Paul Cannon

The Fall of the House Across the Street from the House of Usher Dale Tudge It was assessed at fourteen thousand dollars before the fall — I shall not say whose fall, for falls there had been several, and the distinctions between them grew fewer with each passing quarter. The value fell first. Then the foundations. Then more value. The county surveyor, arriving in Wellington boots and departing without them — the tarn, he said, had claimed them, settling the question of ownership — attributed the subsidence to prolonged saturation. The water, he reported, had enlarged itself across both properties since the late unpleasantness. He diagnosed the condition as Loss of Structural Integrity — the selfsame phrase, I was told, employed by the coroner, though in reference to a different kind of resident. No — the coroner resided not across the street but in Charlottesville, some four miles distant, and I mention this only because the proximity of that family had already been credited with enough. The gutters had since followed. The fall of my credit, which I had believed immovable, began as what the bank described as "a correction," by which they meant a descent, by which I mean a plunge into conditions I had not thought possible for a man who had never once been late with a payment. The Farmers Bank of Virginia had not yet asked me to return the 1839 almanac they presented at Michaelmas with my name stamped upon the cover, which I chose to interpret as reassurance. The almanac told me nothing it had not already told the Ushers.

I am #spent. My allowance is #spent.

I leave it to the @bsky.app #readers to decide if this #gothic #horror story is worth their time, and the spending of it.

#poem #poetry #prose #writing #emoetry #microfiction #inkmine #poemsabout #vss365
@thebrokenspine.co.uk

Ah such wit, even the title gets it rolling 😀

Exposed Exhausted I stumble up the steep hill of you. Sense disappears in your gust. My words smashed against your craggs. I cradle the warm eggs of my words you snatch and crack open till my insides tumble unborn deadyolks colour the purple heather of your tongue that fills my mouth so my words cannot be heard, inert. I can't breathe. Your body is an oven whose mouth swallows my whole self. I inhale your gas. Fumble for meaning in the lost map of us.

For #PoemsAbout #spent. Here's my most recent one dedicated to #SylviaPlath. An imagistic narrative:

Wow, I so love the imagery of this, so visceral.

Someone is addicted to my poetry - and it’s the editor of this journal - @zoomburst.substack.com - which arrived this week. Sooooo happy! #PoemsAbout

"I'm exhausted - this winter, this world - " O yes indeed, I note your context, but it sure speaks to my experience Merril

Poem: Thoughts While Walking After the Death of My Sister Here comes the glowering sky—again sapphire to slate, no snow bells, only flakes pristine pretty for a sec-- but we’re over it, even the clouds seem spent, the planet is pooped, the predators still free, the privileged plutocrats swollen with greed—buying bodies, buildings, bullets, bullion as girls grown to womanhood wait for justice. I’m exhausted—this winter, this world— where despite everything, birds are starting to sing the future, blueberry skies, popcorn clouds, blossom-blizzards in pink and white. I look up at a chittering murmuration, watch as the starlings constellate, coordinate, conjoin, unite-- realize they’ve answered the questions I didn’t ask, not why. When.

Good morning! Some people know my older sister died on Monday. I didn't participate last week. It was a long week. I'll come back later to read this week's poems for #PoemsAbout #Spent Thank you as always to @alanparrywriter.co.uk and @thebrokenspine.co.uk for providing this poetry platform.

#spent #poemsabout #rupture #promptcombo #inkmine #dreamy #madrigal #poem #love

Glorious read.

Mother and Son Converse in an Ancient Crypt After Сон (“Dream”, 1910), Alexander Blok (1880-1921), Russian Symbolist I meet you in Dreams as a Matter of course. This night, We lie side by side in an Ancient crypt. Above us, Life rumbles on in Ever more voluble Boom-claps of Hubbub and Bedlam – Until the Last Day is upon us. Vague glimmer of Paschal Sunday; Far-flung Clamour of Swooning bugle. Our Catacomb is Copper-cast, but Pulsates within a Ruddy-gauzy Film of light. Wrapped in Vapours of Sunday-school Monotony and Incredulity - His Features surface, Clustered about with Swords and angels. Entombed with us, a Placid spouse shuns Rebirth, spurns Emancipation - Slumbers on in Oblivion. You whisper: In life, you were Sturdy and burly. Press harder on the Vault, and the Stone will Roll away. I answer: No, Mother - the Strength I once had has gone. I’ve suffocated in the tomb. Pray, both of you, for an angel to Come along and Roll away the Stone. Free adaptation from the Russian: ©Jan Peters/Solivagant Wisdom, 2025

@Jan Peters/Solivagant Wisdom, 2024 Monochrome image of long shadow of photographer projected into the interior of a mausoleum.

🙏 @thebrokenspine.co.uk #PoemsAbout #Spent

#adaptation #poem / #photography:
@Jan Peters/Solivagant Wisdom, 2025/2024

#Reading 👇 Out all day - will catch up

#Symbolism #PoetryInTranslation #PagingDrFreud #RussianPoetry #Blok #monochrome #tomb

A very different angle indeed Jan - "the strength I once had has gone" this speaks loud.

Not an exhaustive list but rather an exhausting list down to death, a comment on futility and not taking time in my reading. Powerful ending Debra

Good morning #BlueSkyPoets! #PoemsAbout #Spent
@thebrokenspine.co.uk @alanparrywriter.co.uk
I took the traditional sonnet and tweaked the form to create a List Sonnet, I hope you enjoy! Excited to read your poetic creations!

