lily amber lyons, Rest In Peace

 

 

RIP
lily lyons
best friend and leader of the lyons pack
no heart ever so big
no loyalty ever so true
so beyond words
we are proud today of our own broken hearts
may the joy and love you created here for us
match you where ever it is that you now roam

lily lyons fore abbey 25.3.14

 

The Ghost of My Mother’s Lover by pd lyons; Gone Lawn version

 

The Ghost of my Mother’s Lover

Sometimes I would find the things he left, loose change under the cushions, a little red box of wood matches (that my mother took away), black liquorice candies wrapped in stripped silver foil.

And once a big silver skeleton key — that he really left for me.

One night I woke up, hearing his voice, his voice from my mother’s room, his voice talking and talking. I went up to the door which was not quite closed — they were in bed together. He was sitting up and mother lay with her arms around him, head on his bare chest. He wasn’t just talking he was reading, so I sat down there in the hallway and listened about Morgana the sister of a king.

I guess he didn’t notice my mother was asleep because he kept on reading and whenever he turned the page I thought he would look right at me and smile.

I listened as Morgana looked into the water for pictures of the future and how some of the knights did not like her but there was one, one with dragons on his arms who loved her very much, how it was Morgana who taught the little girls of Avalon to serve the Goddess…. And I thought I have to ask him, who is this Goddess?

I must have fallen asleep there on the floor by the door of my mother’s room because the next thing I remember I am being carried and in his arms! My face against pictures of blue stars and a black winged horse on his shoulder. His smell a little like the ocean mixed with something from my mother’s kitchen. His muscles so great that with one arm he held me while with the other pulled back the blankets, swung me down into my bed so fast I almost laughed out loud then tucked me in.

Through my half closed eyes I could see his face coming closer and closer, then his lips touched my forehead — but soft like mother’s kiss even though his breath of smoke and prickly chin were not at all like mother. As he pulled away he said so that I could hardly hear, “Sleep well. Sleep well little Morgana.”

Then I remembered I wanted to ask him…. I sat up and said “Tell me—” But he was gone and already the light in my mother’s room put out.

_________________________________________________________________________

P. D. Lyons has been writing for a long time and hopes to keep on with it for even longer. His newest book, Caribu&Sister Stones has been published by Lapwing Press Belfast. The miracle is not to walk on water but to walk on earth — Zen master Lin Chi

_______________________________________________________________________________

This piece appeared in Gone Lawn #2, winter 2010   http://journal.gonelawn.net/issue2/Lyons.php

________________________________________________________________________________

wrote this in the  mid 90’s i’d say.

was living with the Mists of Avalon by Marion Zimmer  http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Mists_of_Avalonand Starhawk’s  The Spriral dance http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Spiral_Dance .being very influential in those days

. Gone Lawn are, as of this writing actually still publishing  – http://journal.gonelawn.net/glj_about.php

 

 

The Disappeared by pd lyons; calliope nerve version

 

The Disappeared

Along the lane
Straight down as rain
Without wind
Without sound
Wrapped in briar vines
Emerging posts of bone
As if some ancient mariner
Draws me in a secret un-gloved caress.
I wanted to keep you for myself.
I wanted you to stay, because you went.
But the police,
After further questioning
Came up with ideas all their own
And in so doing, made contact with
The families of the disappeared.
Occasionally,
To men in long wrinkled coats, they speak,
A fog of voices drifting apart,
Before reaching any type of destination.
Taking turns, cast looks around,
As if this really were sea
And answers like shoals of silver fishes lurk
Just beneath the surface.
Careful. Pretending not to notice
How each movement flickers in the lights
As if this really were all some cinematic image
Screened with no one but the actors in the audience.
Their silence magnifies only certain sounds:
Elastic latex snap,
Slicing shovel slaps,
Unsteady cigarette sighs,
Plastic, almost echo, abruptly ending zip.
Believing their expectations to be accurate predictions
They came for something clear and full of meaning,
Something settling and complete,
To find, as if some great surprise,
Only the obvious inescapably revealed.
Unlike them I know you not by what you’ve lost,
But rather by what you’ve brought back.
It was that which drew me
In secret un-gloved caress
And now plays out
Along the landscapes of my every night
And haunts my every morning with regret.
I wanted to touch that forbidden you again.
To trace upon that more secret map
Etched, invisible to the naked eye,
Every line of your journey.
To put my lips to you,
Circling with the tip of my tongue,
So that I’d know, everything.
I wanted to sift your powder through my fingers,
Into that coloured jar covered with a brass cap,
Tucked into my bedside drawer,
Sprinkled, whenever I wanted,
Not just as some aphrodisiac
Or good luck charm across my bed
But so, engendered with bodily fluids
You’d take on some other life
And I’d find out,
Just exactly, what it was, that I’d be thinking
As I lay there in the dust
Of the disappeared.

