Monthly Archives: September 2014

roads, by pd lyons. from newish poems


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9.30.14. fore by pdlyonsphoto

 

 

 

9.30.14. fore by pdlyonsphoto

9.30.14. fore by pdlyonsphoto

 

 

roads

~

coming back to me

crows know
those roads
I know

autumn in October
leaves alike
past seasons
once knee deep

hand held by my mother
down the big giant hill

~

 

9.30.14. fore by pdlyonsphoto

9.30.14. fore by pdlyonsphoto

 

9.30.14. fore by pdlyonsphoto

9.30.14. fore by pdlyonsphoto

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true witch by pd lyons


Pdlyons's Explorations

true witch

She made her way through the balmy autumn evening. She was checking the store front windows for a sign. It was around here somewhere. Ah here we are. The New Age Wicca & Pagan Emporium. Sounds like it would be the place she thought.

Meanwhile inside the ladies were gathering for their weekly meet. Tonight of course was the big one as it was Halloween night or Samhain. They were all done up in their finest. Gowns and skirts of various autumnal hues, tingling with bells or sparkling with glitter. Daggers polished bright and wands of crystals amethyst quartz gathering at the circle out behind the shop in the small high walled courtyard.

All at once they grew silent as the jangle of the store shop door bells let them know someone else had entered. Someone else had come.

But we are all here

Who could it be?

View original post 484 more words

Herding Goats In Ithaca , by pd lyons. As published by Right Hand pointing


Herding Goats In Ithaca

she went a way up into the high lands.
she had wounds to nourish.
ghosts to speak to.
her own kind to avoid.

solciste arts Navan Co Meath

Solstice  Arts Ctr Navan Co Meath

 

the good people at Right Hand Pointing , were nice enough to publish two of mine back in Jan. 2013. https://sites.google.com/site/59rhpissue/

 

Rumours of King Fishers, by pd lyons


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Rumours of King Fishers

can you ever begin anything at all?
never mind again

white walls
white linen
duvet pillows sheets
white lamp
white floor boards
radiator door
&
pale as milk
kiss
black as Japan lacquer
all night eyes
smooth long
curve of ahh’s

to not call it ocean
that which we call ocean would be?
to not call it mind
that which we call mind would be?
to not call it I
that which we call I would be?

sometime ago angels
leapt up in summer time
yellow gold
all one
w/ human kind

of course looked like love at first
then became lust
by try as they must could never get off
though happily multiple
the women went nuts

 

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Public Service Announcement WPKN 89.5 FM, by pd lyons


Public Service Announcement WPKN 89.5 FM

somebody said your name on the radio,
something going on up state,
not to be missed,
sure to be good;
sure I could agree,
except with the not
missing you part.

guess I could drive up?
but it be my luck,
standing outside,
all Dlyanesque without a ticket
not even in the rain.

so I sipped on hot tea.
went back to my afternoon.
knowing, if you were here?
it’d be wild turkey
and I’d be covered in paint
and your sweet bourbon kisses

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Centre du George Pompidou

When I Lived On West Main, by pd lyons


When I Lived On West Main

When I lived on west main street
third floor Victorian
Short walk for the liquor store past a little unnamed park
Not too far from down town

landlords’ cousins on the first floor
Stole my unemployment checks
put sugar in the gas tank
and I don’t know why

We had a Great Dane, brindle dog
got a cut on the end of his tail
And no matter what we did
He’d wag the bandage off.
Going up and down the stairs, hit the railings
Drops of blood splatter
As if his name was Jackson.

we bought a parrot
called em Caesar
Filled the living room with plants
And let him fly around.

Got oil lamps to save on electricity.
Tall hurricane lamps,
Scented oil glowed in every room.
Tall well screened widows let the sky in.
Wood floors creaked waltzed all night by ghosts.

I went to work in a toy shop.
I was happy about the baby.
Still painted. Still wrote every day.
Still thought I knew who we were.
It was the place where I’d smoke cigarettes,
As much as I wanted up into the middle of the night,
In that rocking chair your grandmother used to own.
Out over the roof tops, streaming lights, distant highways,
Weight of endless summer in the dark.

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Dark Matter by pd lyons


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Dark Matter

 

Her life like roses blossomed
on sheets of linen
Her skin like ivory
linen stretched on a line
Her breath like Summer
folded into double bed linens
Her hands like linen freshly dyed
beckon to where,
despite meticulous planning,
still warm
I found her
.

 

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I have a new love…..


Celebrate Muliebrity with Michelle Lyons

And its name is beetroot hummus.

Yes, I am cheating on my regular hummus with this jewel coloured delight

(much to the disgust of my daughter)

Beetroot certainly seems to be having a moment – beetroot brownies, beetroot soup, beetroot curry….

But here is the quickest (and nicest, but I am biased, after all)

Into a food processor, put:

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200g cooked and rinsed chickpeas (fibre, protein, phytoestrogens)

3 tablespoons tahini (Omega 3’s – bone, heart & brain health)

the juice of half a lemon (Vitamin C)

one crushed clove of garlic (immune function)

a couple of glugs of olive oil (omega 3’s – bone, heart & brain health)

two tablespoons of natural yoghurt (healthy gut bacteria, bone health)

small bunch of fresh parsley (good for your immune, bone and nervous systems)

half a teaspoon of dill (digestive health)

half a teaspoon each of turmeric and cumin (ant-inflammatory)

and of course…

View original post 60 more words

Garbo’s Garage , by pd lyons


photographer unknown

photographer unknown

Garbo’s Garage

Pontiac
No other reason
Than liked the ornament
Lush blob chrome

Streaming back
Noble savage
Sometimes
Put her mouth
Around it

No shelves
No Tools
No Debris
Velvet finish floor
Silver dollar oil spot
Otherwise dry as a bone

 

 

gretagarbo

photographer unknown

garbo forever

Leaving This House, by pd lyons


Leaving This House

Through leopard clouds the day’s sunlit fingers open,
soft afternoon, occasional whispers between finches
knowing my need for such kindness
even crows come quietly…

What is it of memory and seasons?
What does this shift to autumn bring me?
Why remember what I do? Forget what I forget?

A bed of rolled up cotton,
sun dried white sheets against pale skin,
wishing it was some hangover
so wind chimes could sound beautiful again,
sunlight be inviting and coffee all the medicine you’d need.

I know of this other time when drowsy dancing on sweet wine
we sank beneath that wind chime tree
surrendered on the beating earth
something more than blood and bones,
a tender lightening wove between us
our own muscles able to change the world.

Now such things can not be spoke of.
Distorted by sick eyes they’d only deepen your
regrets, as if what was could ever not be.

If you responded to preaching I’d simply preach.
Instead I must lure you by disguise –

Coffee from thin sharp equatorial mountains,
audibly stirred blue stone mug.
Herbs infused with full ripe summers.
Small secret woodland tinctures.
Ointments rich in years of flowers.
Oils soaked in sunlight, stored in our own damp cellar
warmed as needed over an open flame.

Somewhere past all anger, melted only by tears, yield the ways of memory.

 

 

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