ruffs from pd lyons


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scorpion night 10 pdlyons

 

ruff poems

it was me with nothing left

to spire about

a complete enemy of words

a point of hot winter sun

hard glass walled heart un-bending

damp handed pen

not a thing left

at this point remembering the perfect portrait of the artist

touched not a myalgic fibre of my un-known self

so to hallowed hands

Ulysses trust all my open wound n proud flesh

one last a miracle

heal

bruised leg muse

heal

every curse of every failure

heal

father

heal

myself

purged

lazy soul

quick silver quenched

go on

do on

no do

more

a new

 

*

when last seas

iodizing sharif

hoarse whispers long meandering

scented by late November birth

salted scented tinctured gloves

slipping sticking sable sweat

soundly sighing satin and sighing

mother held by other hands I was

 

*

some un provoked violence

I’d bring up

sightless wordless

rage

shake n smash

slap n wake n pull

from a constricting bag of skin

a weep a wake

to leave breath n bone behind again

 

*

what waits

outside the darking dogs

secret traffics

pre day dawn

natural as breathed

sooner than not

seeped stopped

eased no more wondering

all that other time at last

briefer miracle

no more so I know

falsely I am

every changing shape shifting

so called life

a moment thing

 

which my am I?

 

*

My old cities

rose up out

from above

 ruins bright n shining

goliath shrines

silver unlike any bird

shadowing resurrected bays

long veined polished rivers

symphonically far as any ancient woodland lore

 

*

propped up

best I can

most uncomfortable ever bed

 

crow sounds

 silver sun shadows the page

all it takes to ease the ache

not even knowing

what I read

unconcerned

the largeness an open window

dissolves all imposed restrictions

of my self

and what would comfort done?

a sleep til noon then what?

*

Old shirt

smells

days

walking laying

sleeping eating

over-steamed radiators

warm spells February spring

But

the colour is good

fit is right and when I catch myself

passing mirrors in hallways

bathrooms

shop windows

turned off televisions

Stop

and/or

glance

at

who I am

breath caught a moment

Old shirt smell

still me

still who I was

and am now

years later

in need of a shower

 

*

my daughter asks me

why did people invent war…

don’t hey know it’s the devil no god that likes war?

do children have to fight

do they kill children too

boys?

and girls?

how old?

why don’t the soldiers just quit

 

and then the sound of helicopter passing

she thinks it wondrous dashes off to look

unlike those for whom that sound is terror

 

because of them

we must love the world

even more.

 

*

today

walking with trees

steps to my breath

thinking

the joy of being alive

is free

 

*

colours

all on a merry day

each steps a moment

pass the dancer

un seen dance

 

if you can see it

you’re not it.

 

*

 

all the same wonderings

ages of ifs

lifetimes of whys

each life

 history of wonderings

where it leads

where it goes

how it begins

and whatever is the selling point?

good business

machinery of welcome

voices of an independent language

 

give way silenter than plastic tombs

small electric dances springs

a whirl only god could hear

if the ear of god had no hair no wax no smell

 

but god

has pious milk bone men

absolution in the dark

disciplined n cleansed

children

in this dark & the ear of god

blind as onan eyes

silent voices raw language

silent screams despaired on crosses born

all those wondrous children hearts

their darkness

a long test of utter failure.

 

*

and quite back

all winter skirts n scarves

chapel of candle smoke

shadow shifts

all some

warm whispered

deep into pools

of clear n dark n blue

 

*

stone

silent selfish

walls

no weather

no violence

no movement freely done

blind witness

observe

all that’s done

all un done

 

*

not knowing what is

birds no longer pass

instead

songs in my heart

 

*

women shapes

dapple grey

helix trees

any shadow moon

pools deeper that any sun

 

*

slow

moon

miles ran

rain bent

poplar pine

remembered snow

flickering yellowing

butterly lite

echoes of breath

along washing windows

as if washed

might sense

a meaning other than tomorrow

april comes

and here I am

un gone

un knowning

 

Two from My Childhood Home in Waterbury Ct. by PD Lyons. read by the poet


When we Lived on Nelson Ave.
PD Lyons

days when my father took milk and sugar
leaving the spoon in his coffee
my mother whistled among lilacs and roses
mahogany furniture kept well polished
 special knives and forks only used on holidays

