Where Her Breasts Used To Be, a love peom by pd lyons

Where Her Breasts Used To Be

he kissed her courage
he kissed her fear
he kissed her sadness
her deep unknowability

because she was his dearest
because she was all he loved
and ever wished to

 

acrylic on paper pdlyons

 

north to rome – by pd lyons

we took the train north to Rome
started with sweat and bullets
wishing for a better meal next stop
village by village dust bells along
following the steady steel rhythm

hours drift lulling with common motion
 landscapes we have come to know
keep pace as we imagined
being closer than we ever were
before leaving

Reggio Calabria

 

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

Pdlyons's Explorations

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…

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waltzing the night, ruff draft from my badlands, by pd lyons

 

holding ourselves like prayers between each other
all summer sway cool through tall screened windows
bright sounds of crickets fire flies glimmer
bare feet and beating hearts
soft by each others breath
accented by full moon kisses
rising beyond any day time horizon…

 

it was one o clock this morning.
woke up no particular reason
didn’t even need to pee
kitchen floor so cold I hurt for shoes
stood there adjusting to Frigidaire light
three bottles of beer on the second shelf
opened one by the window
chugged away to those long
hard rain halos

it’s not the city I used to know with you

maybe I go for another
maybe it’ll help me sleep
probably not
these days once I’m up
even beer can’t touch me
deserted even by the small comfort of your ghost
still I sway as if some how
we’re dancing

 

mix-med collage pdl

 

 

 

true for christmas is metaphor – best wishes from ireland

We have All Touched The World With Little Fingers

 

here’s the thing –
the people prayed to God;
deliver us from evil,
from oppression,
poverty,
war,
pestilence,
all this misery.

And hearing their prayers
god sent an answer.

But it wasn’t a king,
an army,
a weapon,
a political party,
not even a religion –
but rather God with all the power and glory

answered all their prayers

with  a  child

for you all – may you remember

________________________________________________________________________________

with regards to Joseph Campbell

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Joseph_Campbell

https://www.jcf.org/new/index.php?categoryid=11

ruff draft from current work in progress – my badlands by pd lyoons

my badlands

along the north sea port
joined a Virgil woman
guiding darker underground
beneath the cities of men

up for air

ice hung with our breath
long wrapped woolens
nestled steel in our pockets
heated by such as our own mortal blood
behind the drapes through the doors
in the company of sailors whores and other stranded strangers
ritual of smoke
purification of rum
dreams of southern seas twined stories of the ice
phantomed like Frankenstein and Winnetou
each of us a mythology onto ourselves

what could we do but cling?
what could we do but put our breathing mouths together
labyrinth
tongues
underworld
archetypes
born in strawberries
learned in nights beyond my ability to count
I let you be that,
you let me be the arms of love
able to carry you across the threshold
not a room above the kiosk
rather an immortal bed of mortality
unresolved
not needing to be
anything more than
another breath.

 

untitled by pd lyons

 

inspired by Springsteen, memories and coffee ( not whiskey !) first read to the public  in the Lir Tearooms Castlepollard Westmeath Ireland december 2015 https://www.facebook.com/Lir-Tearooms-1631099490438657/info/?tab=overview

Come Down From Your Hills/ from Rumours of Another Summer

Source: Come Down From Your Hills/ from Rumours of Another Summer

a non commercial Xmas message – my traditional re-post

don’t go where the huskies go
and don’t you eat that yellow snow – f. zappa

Pdlyons's Explorations

There is also a rival theory of the origins of Santa’s paraphernalia – hid red and white colour scheme, those flying reindeer, and so on – which is more fun, less commercial, more scientific and somehow more appealing ( possibly because it is politically incorrect). Patrick Harding of Sheffield University argues that the traditional image of Santa and his flying reindeer owes a great deal to what is probably the most important mushroom in history: fly agaric (Amanita muscania). Before vodka was imported from the east, this was the preferred recreational and ritualistic mind-altering drug in parts of northern Europe.

Each December, this mycologist, or fungi expert, dresses up as Santa and drags a sledge behind him to deliver seasonal lectures on the fly agaric. The costume helps Harding drive home his point, for he believes Santa’s robes honour the mushroom’s red cap and white dots. Commonly found in northern…

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Christmas, by pd Lyons; from Myths of Multiplicity

Pdlyons's Explorations

Even when I was a kid, Christmas was an exotic time. A magic of scents, tastes, and a certainty that anything was possible :

Christmas

heavy dark seeded bread
brown bottled beer you can’t see through
dry sharp salami
lumps of malachite shaped into eggs
glass beads ready for stringing
sheets of tin
strands of copper
damp dark tobacco wrapped with yellow paper
messages from gypsy horsemen distant relative to our mother

free postage world wide from Erbacce press Liverpool UK

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Christmas is a determined wench – by pd lyons

Pdlyons's Explorations

12.23.85.
Now two days before Christmas snow has stopped not amounting to much and well what can I say  that hasn’t already been said about the joys and sorrows aroused by Christmas?
I like Green Sleeves, God Rest Ye Merry Gentleman, Good King Wenceslas, The Holly and the Ivy, and for some reason Barbara Allen strikes me as a Christmas tune. I also like the best cognac I can afford and of course Champagne – very dry and very French. It must be cold for Christmas, it doesn’t matter if it snows but it must be cold so I can wear my big black overcoat and a long red scarf as I take my 1 a.m. Christmas Eve stroll after having watched Alistair Sim as Scrooge on the channel 2 Late Late Late show. The best thing about Christmas though is the melancholia. a thick strong liquor, the true spirit…

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