Monthly Archives: January 2014

my little tiny child – by pd lyons



Can I soften you against yourself?
Can I Buddha like teach the softer way?

If I told you, you are my treasure,
If I told you, you’re most precious
If I told you more than joy you brought into my life

Can I soften you against yourself?
Can I Buddha like teach the softer way?

If I told you, you are my little tiny child
If  I told you, lully, lullay my little tiny child?

Lully, lullay




Nick Drake Yoga


Last night watched the fog roll in. Light enough, it was that near full moon and every Orion star shown through. The frost followed hard. Its animation audible and all moving across the lawn.


This morning the world still silvery and crunchy. Sorted out the hens. Made offerings to the wild birds. Messed about in the kitchen; dishes, laundry, porridge. Cleaned out the ashes. Got a fire going; turf, hedgerow cuttings  a few lumps of coal. Then gathered survival supplies – mat, pens, paper, laptop, orange, nettle tea. Retreat. Set up the barricades.

Sanctuary is this sitting room with its now blazing fire.

(clothes of sand by nick drake: 




Away I Say – by pd lyons (happy february)


fine coffeed morning slipped snow like into an afternoon

Carlos Gardel tango amidst New England February

but I cannot think of anything

I cannot allow anything

cold feet


my inflated bladder

only getting up

only option

despite all wall to ceiling windows

pouring the heart of winter out into my rooms

away I say away I go to pee………


mullingar to dublin – by pd lyons (with blue hydrangea & child)

blue hydrangea

blue hydrangea


Mullingar To Dublin

all the things you’ve not seen before
passing landscapes unnoticed by train

windows onto stray sheep,
ancient brick-works,
pines taller than any house,
piles of rusted metal,
latticed bridges cross to places no longer there,
high wall back gardens, endless grey guardians of new housing.
 warmed over mumble voices distracting
stories of prices and other countries travelled
stars not of skies but hotels, restaurants
places remembered so much better than here
at least so much cheaper.
 the child in the twirly skirt in the aisle
stops her spinning –
noticing five nearly identical grey horses canter up a hillside
she calls me.


When we lived on Nelson Ave. by pd lyons

When we Lived on Nelson Ave.

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
and 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

a version of this poem is included in the collection :  Caribu – poetry by pd lyons


DAD – a poem by pd lyons from: Wanting To Be In The Old Tongue




The swans out in the field

Their secrets not revealed

Passing into silent flight are they

Perhaps their subtle sigh

Stifles some deeper cry

As they know you’ll be leaving much too soon


Walking down the lane

The filly foals refrain

Their running is the sound of falling rain

Are they restless from the summer?

Or somehow do they know

You’ll not stay to seen them fully grown


By the fairy mounds of old

The pock marked GPO

Cross the Boyne to bang your head on spiral stone

See the wonders down at Fore

And the ancient seat of kings on Tara hill


Now sitting by the fire the music’s playin’ low

(Guess) I’ll raise a glass or two before I go

Though it’s to an empty chair not your smiling face I stare

(Yet) whenever that door slams  expect to see you there.


And sitting here I wonder

All those stories finally told

Revealed how in our youth

We were so very much the same.

Was it drink that made us bold?

Or did we speak so true

Because somehow we knew

You’d not be coming back this way again?




may all who journey remember

may all who journey remember


Maiden Lane, poetry by pd lyons


Maiden Lane

spoon-fed in the dark room

draped by butterfly hands

angels tiptoe all around

curling quiet across the bed

behind sunglasses and cups of old coffee

home to lands edge from the sea

the city stirs a brown wrapped overcoat

with room for damp cigarettes

and no place else to go

among the 4 A.M.’s.


down the block of slow return lean

one last quarter into the viewer

and there as far away as

possible, the rusted Dutch

freighter makes its way through

another sleepless night

like rain.


ghosts don’t really live forever – by pd lyons


ghosts don’t really live forever

the going back to sort things out

pathetic delusional thinking

there is no back to go to

time is a path of matches

boot heels of my sorry self

strike each one with each step

only a smoke behind

only the potential fire ahead

that too illusion

eventually realize this to be true

one match at a time

appearing to appear beneath each heel

going no where






and that moment when

I know this to be so –

that’s the fucking fire man

the wonderful wonderful fire man





In Death if Dreams Be loved by pd lyons

In Death if Dreams Be loved

he had stayed away before

afraid of his own dreams

now 5:30 in the a.m.

she had come to him

so real he cursed god

for her death

wept into the kitchen

with her father

cursed god again

once more when sleep had took him

with out words she came

sat with him on deep scorch-less grass

head to head

dark her eyes kept him breathless

until once more was gone


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



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