I knew the name of Lilly of the valley
not to ever put them in your mouth

there were kittens in the sun porch
we watched born from a tabby cat named Felix

there were cherries from our backyard tree
so red I thought they were black,
tasting like no cherries
ever would again

 

 

The Girl Next Door 
By PD Lyons

When I remember
Third floor windows
Tall white lace sails
Summer all running in our veins
Her mother in the kitchen
Making cool aid and plate full of something
Cookie sweet to eat

She wanted me to stay
I was afraid, wanted to go home
But didn’t want her to know
Not wanting to be in this house of too many windows
Overlooking the valley

But she wanted me to stay
Besides the rains begun
Going to be a real storm
Already rumblings a darkening horizon

 her mother agreed
I’ll call your parents. They won’t be worried.
You can stay for supper. You like hot dogs don’t you?

 that was how I learned not to be afraid of storms
Not to hide from thunder or lightning
Frances and her mother, exuberant
Ohs  ahs  joy over every
Menacing vibration sudden crash
Every flash veining skeletal zigzag

Sometimes in this Writing Process from scraps to ruff to finish~ How the Goddess of Wisdom Taught Me the Tarantella as read by the poet


so the way this went was up in bed this morning after second coffee. only paper sticky notes (pink) sitting quiet spacey then this came first the tongues then other bits. Now I’ll transcribe into first ruff draft. this time using keyboard. sometimes a yellow pad is the first transcription. Sometimes there is only one sometimes there are many edits, the number depends on my things but mostly on my self. some photos of the original notes as you may see it is part of the illegible scribble that is an integral part of the process .

So the first bit =

And she said look

And I did seeing the play of sunlight slip

 along the green hills a silver streak above the valley

a river mirroring catching sapphires between the roiling cumulus clouds….

SO Right away i notice too many the’s breaking up the image. Also I need to look up cumulus to make sure hos are the clouds I want… lets try it this way ~

she said look so I did seeing the play of sunlight slip

 along green hills a silver streak along the valley

a river mirroring, catching sapphires from between cumulus clouds 

Or Wait Maybe This ?

she said look so I did seeing the play of sunlight slip

 along green hills a silver streak along the valley

a river mirroring, catching sapphires from between the cumulus…

So as you can tell or if not let me tell you it is a longish process sometimes. Anyway here’s the rest a first ruff ~

How the Goddess of Wisdom Taught Me the Tarantella 

she said look so I did seeing the play of sunlight slip

 along green hills a silver streak along the valley

a river mirroring, catching sapphires from between the cumulus 

she said sing

so i offered 

breathless wordless a what else can i do but be true refrain

harmonic of all i’d seen and all i’d ever see

she said dance

so we embraced a dance named for spiders

mingling sweat lead our lips to meet

undisciplined tongues ballerinas  inside our mouths

she said hush

so i  took breath 

together we sunk dampness upon a warm green earth

she said know

and I was certain.

and so as of 30 july 2021 this is where its at ~

How the Goddess of Wisdom Taught Me the Tarantella 

she said look

so I saw the play of sunlight slip

  green hills a silver streak along the valley

a river mirroring, catching sapphires between the cumulus 

 

she said sing

so i offered 

breathless wordless a true refrain

harmonic of all I’d seen

 all I’d ever see

 

she said dance

so, we embraced a dance named for spiders

 lead our lips to meet

our mouths undisciplined

tongues ballerinas

 

she said hush

so together we sank damp

upon a warm green earth

 

she said know

and I was certain.

there are some of these still available. why not consider …


Pdlyons's Explorations

every purchase is an inspiration to the artist!

Limited signed editions. Inscribed as you wish. email pdlyonspoet@yahoo.co.uk to make sure we have them in stock.

once they are gone they are gone! hence the term limited. You can find excerpts from these through out the blog and on you tube.

These would be more or less poems regarding my urban youth in a small New England city ~ Waterbury Ct. Inspired by the ’70s and beyond…

“… in 2019 we had close to eight thousand entries and all were judged ‘blind’.    P D Lyons was the outright winner! Below is the book we produced for him… it is sheer quality poetry, the whole book encompasses a simplicity coupled with deep insight; a truly beautiful collection which reveals more each time it is re-opened… ” (perfect-bound: 112 pages)

Limited to an initial special edition of 50.

