Monthly Archives: March 2015

How You Look Today, by Pd Lyons


How You Look Today

you ask for
softer clothes
something
complimentary
to nudity
you remember
types of
warm
lips
firm fingers
drapesing rhapsodly
you think of time
patiently
savouring lozgenly
past loves
live moments
even regret
luxurious
soon wrapping
silk confidence
check mate your way out
silver day bright
sheer white
high altitude blue
a waiting

blue hydrangea

blue hydrangea

first published by the Galway Review 12.11.12

http://thegalwayreview.com/

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Night Again Without you, by pd lyons


Rain whispers
Through my open window
Night again
Without you

paris by pd lyons

That December, by pd lyons


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That December
We spent sleeping together On Cape Cod
With plenty of snow and firewood
You would wake me early
To watch the storms From Race Point.

That December

When I taught you to paint, we wrote a thousand poems
Had cases of Bordeaux and the hot water never ended.
Threw the TV out the window, ripped out the phone
And I painted you with coloured Syrups for dessert.

That December

Which has lasted now through April –
That December.

 

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She lived with Her on Linden Street, by pd lyons (from salamander notes)


25. Nov. 83

She lived with Her on Linden Street in a three room Scovill house which over looked the industrialized Mad River. They had painted the walls and floors and ceilings white and at mid night they either made love or Her wrote poetry about making love, usually with She. Both were proud of the number of lovers they had had and would spend much time detailing their exploits, various wounds and conquests. Inevitably this would lead to their own great love making sometimes by way of argument, jealousy, or down right lust, but always ending up in great love making. They were also very proud of the fact that despite their notorious histories they had indeed been conservatively faithful to each other. One could say they were a pair of retired heart breaker veterans enjoying their golden years in the pleasure of one another.
She slept more than Her did, but She got up earlier than Her could. She thought Her American accent was funny, Her thought She’s German accent was alluring. She had studied at the University in Hamburg, Art and Psychology. Therefore it was easily understood why Her paintings infuriated She – All Her did was play – not paint. Her studio was confined to the basement, the dungeon as it was mutually referred to. While She had aspired to the attic. She disliked to step foot into the dungeon and Her was forbidden to enter the Attic – ever since that time Her had done rude things to the walls with a can of black spray paint and 16 jars of Shop-Rite cherry red nail polish.
At first there was much tears and drama concerning this artistic rift and its symbolism as referred to the rest of the relationship was explored at length. However great love making has a way of making even such ominous signs as this fall into a minor perspective. There was not much money but the necessities were supplied – red wine, cigarette tobacco, bus tickets to new York city, paint stuff, pure un-sanforized cotton bed sheets spread out on a Japanese mattress by an ever open window just steps away from the never ending hot water of a black and white octagon tiled bathroom where in between –
I’d kneel worshiping your steaming winter body exploring joyous mysteries familiar to our spiritual flesh…

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So the point is that I can write it with he/him and her/ she – “He lived with her on Linden street….” But the very nature of English makes it totally awkward if I want to do the same with anonymous people of the same sex as you can see. He and Him wouldn’t work any better either would it? So just a little example of sexual preference bias ingrained in the language – submitted for your disapproval…

May 28.85. Notes from Salamanders – a fiction by pd lyons


So now I sit here alone with nothing but rain and exceptionally high tides.
Nothing left alive, shore covered with bodies and scraps of bodies.

A hand out of the sand fat slightly blue, argued with over a gold wedding band. A sailors striped shirt knotted with sand and rust, search the pockets finding only small teeth and more sand. In between rocks flightless sea birds, black eyes minute reflections of broken wings reflecting empty promise of free flight.

Suck tiny tid-bits of ripe flesh from abandoned snails, drink from swollen fish. Smash stones of the sea together, dreams of murderous contortions, fists sunk into some seaweed gathered carcass resembling a small dog,

Scream blood from my vocal chords, scream for the black eel strangling me with its own throat, scream for the oozing woman finger nails infecting me with dismembered sex.

I don’t know how to live any other way, I don’t know how to breathe anything other than decay, I want to swallow everything I see, every stone everybody, every woman by her cunt, every man by the cock, everything – until the only thing left is me swallowing myself.

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you never know what you’ll find when looking through the attic files.

