About Gay Reiser Cannon

Writer, Poet, Musician, Mother, Grandmother, Nature Lover, Book Lover, In All Things Curious - a dilettante - somewhat eccentric - but not too far out of the main stream.

The Last Norther

plainsky.jpg

He was waiting for it –
a blue norther rolling across his golden plains –
standing out there by the barbed wire,
eyeing posts that led to a blue-black sky,
when the windblades hit

forty-miles-an-hour or more.
A few minutes before, he’d felt the heat and fire
that burned his skin and eyes;
next a cold chill replaced those pains
with deeper aches that scored

his body to the bone.
A freeze forced his unexpected cry,
a cry that filled the wind-beat flat terrain;
a sound he thought he’d learned to control, higher
than his wife in childbirth had groaned.

His knees caved, his chest fell;
the snow-drifted sheets covered his drained
soul. Released from a mire
of nothingness – neither wet nor dry -
an end of weather worries; he rode out on the last swell.

© Gay Reiser Cannon * 1/17/2013 * All Rights Reserved
My attempt at the Karousel form invented by poet David James.

The Wait

© Marta Ramoneda for The New York Times

We must endure delays from birth
those obstacles face all on earth
a time for us to contemplate–
Have mercy on us while we wait!

When festivals descend each year
we’re challenged to provide good cheer.
Imbued with hope, anticipate–
Have mercy on us while we wait!

Boredom can feed anxiety,
impatience may upset our needs;
stagnation breeds unrest and hate–
Have mercy on us while we wait!

Give peace to those who need restraint
Have mercy on us while we wait!

© Gay Reiser Cannon * 12/20/12 * All Rights Reserved

The Time of Rings

Wagons-wagonroom-H

That day the circus came to town
her sweetheart had to leave for war.
The wagons rolled past bands of clowns,
the sun shone bright on beasts; his sword

took her best place there by his side.
That day the circus came to town,
they smiled and cried, they said goodbye,
the train wrapped them in steamy clouds.

Four years of gloom, the rain poured down
she closed her eyes and saw his smile
that day the circus came to town.
His letters now make life worthwhile.

Another band, a new parade
A peace declared, he’s homeward bound.
His eyes are wrapped, he has an aide–
so changed, since circus came to town.

© Gay Reiser Cannon * All Rights Reserved * 12/6/2012

Prairie Paradise

© Stephen Weaver – Prairie Sunset

The red of the grass made all the great prairie
the color of wine-stains, or of certain seaweeds
when they are first washed up.
And there was so much motion in it;
the whole country seemed, somehow, to be running.

I felt motion in the landscape; in the fresh,
easy-blowing morning wind, and in the earth itself,
as if the shaggy grass were a sort of loose hide,
and underneath it herds of wild buffalo were galloping,

I wanted to walk straight on through the red grass
and over the edge of the world, not very far away.
The light air about me told me that the world
ended here: only the ground and sun and sky

were left, and if one went a little farther there
would be only sun and sky, and one would float
off into them, like the tawny hawks which sailed
over our heads making slow shadows on the grass.

Perhaps we feel like that when we die and become
part of something entire, whether it is sun
and air, or goodness and knowledge.

At any rate, that is happiness;
to be dissolved into something complete
and great. When it comes to one,
it comes as naturally as sleep.

© Willa Sibert Cather. My Ántonia
Book I - The Shimerdas – Chapter 2

Posted for dVersePoets Pub where Anna Montgomery
challenges us to produce erasure poetry.  This derived from the brilliant Willa Cather, where every page is a poem!

Night Flight among the Pleiades

Antigone’s Vow – (c) Terry S. Amstutz

Sheet sails for rusted dreams:
Known dead walk among
cars submerged in muddy streams.
We’re lost in an unknown town;

sign clocks stopped on the banks
where old checks lie uncashed.
Vizored skulls rest in cages;
lead lined safes, their locks bashed,

stand open, boxes now empty.
Courthouse, its Greek pillars
overgrown with grey ivy–
gavels dropped, silent forever,

rooted lost causes remain.
Full moving truck sways,
cardboard boxes pave
long abandoned roadways.

Purses in the gutters
lipsticks clatter on tin cans
characters chucked in clutter;
pickups drip tears in oil pans.

Steam trains whistle fears
that haunt traveling children
bound for a land of no years,
a place called Apollonian.