 

 

 

this version originally published by Muse Thing: The Calliope Nerve http://calliopenerve.blogspot.ie/search/label/PD%20Lyons

 

 

this was published in 2010 by another cool named yet now defunct blog zine. the archives are still “live” on line. you would find a great many darker artists represented there. the editor was very kind to me and of course many others. the poem has to do with what it says which unfortunately is a rather world wide theme although it does have an Irish slant; so i think that’s enough said. it was probably written in 1998 or so when i had first moved from the USA to Ireland. we were living in an old two story farm house in county Cavan, a bit in the middle of no where – our nearest neighbours were the cattle in the fields and the crows nesting in the giant yew trees.

 

may all who journey remember

 

 

King Laoghaire by pd lyons

King Laoghaire

Let the high hill speak for me:

Those who look shall see,

Full regalia compared

With stones of destiny.

Those with memory

Shall know

Cruelty the old belief

Compare with loving points of Christianity.

Let the high hill speak for me:

Bishop or pagan disguise

Usurper, still by only lies

Once Bridgit discards such foreign shame –

Who stands high on Tara Hill again?

 

 

originally published by the now defunct The Ides of March Journal september 2011. archives :  http://theidesofmarchjournal.blogspot.ie/2011_09_01_archive.html

 

the king in question was adversarial towards Patrick and the christian ways. he was steadfast to the old religion. many years later there was a drive to get a new statute of st. patrick built up on the hill of tara, the original seat of the high kings of ireland. there was a request for poetry which would be included in a publication to be sold as generating revenue. not being overly christian and wondering why the hill of tara should have a statue of partick – i wrote an submitted this poem, which was accepted by the organization. the book was never published because there was some benefactor(s) who donated all the cash needed.  later i sent it over to the Ides Of March people and the chose to publish it.

 

 

 

 

three love poems by pd lyons originally published by bone orchard poetry

As Long As Its You

 

When you breathe it is my name.

When you stare,

Your own eyes black pools,

Liquid movements synchronize my own.

Who knows me any better?

Naked throat? Beating heart?

You may heal. You may feed.

Whatever you do, as long as its you.

Neptunian

My ugliness raised in both hands

Almost expecting something from you

And if only I had a gun I woulda’ made you

And hated myself forever for being so desperate

If only I could believe 

Then how easy it would be

Walking away leaving you alone

Free at last to wander endless starry nights I always dream of

Instead I let you

 Tattoo blue around my mouth

  Tell me that I’m privileged

   

 After Last Call

Puke my guts out in the after last call parking lot

Of the now what am I gonna do

Still hometown married jails unavoided

Lucky having nothing to do with being alive

Benches wrapped in paper, nightmares unelaborate

Just boys with lighter fluid searching for someone sleeping.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

originally published by Bone Orchard Poetry feb. 2012  http://boneorchardpoetry.blogspot.ie/2012/02/pd-lyons.html

Another publisher i sought out because of their cool name. the editor has been very kind to me over the years and published a fine bunch of my own and other talented poets work. unlike many Bone Orchard is still up and running. as of this writing they are open for submissions : http://boneorchardpoetry.blogspot.ie/

basically three love poems set in the far off cities of my youth

Box Set by pd lyons

 

Box Set

Stopped in the library
Wandered around while I waited for Morgan to be ready.
Picked up a set of Kerouac CD’s
Poetry I never knew before.

Later back at home
Read the liner notes
Small town
Factories gone
Smoke n drink
A loner dedicated to the written word
Inter-racional national vagrant
Working class lover

It was pretty scary stuff.