Trust, by pd lyons


Trust

I walk out with the horse,
She does not resist.

leads as if there’s not a diseased bone in her body.

 does not notice children crying,
rain stopping, sun brightening,
but rather a yellow butterfly –

moves her head
to keep it in sight
until for some reason she will never know,
 can no longer do so.

yellow

yellow

years ago worked for several intense years with a horse rescue rehab group in Connecticut. Sometimes there were happy endings, sometimes you had to let them go. the group is still there doing fine work for these beautiful creatures

http://www.horseofct.org/

https://www.facebook.com/pages/HORSE-of-CT/147828438582099?sk=reviews

The Humane Organization Representing Suffering Equines (H.O.R.S.E.) of Connecticut Inc., is a non-profit, 501(c)3 organization dedicated to the rescue and rehabilitation of abused and neglected horses. Over the past thirty years, H.O.R.S.E. has saved more than 650 lives. In addition to direct intervention, H.O.R.S.E. also maintains an ongoing commitment to educating the public regarding horse care.

Grandview Avenue *, by pd Lyons


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Grandview Avenue

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

I had your bright red scarf
Wrapped around my head

Traffic swished by
Lights on
Wipers squelching

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

(Waterbury Ct 2011)*

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* this is a slightly revised version as compared to that published in 2011 by Railroad Poetry Project.

Machik Labdron from Blazing Splendor


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Machik Labdron

“Instead of begging 100 times Save me! Protect me! It is much more effective to say once, Devour me!”

– Blazing Splendor

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http://rangjung.com/blazing/excerpts.htm

 

ruff, by pd lyons


how many times have I thought to see you there?
after all these years – damn near 40
don’t I still imagine I come round the wooded path way bend
and by that pond somehow you’re there

ghosts haunt the places that the living know
it has nothing g to do with where they died
ghosts haunt this place where I grew up
where I first saw you naked
and you broke my heart open before I even knew I’d love you

I know I won’t ever see you now
but if promises can be made to ghosts
then someday soon I’ll meet you here again
golden apples silver apples
pine needles on a summer day patch of grass back by the old turtle pond

 

wonder is a natural response to beauty

wonder is a natural response to beauty

Wanting To Be In The Old Tongue, by pd lyons/ Eleutheria: The Scottish Poetry Review (3. September. 2008)


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Wanting To Be In The Old Tongue

words
someday
someone
might say to you
unimportant memories
aroused to beauty non-the-less
like cobwebs beaded up with dew
brass fittings on a cedar door

The days debris randomly swept into a banked up fire
before to your own black iron bed you’d slowly go.

w/all our coming and our going
will we ever meet again?
fragile as the moth is the flame
one slight breath
and darkness has us all.
w/that in mind, I mind no dancer
let us join whatever way we can
before the waiting darkness
makes us all fall down.

clumsy fingers
held her own heavy breast skyward
as if the moon
areola hungry for communion
wouldn’t have found her
without guidance

gentle at the end of the world
even rocks all soft
and buds
and lilac silver slanting sun
and when the gem like green rolls down
to meet the slate blue sea
rippled with gently disappearing pearls?

 

somewhere we still know women who paint the things we see in dreams

wanting to be in the old tongue
January crows gather.
from the eviction house
another row of slate slips.
sun orange fingers
poke dark shy pillows,
disturbing bread crumb dreams,
little red breast birds.

Shouldn’t you be left alone,
cradled in the earth for another thousand years or so?
Discovered as some tantalizing source
of artefactual speculation :
those marks –
true cause of death,
or left by some postmortem carnivore?
Perhaps sacrificial ritual,
signs still legible,
though fading as if
some water colour in reverse
until only bare bleached paper
slightly stained .

ghost steps
my warm eastern mouth nourishes,
my amniotic fingers curl,
a personal history
noted, as if by some distant observer.
silver images
swirled into tight sips
almost impossible to savour.

between the posts at midnight
a long wire of electricity
calls little bits of rusting iron
to lantern the siesta heart a way

 

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this conglomeration was  published by the on-line journal Eleutheria: The Scottish Poetry Review on 3 September 2008. . I cannot find a working link to it nor archives – which is a shame. They were very kind to me and many other deserving writers. I have corrected several spelling errors from the originally published piece.

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