As they careen the rails
they hear outlandish tales
of an outrageous place where
bears and dogs wear no fur,

cats go about on stilts.
All the window panes are cracked;
fences sunk in sand drifts
obscure any trace of tracks.

Then the earth seems draped
in tinted pastel clouds,
obscuring all hard shapes.
As faces emerge from fog,

familiar masks rearranged,
now answer to older names.
Whispers blown on an empty range
ask if things will ever be the same.

The answer’s sung in chorus
as the children harmonize:
“we’re changing places
in fearful changing times”.

I arrive in now and you’re
distant, vague, a memory.
That place, I’m almost sure
resides a blinking star away.

Title from this quote by the Greek poet Hesiod:

“And if longing seizes you for sailing the stormy seas,
when the Pleiades flee mighty Orion
and plunge into the misty deep

and all the gusty winds are raging,
then do not keep your ship on the wine-dark sea.”

© Gay Reiser Cannon * November 26, 2012* All Rights Reserved
Meant to have been written for Claudia’s Poetics on 11/17/2012
Posted for #openlinknight on 11/27/2012 “better late, etc.”

Panhandle Song

Image courtesy of SueAnn friend of Brian Miller Hosting Poetics today

Now we’re aged sail ribs and tailbones,
our sucker rods dried, split with time.
Wind whistles us drained desert stones
spinning dizzy in retooled rhymes.

Yellow shadows once slipped through grass;
lying hidden, cicada waves
told tales of days when we’d surpass
cliff high flats and the deep sky’s blades.

Curved highways led to city streets.
Fast steps formed glass and metal tunes.
Rain skies erased the sun in sheets
then rusted heart-forged clever runes.

Unique melodies milled by wind,
Half-tones decay before our end.

(c) Gay Reiser Cannon * 11/3/2012 * All Rights Reserved
Posted for Brian Millers Poetics today at dVersePoets

The Tower

“In the mist stands the Tower …blind as a fool’s heart” *
where roping rings of clouds wreathe ’round its base
The questing trail traversing barren plains,
an age I’ve spent since I was charged to start.

But shelter can’t be found, lightning strikes break
as I approach, low thunder shakes the ground
beyond the hills; light splits both air and clouds.
A fatal stroke then forks, the tower cracks!

The prize I must retrieve is lost at once.
My mind so set, my thoughts so crystallized
now break apart, the bounty tossed away.

I fail my goal yet feel exuberance–
a sense of freedom materialized
when broken tower yields a shining day.

* Opening Line derived from Robert Browning’s Childe Roland to the Dark Tower Came
© Gay Reiser Cannon *  10/8/2012 *  All Rights Reserved

Lovers – A Game For Fools

© Jan Piller

With love and trust, a home and ring you pledged;
your prismed heart, you claimed, outshone the stars!
Our bid for jeweled suits, our glamour spread
on thin veneers of tangoed nights in bars,
we danced a dark exciting repertoire.
Then came the days you spread your tissued lies;
you sped on ribboned streets in racing cars
and played the deuce with packs of money guys.
But clubs left me word-scarred with no disguise;
you partied on and on while I played solitaire.
All night I walked the floor and sought reprise;
you left our home and fled the life we shared.
My heart lies rent in frozen splintered shards.
Our home has fallen like a house of cards.

© Gay Reiser Cannon * 9/13/2012 * All Rights Reserved

The Silver Locket

She wore a silver locket every day
Evelyn the milliner’s daughter.
After we shopped for fabric at the General.
we often went next door
to look at hats and the milliner’s daughter.

A simple dress was what she wore–
quite plain, yet elegantly sewn.
She twisted and rolled her shiny brown hair,
and a special air enveloped the girl
whose engraved silver locket danced
and swirled on a sterling chain.

Everyone remarked that the milliner’s daughter,
never wore her mother’s hats;
adorned only by that rich brown hair
and her secret silver locket.

The milliner’s shop became a legacy
to our town. We, who’d worn those fashioned
for Easter, weddings, and all life’s
celebrations, were amazed
when her creations were shown far and wide;
prized by wealthy matrons all over the state.

Life and styles slowly changed;
hats and milliners faded from fashion.
After they moved, John at the General got mail
from Evelyn for a while

She lived in Paris,
she knew Braque
Fitzgerald,
Picasso,
Hemingway,
who molded her into their art.
Each enchanted by her,
and the mysterious silver locket.

© Gay Reiser Cannon * All Rights Reserved