

I hope there is justice
For this poor

The Human Cannon

Human cannon
 They shot him out of a cannon and lost his legs
He flew low over a forest that took his arms 
And torso, his head landed in a hexes’ glade
From trees dripped gore like strawberry jam
They flew up with their brooms collected what
Was left of him and made a stew, and he 
Thought what

Cannon Lilies

patch of cannas
double dwarf almost red....
fog shrouded   

Loose Cannon

At times I'm a loose cannon
The difference is I use pens while you use handguns
I spray in every direction but I try to be careful with who I hit
When you fire that much at once, you're due to miss 
Trying to solve the puzzle but there's no clue with it
I'll find my way through eventually

The Cannon

A gaping hole 
It’s dark and lonely 
A soft wind dances through the deep cannon 
Things here feel sad and empty 
And the light is far away and unseen 
It’s cold 	
There is nothing
And this cannon 
it lives right in the very depths of my very  being 
Mocking me 
Making a joke out of

Cannon On the Court House Lawn

It rests 'neath spreading sycamores on the small-town square,
A venerable old relic of the Civil War affair.
The sun casts a fleeting glint as it rises anew each dawn,
On the brass barrel of the cannon on the court house lawn.

Oft' on languid summer days I like to pause and muse,
About its past and the brave men

Cannon Lee - Re-Posted For Reference

The ocean shatters on the banks of my despair
where I stand above the cliffs in mournful yearning there,
amid the thunder and the lightning
that cracks the black of night
I curse the rocks below that took his precious life.

Oh Cannon Lee, Oh Cannon Lee!
my merman of the sea,
so beautiful a creature the world has never seen.
To gaze

T. C. Cannon Self Portrait

 A man with a creative dream
 On an arid afternoon
 Admiring God's creation
 Relaxing in the sunlight
 With his cowboy hat
 Giving him a little shade
 Watching the cumulus clouds
 Shading the desert wasteland
 Captured all by the artistic eyes 
 Of a man named T. C. Cannon

      

A Question of Cannon Fodder

A Question of Cannon Fodder

Drenched in the blood
Wept in raining puddles of agony
The wretched and forgotten
Mud of centuries
He fell by knees and palms
Dead to the feet of living 
A Splashing tattoo of scarlet drumming
On the futile embrace
Of histories life spent warring

Driven by battle
Riffle, bomb, bow, lance, cannon, arrow and missile

And to thunderous skies
Where blasted shell

Out of a Cannon

Like being shot out of a cannon,
I charged out of bed,
Took one look around me,
My spirits, they bled,
Jumped back into bed,
Hoping to sleep,
Another twenty-four years,
Before out of bed I again leap.

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