Ah, no dressing that up, powerful in its brevity.

Many thanks @thebrokenspine.co.uk @alanparrywriter.co.uk for today's #PoemsAbout prompt #Spent. Here's a brief off-the-cuff 'tribute' to someone we knew only too well in the UK. Apologies, I was feeling tetchy this morning....

#PoemsAbout #Spent #poem #writing #writingcommunity
@thebrokenspine.co.uk
@alanparrywriter.co.uk

I love how you work with squeeze, to the point I felt it.

To all those who never ever get to start the new toothpaste! 😊 #PoemsAbout #Spent
Thanks @alanparrywriter.co.uk @thebrokenspine.co.uk Happy Friday!

Selfless // Spent You lie beside him like a gutted animal. This needy. This vulnerable. This far gone. Nothing is as exhausting as opening up, as making a church of the mess of yourself, as becoming a light for another. Ribcage and sanctuary. Shepherding the wayward sheep back from the storm-clad edge. Him and you both. Homebound. You wanted so much to be a morning star but you’re just the flick of his lighter with which he immolates you. You define your worth by how satisfied the hunter is, how easy the bullet’s job. How small can you make yourself so you’re not in his way, how fast can you do what he wants. Now he has rearranged your entrails to fit more pain inside. But you agree and carry it even like a crown. Anything, everything to make him stay; you are out there and dying just reaching for his hand. Afterwards, you sob silently behind the bathroom door as if your sadness was a great secret, something so dangerous and feral, you have to keep it hidden and leashed. Or, worse even, you would be found out, exposed for the wretched hollow bitch that you are, a martyr no angel would want. All you have to offer is the bones of yourself and isn’t that terrible, to be so thoroughly you? All that you are and were and aspired to be, you have given everything to him. The myrrh of ruptured spleens and breathless lungs, the hard gold of marrow. Incense of spit, myth told in freckles and stretch marks, stuttering. All your unspeakable stories spelled out scar by never-healed scar. And yet, he will get up and walk through that door. And leave, like you’ve never ever happened. You showed off your best tricks but you’re still just a dog. Your hot tears tangle helplessly in his wet hair like an army of startled fleas. You stand on the train station platform as it snows. He kisses you goodbye and it’s like drowning a puppy. Your teeth clash like barbed wire fences. He says see you soon and in that moment you know that there is nothing more cruel …

For #PoemsAbout #Spent ✨

for @thebrokenspine.co.uk
& @alanparrywriter.co.uk

When you give everything you have but it still isn’t enough.

The poem evokes the very experience of being spent, and what an awful way to be spent too, gritty stuff.

Waste He spent his life pleasing others, spent his money pleasing others, in the end, when only the ending mattered, he spent his last day alone.

After a small break, here is my return piece for #PoemsAbout #Spent.

@thebrokenspine.co.uk
@alanparrywriter.co.uk

Will be catching up later/over weekend

Ah, the awful truth, a prodigious journey indeed.

This was an evocative read for me, I am having a similar father son moment and I reflect that I am looking at myself too, this was helpful in that it speaks to my experience.

spent from being mistaken. the space returns to quiet. no performance in it.

For this week's #PoemsAbout #Spent, I'm thinking about how things feel. And posting late.

Thank you to the host @alanparrywriter.co.uk and
@thebrokenspine.co.uk and to all of the other writers.

#poetry #poem #writing #PoetryCommunity #BlueSkyPoets #writingcommunity

TWO FEET Shoveling two feet with my son, opening a single lane in the driveway from garage to impassable street and runs in the yard for the klee kai to pee and poop. I think I am pulling my weight, working from one end and meeting him midway, but just as I’m about to declare victory the neighbors appear at their stoop making no headway while their pup whines miserably behind them and my son unasked carves a swath between our yards, even inserting a cutout about halfway in. I find myself staring at his strong shoulders, imagining muscle flexing beneath flannel as he tosses full scoops of weighty fluff and wet hair streams across his brow until I guiltily realize he has been working alone and I can only fart around lifting little drifts that drop randomly in his wake.

#PoemsAbout #Spent
@thebrokenspine.co.uk
I will put a reading in the comments…

Wow, you name your experience so powerfully, compact poem indeed. So many instances of unkindness to contend with - you've tapped the experience. If only it were not so.

I note the rhyme scheme, and the flow, a clever poem indeed, and I hope you progress on Dante.

#poemsabout #spent

Banjaxed: a common Irish slang term meaning something is broken, ruined, severely damaged, or beyond repair.

Visceral is how I experienced this, and touches something I know.

Spent A match burned down to fingers. I have nothing left. So use the blackened stub to write messages on the pavement to be washed away by rain. A purse emptied of cash. The price paid rises each day. The reserve is empty, trading on credit I have no hope of repaying. A body utterly exhausted. Bed offers no respite. Lying there I am spent. Recovery takes longer than I have. One day what wakes will not be me.

I love Fridays, or #PoemsAbout day as I now call them.

Here is my offering, and I look forward to seeing all of yours 😁

#Spent
@thebrokenspine.co.uk
@alanparrywriter.co.uk
#poetry