God Lights a Cigarette, by pdlyons

God Lights a Cigarette

On the wood, shadows. Down the
windows, hazy through the drapes
spills the rain. The night,
curving rolling with motion still
whispers with winters needley lips
everything is passing through me.

There is you with your joy – me,
I’m trying to find depressions,
though I’m not sure what I feel.
You are magic mingling essences –
I am day dreaming on physical matters…
my lamp flickers with distress,
it moves the room with my voice:
help me
I’m drowning,
suffocating,
breathless…

*
To be born of your music,
in your magic my life blooms,
my thoughts, words – dissolve into
rich emotions tuned to immortality.

Lost in the lighting of a match,
in between the space and flame –
I become the sparkle in your eyes,
then I return…
Slowly I am returned,
I am the gold ring in your ear –
the unnoticed sensation.
You are cosmic and I am waiting
for the next match.

With regards to Dennis Greig Editor, Lapwing, Belfast – sorry for spelling your name wrong earlier.

Behind, by pd lyons

Notre Dame

Behind

whenever she goes
she always leaves

through differing doorways
the same absence

Notre Dame

In Death if Dreams Be Loved, by pd lyons

Paris doorway pdlyons photo

In Death if Dreams Be Loved

she had stayed awake before
afraid of her own dreams

now 5:30 in the morning
he had come to her
so real she cursed god
for his death

until once more when sleep had taken her
without words he came
sat with her on deep scorch-less grass

head to head
 bright his eyes kept her breathless
until once more was gone

How The Woman Alone Brought Rain To The Island, by pd lyons

Back in the early 90’s  was fortunate enough to spend some time in & around Hawaii. This piece comes from that time. It was published in a little chap-book by Lapwing Press. It was the first time a book of my poetry was published. I will always be  extra grateful to Denis Grieg, the editor – because of him my Dad got to see my work in book form. That it was an Irish publisher just made it even better for him.

 

mix media by morgan lyons

~

What if the Rainbow Hunters

Reached down to her,

There in the crevice of fresh water.

Wouldn’t their grass wrapped hands

Protect her?

And the children,

What if they stood by her

In the crevice of clear water.

Couldn’t their songs disguise her?

What about the crazy ones?

What if they ran in mixed up circles around her

There by the crevice of fresh water.

Wouldn’t their waggling red hairs

Conceal her?

And the High Priest,

What if he were to return, fulfill the ancient legend,

Blessing her

There in the crevice of clear water.

Wouldn’t his centuries of prayers

Absolve her

From the wrath,

From the armed bow wrath.

From the arrow,

From the pinning arrow,

Of the warrior,

Of the sun.

~

from: Searches For Magic by PD Lyons, Belfast Lapwing, 2001,

ISBN 1 898472 59 9

Deja vu, by pd lyons

Deja vu

this note book
this desk
this sunny bay window sparkling winter sea in the distance
you and our daughter in the kitchen
this left hand page I write in

Last Night They Came And Took, by pd lyons

artist unknown

 

Last Night They Came And Took

 

canvasses  manuscripts

typewriter  paint box

dictionary, (oddly common words underlined or written in the margins.)

 

ash tray  like a bulldog head
mouth still filled 

Marlboro butts  empty Norman Rockwell match books.

 

denim jacket faded  

shoulder torn  by a lawn mower,

pockets lined 

loose tobacco lint

  Goldsmiths Art Shop receipts

  napkin from The Russian Lady 

name of Bitkis written on the back

  and a business card for chair canning.

 

four real silk Japanese prints.

two exactly the same posters of Deborah Harry.

 

 sleeping bag he used for a bed.
chair he carved Africans into.
lamp he won at the carnival last year for getting two black targets with one shot.

they took

  they took

  they took.

 

and for me the one who loved him?

 

 

 

 

First Day of Spring, by pd lyons

 

First Day of Spring

my daughter asks me
why did people invent war?
don’t they know it’s the devil not god that likes war?
do children have to fight?
do they kill children too?
boys, and girls?
how old are the children?
why don’t the soldiers just quit?

and then the sound of helicopter passing
she thinks it wondrous dashes off to look

and for all those for whom that sound is terror?

because of them
we must love the world
all the more.

photographer unknown

ENOUGH, a donkey poem by pd lyons

ENOUGH

sky bitten clouds
undisturbed sunlight
shadow breath grass
fluttering trees
listening to whispering bees
mounds of well-fed donkeys strewn mid-field

grass is always greener – even if its a driveway

There is not enough time to hurry

There is not enough time to hurry

THE WIDOW’S SON, by pd lyons

 

THE WIDOW’S SON

at the end of the world we came,
where what more could I do,
but leave you?
now that battles din,
finally in my head grows dim,
I walk alone by the sea,
each swirling drop of blood
reminding me to my own pain….

~

That I could do more I would,
for what would I be without you?
A man is nothing without loyalty,

~

That I could do more I would,
That I gave all I was able,
I was willing.
Know that even now,
for the sake of the Widow’s son,
I stand upon this isle shore.

~

After all is not death the common enemy?
thinking we can manipulate it,
we send it this way and that,
as if to serve our own ends,
when ultimately
that which plays us honour bound,
one against the other –
that is the final victor,
such is our glory.