He had a 1000 watt smile
And an explosive personality
But not in a destructive disturbing way
In a disarming delightfully charming way
He was always smiling never sad or down
Despite being a toddler with Down’s syndrome
His bright eyes could peel paint off the walls
With their concentrated energy during nap time
Eventually the music we’d play would
Serenade his high spirits to sleepy land
Only recharging his boisterous body
Cannon always had a runny nose sleep or not
Being born caramel with challenges are his cards
But Cannon was a kid who could play his hand
He was intelligent and as cute as he was smart
He seemed to know it with his attentive smile.
I haven’t seen Cannon since he was three
And a student in my cross category class
But I often think of him and the other kids
And then a smile slides across my face
The day before the storm
Protests fall on deaf ears
The master's voice rings
The rest is mere noise
Cars run helter skelter
Ready to park tomoro
Water cannons to stun
Neath the gas, tears
End game, bigger than us
Masks evil planners
Mere cogs in a wheel
Turned by hidden hands
Watchers and doers
Prepare for peace
Haters fund goons
To disrupt disonnance
Here we go again
Battling each other
From afar, elites watch
On TV and internet
Scramble for wealth
You will not last
The hands of time
Change your form
‘When will I anchor here again?’
The sailor’s heart then cried.
He asked it of the wind and wave,
but ‘shh’, the sea replied.
The horizon called and still he stalled,
looking long from the landward side.
He wanted to shout his farewell out,
but ‘shh’, the sea replied.
The mist began to veil the hills
where he left his weeping bride.
Would she hear his wretched sad goodbye?
But ‘shh’, the sea replied.
The captain’s call and the bosun’s pipe
could not now be denied -
so he whispered prayer to return back there,
but ‘shh’, the sea replied.
And for all the moons and different stars
and a thousand change of tide,
he raged to be away from home,
but ‘shh’, the sea replied.
The storms blew and the cannons roared
and somehow our sailor died.
His bonnie over the ocean wept
and ‘shh’, the sea replied.
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 dawning
the handful of men held their ground
thirteen days in San Antonio
such a fearful sight a dreadful sound
Santa Ana gave the order,
'Fly the red banner, show no quarter,'
a bloody battle to the bitter end
while the Mexican band played 'El Degüello'
now the guns are silent the smoke has cleared
to this day Texians all say, "Remember the Alamo."
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 a tall oak tree.
This is my time, in dark and dank
With brain of silence, bruised and blank
And all for a tatty small and hot
They gave me a preacher and a prison shot
They gave me a time to fail in the gloom
Of a black hearted cold cruel room
And who will remember me
She will and no other
The day they stole me from my mother.
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 from her mouth.
And when she sings, she hums her song,
Her voice in dulcet choir,
She whispers from her dragon's tongue
Her words like dragon's fire.
So, in the night when all is still
She rests her weary head
And looks out over yonder hill
Where angels fear to tread.
As daylight shows once more, she'll preach
And boldly yip and yell
To sermonise another speech
And send them all to hell.
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 velvet? how did
he get this gig?
did he expect models
draped over vintage tanks?
rubenesque ladies straddling
the missiles?
can he take the costume home?
who is responsible for it's wash?
does he put a cancer stick
in his touch hole in the car park?
does his lady-indoors
own a rammer?
he wishes the day would end
go home for a grapeshot
that he could be elevated
at forty-five degrees
and sent airborne towards
the automatic doors
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 little soul
Though now he's at peace
In the arms of the Lord
Rest in peace little angel
And though our hearts break
We know you're in Heaven
And out of harm's way
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 a blessing they didn’t get his legs.
Children out, picking blueberry put his head
In a plastic bag, which the gave to the doctor
Who put him un a glass jar? And when
The last patient was gone had a few drinks
Asked question the head could not answer.
Eventually he- still the head-was packaged and
Sent to a museum.
A museum is a spooky place at night stuffed
With dead animals and there is no lion’s roar.
When the interest in his had abated
They put him on a top shelf where the head
Gathers dust while wondering why he is not
Thirsty or hungry.
patch of cannas
double dwarf almost red....
fog shrouded
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 my smile
Burning my inner light on a low fuel
Fading my unseen love
Making it hard to breath
Consuming me
Until I am nothing but the simple dust
Dancing through its lonely caverns
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
Inspired by Abe's
Native American Ekphrasis
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 burst wreaked its revenge of lies
Turned his eyes
And to heavens stars of eternal bliss
As to permanent darkness
Raised his fists
And cried to the voice
Of perpetual emptiness
And ever unanswered promises
A question of tears
Raised from a single heart inside a human chest
Screamed in hopelessness
“ARE YOU ENJOYING THIS ?”
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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