Put one on.
Sat down at the kitchen table with a cuppa
Got up washed dishes
Clean counters
Sat down poured another cup
Thought, well I like the energy, the piano, the urgent lone ranger
Plugged into by the muse trying to express every electrical inch
But I don’t think I really got it
Which came as a relief because after all I was quite happy to still be purely me.

 

 

 

this version was published by

Railroad Poetry Project Manifesto   issues 2. 2011-12. they were a blog-zine. apparently no longer in existance not even as archival form. so i guess this and the two others they were kind enough to accept are now “unpublished original work”. was never a big Kerouac fan. just never really got it. i think he might have been a part of a necessary element to progress, in particular american lit. But give me Henry Miller or Bukowski any day – in my humble opinion. dont get me wrong i can relate to him personaly in some aspects. i was born in a small new England mill town, i loved the streets and had many a bizarre adventure on the road … 

Me and the Small Talk Angel by pd lyons

Me and the Small Talk Angel

At the gallery today,
Among the masks I thought
Of Morrison.
I thought of that black woman.
I thought of the past,
Remembering the future.
Pleased that knowledge
Only brings more secrets.
Sitting out on the concrete,
Rolling another cigarette,
Chatting with the small talk angel
I pass over the smoke.

 

as published by Shit Creek Review issue 7  http://shitcreek.auszine.com/issue7/me-and-the-small-talk-angel/

 

in those days being in exile from the city I’d spend a lot of time hanging out in new haven. it was close by to Waterbury and it was not Waterbury and reminded me a little to Manhattan. especially around the Yale buildings on chapel ave. etc. i had just come out of the gallery and sat on the wall smoking and chatting hence the poem. shit creek review was an on line magazine out of Australia. i sent them a few things because i really wanted to be published by a magazine with such a cool name. they were nice enough to accept.

 

riverside waterbury ct

the extent of his youth by pd lyons

ties that bind (2)

the extent of his youth

up the road to the next town

with a girl he knew from high school and her kid

grey clap board bungalow

breakers on the rocks below

reminding him only of working boats.

he loved that kid more then he loved anyone

took her out for sweets and ice cream at the corner shop

taught her how to skate and hold a hockey stick on black ice lakes

almost ended up in jail trying to get that Barbie House for Christmas.

eventually she left him.

bottoms of too many bottles between ‘em.

never heard from her again.

but got  letters from the kid.

eventually dwindled through the years.

now an almost annual event.

doing good .

miss you so much.

when can I see you?

how come I cant see you?

finished school .

moved away from  mom.

someday I’m gonna come see you.

just show up, you’ll see.

we’ll get together.

never forget you.

just like a real dad to me.

first published by Boyne Berries, Meath Ireland. in issue 7 spring 2010  http://boynewriters.com/index.html

wrote this when living in Canada back in the early ’00’s . kinda self explanatory. i don’t often make friends but while there, i met a man who was just a kindred spirit. a tuff old fellow with a heart of pure gold. this is loosely based on some of his experiences in his younger days.

The Day It Didn’t Snow by pd lyons from the women retrospect

 

The Day It Didn’t Snow

Rita asked me to tell
her about swimming
in the halls
But my mind was on
other things
Crunchy candie
in my mouth
tiny pieces of pain
on my tongue
staining my
mouth in
December 12 1973
flavours so intense I could not tell her anything that mattered

 

published by english chicago review october 2013 http://englishchicagoreview.blogspot.ie/

Rita and I used to hang out in high school. mostly leaning up against the walls and talking until we were late for class. i wrote this for her on the day – 12 .12. 73.  took a little while to find a home for it.

 

Monochrome by pd lyons from The Women Retrospect

Monochrome

She wanted exotic
adrift on fantastic seas
but her heart
was premeditated by Chinese love
lacquered shackled and all braided up

sometimes she’d wander for hours
counting crosses she’d find
roads, wires, stones, trees
labyrinth cemeteries

until one day nothing left for it
took a straight razor to her hair
wrapped her legs in octopus boots
and left the place of her birth
tired of stunted ballerina feet
no mood for any good earth
rented a loft in So Ho
took pictures of the dark

 

 

as published october 2013 by Gutter Eloquence Magazine:
http://www.guttereloquence.com/
http://www.guttereloquence.com/issue28/pdlyons28.html