Thursday, February 28, 2013
yellow yellow headless yellow
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the miracle is not to walk on water but to walk on earth – Zen Master Lin chi
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Tag Archives: yellow
so i decide to write again.
salamander yellow pad
Monday, February 11, 2013
so i decide to write again.
10 Feb 2013
2 coffee morning. Yesterday lost the wallet. Somewhere between here and Navan Town. Feel real stupid. Its a rather large hold a check book size. Fortunately no cash, no credit or bank cards, no bank info at all… but my passport,US drivers license and Irish drivers license and also the little booklet from the Buddhists recording the date and my Tibetan refuge name. Anyway am amazed at having lost it. Thinking, thinking where, how, when could it have happened, lost nicked. Today I’ll have to retrace the day going to shops, garda station, parking garage security. Pulled the car apart, looked all over the house, checked every possible jacket pocket you know until realizing i must depend on the kindness of strangers, i must accept the fact that I’ve lost my identity. There’s no phone number in the wallet, the address on my Irish license is from three years ago, and i cant even comfort myself that maybe someone finds it and wants to get it back to me. Anyway its the feeling of stupidity, the feeling of why me, the sense of helplessness and the temptation to berate myself for this act of senility. So 2 coffee morning. All over the world it would be a 2 coffee morning or it would be if every one had that option. All over the world people are losing things more painful than my loss of an identity of a person who doesn’t even exist anyway.
visit
newest book: Title Caribu & Sister Stones: Selected Poems Author P. D. Lyons Publisher Lapwing Belfast.
write a spell
or just check out the scenery
yellow waiting by the sea
“i must go down to the seas again” -Sea Fever by John Masefield
Siane. Part 2 (from basa nuvo poems by pd lyons)
Siane. Part 2 (from basa nuvo poems by pd lyons)
PART II
When I was born I saw the world through the eyes of a crow. For at least three maybe four days. On the day the crow returned my soul to my body I was able to see through my own eyes. The first person I saw through such eyes was she who was my nurse. When I was older she told me of this event. Explained how I was special because usually crows do not return such a lost or stolen soul. That children’s souls are so sweet they are usually eaten right away. But she had this feeling about me and stayed by me constantly during those days so that my worried parents might try to get some rest. I asked her if it was because my soul was not sweet that it wasn’t eaten. She laughed and told me that even the most wicked person was born with a sweet soul.
So what did I see when I saw through the eyes of a crow? Well one day as I was still child enough that all chairs were big enough for me to curl up in, I did so in the kitchen. Staring into the fire I heard the voice of my nurse, softly, tenderly she spoke and quietly falling asleep still hearing her voice I began to dream. and she, from whom I have never had reason to doubt and from whom I have only known loyalty and love, this is what I told her from my dream state about those days when I saw through the eyes of a crow:
A great grey sky almost to rain. Leaves gone to colour muted by soft and steamy morning. While Below, arched like great green cat backs, farming lands bordered by trees rowed up like man soldiers behind walls of stone which long ago toilers of these fields had so piled. Then as if in memory I saw them, those man-things building walls. Stones like teeth, roots like tendons pulled from a dark open earth. Then as if in further memory I saw those same lands in a time before the man-things, a time when all was tall forest, hard wise wood forests before the man-things came….
But now its only overgrowth, sapling and briar borders along these scrubby pastures where I must keep my attention. Now my vision follows the lay of the land, rolling down to a small valley curling with a silver stream then over again until directly below me a field just before the water slips into the woods. It is a field now for the dead of men. Vivid in an otherwise dull landscape their blood pulls at me. A rare moment – Not only much flesh but none among them upright, none to bury these fallen in the ground as if some seed to sprout anew. Now they are still, delicate, exposed, but I cannot let my vision linger long. There are my comrades feeding, they will leave aside some favourite scrap for me. But I cannot let my vision linger long. I the watch must keep… Until, finally I hear their call “Come. Come. Come.”. my legs tense with a will of their own, push off, the earth happy to see me rushes up in greeting and with a jolt I’m standing wide awake before the kitchen fire.
http://salamanderyellow.blogspot.com/
Thursday, February 23, 2012
If
If I look deep enough into the window of night halos of kitchen light my own grey head and moving past that, who am I? The word play domino impressions, fragile memories fluctuating body soft hearted emptiness? And oh this morning, always morning hardly silent always noiseless belief is who I am restored repaired dutch boy diked, band-aids cabbages kings strings and ceiling wax. What I was taught must I be ever? Some days begin like this; dark windows beyond my reflection seeing nothing remotely me. This is the day of daffodils or maybe tulips? Small brown bag thirteen bulbs to bring to the cemetery. To plant for my mother and for my father. Does the flower seem less sweet because we know it someday will fade? There is no place I know thats still and yet to observe movement must not the observe stand still? This I know for sure; it’s earlier in the morning than I like and I still need to get up get dressed right now or else the day will get away.
salamander yellow pad
Saturday, February 18, 2012
Today
Today on the great yellow sheet of possibility he hurried the blue notes of coffee too hot to drink comfortably. It was the gold dead grass of February, not dead, sleeping, not sure of the difference. Empty unsure sky whether snow or rain no birds at the apple tree feeders wishing to find out. Where ever it is they go, the birds are always out. Can you imagine a place where no one knows how they should behave, where the fear factor absent no motivation, no explanation, what would we be like? Compassionate birds always out never needing to steal. The cheapest coffee comes in a real steel container, has more weight than most and tastes as good as the rest. Now are there things un-wishing to do but wishing were done. The energy of that un-equated equation can be used to do which must be done. What is the term for an equation that is unequal? An un-equal equation is an error. Do all errors need remedy? Do they need to be remedied? And hot from the hoody sweat shirt and seventy degree thermostat he pulls it up over his head remembers five years old and getting stuck.