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Poetry inspired by the…

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Poem for All Seasons by pd lyons


The shade

of

old

trees

she to her own personal buddha. words and photos by PD Lyons


 

 

 

she  to her own personal buddha

asks

again

~

the answer

same again

~

of course she said smiling at her self

again 

~

then as if in reiteration

the buddha

yawns

meows 

again

.

WHEN I’M GONE, WORDS & PHOTOS BY PD LYONS


 

When I’m gone

Who will know the feel of wooden handles held in bare hands

Measure the post hole deep enough below the frost line

Enjoy the scent of sweaty horses

The rain of walking home in the dark

Night rainbows

TV static

Driving 13 hours due west

Soft pack Marlboros   Full moon rearview   One van Morrison cassette

T’il dawn

Just to meet someone hardly known for breakfast

 

 

BISCUTS & GRAVY ~ 2.25

What’s grits?  a quarter

Cuppa Coffee?  a dollar

Slow Wag of a Tail, for my friend Molly by PD Lyons


 

 

Slow Wag of a Tail

 

Summer

Days counted like folding clothes

Coffee cups by the window

Back garden a dream

Seeds for someone else’s future

Old dog

Patience learnt

Waits quiet

For a sign

A whistle

A name

A dinner

A walk

A pat on the head

~

 

For my friend ~ Molly

north to rome – by pd lyons from Morning Movies


we took the train north to Rome
started with sweat and bullets
wishing for a better meal next stop
village by village dust bells along
following the steady steel rhythm

hours drift lulling with common motion
 landscapes we have come to know
keep pace as we imagined
being closer than we ever were
before leaving

Reggio Calabria

SAM_0003

Tiananmen Square, Two Poems by Davyne Verstandig read by PD Lyons


 

So the other day sorting out book shelves and come across a 1990 Magazine called Hobo Jungle ~ a Quarterly Journal of New Writing. It was published by Ruth Boeger/ Marc Erdich in Roxbury Ct. The reason I still have it? Well they were one of the first to publish my work and the very first to send me a check for my poetry. In fact I’m sure I still have a xerox copy of that check in some box some where in then house. Any way the point is flipping through I cam across a striking piece of work which led me to look up the poet and write asking if I could reprint their work here and so with permission of this very fine artist I will blog the 2 poems and give some links to their bio and website. The first one is in my opinion a perfection of the micro~dot poem. Ruthlessly elegant and mercilessly immersed in reality. The short poem is almost impossible to be read out loud and remain effective although I’ll give it a go along with the other piece further on but first read it silently out loud to yourself. Thank you for your time.

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Tianasquare

Davyne Verstandig

 

http://davyneverstandig.com/index.html

Davyne Verstandig was a lecturer in English and Creative Writing at the University of Connecticut. (retired June 2020 after 25 years.)

Her books include two books of poetry, Pieces of the Whole and Provisions and her work appears in Sex and Sexuality in a Feminist World, Songs of the Marrow BoneWhere Beach Meets OceanThis One Has No Name, The Monday Poets, and the forth coming anthology with an introduction by Margaret Gibson, CT Poet Laureate, Waking Up to the Earth, Connecticut Poets in a Time of Global Climate Crisis.

She has also performed improvisational work “composing on the tongue” painting and poetry at The Knitting Factory and Housing Works Café in New York City and given readings throughout New England.

She gives writing workshops at Wisdom House Retreat Center in Litchfield, CT. and at Camp Washington Episcopal Retreat Center in Morris, Ct.

She is Poet Laureate Emerita of Washington and is a Justice of the Peace. She can be found at mymindisintheink@gmail.com. She is a writing consultant.


Books available on Amazon, some at The Hickory Stick Bookshop, Washington, Ct.
Pieces of the Whole – poetry
Provisions- poetry
Anthologies
Sex and Sexuality if a Feminist World
This One Has No Name 
The Monday Poets
Laureates of Connecticut, An Anthology of Contemporary Poetry
Waking Up to the Earth, Connecticut Poets in a Time of Global Climate Crisis

 

 

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