The Israel Of My Heart, by pd lyons

The Israel of my heart

stares like a stranger

sometimes from doorways almost in the rain

sometimes through haloed moonless streets

unable to make peace

unable to articulate

engaged none the less

the Israel of my heart

flows like tears

through my each and every step

 

how can I meet the darkness all alone?

it is through weeping not muscle

such  chains are broken

 

may all who journey remember

 

the begining of peace, by pd lyons

 

So it comes to this –

 

Look back right now

your whole life

all that done, not done, un-done

and all that resulted –

you did the best you could

and maybe no one ever said that to you

and maybe no one ever will

but you

and when you do,

say that to yourself,

observe fearlessly

and you ‘ll know its true

you did the best you could

quiet

soft

acceptance

the beginning of peace

 

Ghosts of My Summers, by pd lyons

 

 

Ghosts of My Summers

Ghosts of my summers walk by
Long pink skirts trail
Roads of my youth
Still there, yet some what changed
As if each and every memory plays out again
This time
A different boy
Meets a different girl
Once you
Once me
Still June.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I Cried, by pd lyons

I Cried

Came around to tell you about the opera,
See if we could do the matinee,
  the new girl, she’s from Germany,
the new job’s going fine,
So I walked into the house, “Hey Ma, what’s for lunch?”
Because I forgot

I fucking

fucking forgot

.

Listened to your story, by pd lyons, from Old Songs

Listened to your story
heard it between the sounds
rain beat highway
last freight train car

followed in the valleys
touched it in the dark

you always are my darling
you always are my heart

now I’m standing in the kitchen
popped a Bordeaux cork
(I’m ) swigging form the bottle
cause I cant see you no more

bright sunshine sapphires shimmer on the lake
and its just outside my window
and its just a million miles away.

 

 

 

Just Fine, by pd lyons

Just Fine

all is fine in this warm
full after lunch and snug
maybe one more pint
maybe not
maybe nothing at all
fine rain of march
glimmering glimpses of early Easter
fine soft grey sky
feathering possibilities of clearing
fine feel of cash
even now after two o’clock still wrinkly and cushy in my pocket

sure where I am is not where you are
but for me, small quiet hours? just fine.

 

 

 

 

(Navan, Co. Meath)

Me And The Small Talk Angel, by pd lyons. Shitcreek Review version

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.

 

yale art gallery, artist unknown

 

 

I just like this poem so here it is again. Published by Shitcreek Review. With a name like Shitcreek, I pestered them until they accepted something because i so wanted to be able to cite them on the resume. They are no longer active but do have a permanent archive. Good stuff by many people can be found there.

 

Today , by pd lyons

Today

perhaps I should sense it, the exact time
they cut into my mother
another piece
a search again for the elusive.

what can I offer?
writer of last letters to her husband and her children.
vigil candles before the Madonna and infant.
believer of saint Jude?
hold her in all knowing embrace?
tell her everything will be all right
tomorrow?

in 1983 my mother lost her seven year long battle with cancer. this would have been written sometime before that.

Mira Gut, by pd lyons

Mira Gut

there are no flowers here but snow.
the bay not yet free chunked with ice
the white of which exists only against a distant liquid sea.
at least the sun visits, comforting,
illusion though it is,
visions of thawing, melting down to something green.

in the long sleep of winter I have dreamed
something Spanish that you said along a twilight turquoise
something soft covering sun drenched shoulders
silver threads an old man’s harp played for money by the moon.

 

 

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

 

Was lucky enough to live in Cape Breton for a while. The area Mira Gut was where the river Mira entered the Atlantic. We lived across the street from the ocean. Sometimes we’d walk down to the Mira bridge and fish for mackerel. Some of the most beautiful parts of being there were the winters.  this was probably written on 2003.

 

Grandview Avenue, by pd lyons

Grandview Avenue

We were walking
Hand in hand
Up the hill
In the rain

You had your bright red scarf
Wrapped around your head

Traffic swished by
Lights on
Wipers squeching

We didn’t know what the day would bring
But I turned my face up to the sky
Trusting my own two feet and you to guide me