three from Wanting To Be In The Old Tongue by pd lyons



When you worship swans no longer

Will you find your way to me?

Smoke rising in a breathless voice

Winding between shade and sun

A dream begun on dew drops

Daring midday like a ghost

Vowing never to fly

From your embrace










black velvet traveler

dark morning herald

solitary secrets kept

well behind green eyes

alluded only by such offerings

as left upon our doorstep shrine.




winter wash

sails on hemp rigging

 places precious

this January sun.

strong wind, clear sailing,

a rising Tahitian blue,

fed by silver slips of memory

travelling on wings of fantasy

calling sea birds soar

above a mucky barking back yard dog.


from Wanting To Be In The Old Tongue

poems of an Irish descent

by pd lyons

Copyright © 2011 PD Lyons

All rights reserved.


ISBN-10: 1466272996

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