Monthly Archives: March 2016

(Poem) Creation Myths by Donna Snyder


God is a woman
who is at all times being pleasured.
Out of that dream of pleasure
unfolds the world.

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First Day of Spring, by pd Lyons. As published by Shift Lit – Derry


 

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

 

Published in Shift #4 Revoution Issue:

http://www.facebook.com/SHIFT-Lit-Derry

photo by shift lit derry

photo by shift lit derry

Good Friday, Europe’72, Grateful Dead Yoga, by pd lyons


so i was 18 years old,  living in my first apartment – a vast five rooms with appliances 180.00 including heat hot water and electricity! my friend John  comes over. its sometime in daylight. we must a blown a joint or two cause that’ s what we did then. anyway he has this grateful dead album, in those vinyl  days it was on three LPs. Europe ’72. of course i knew about the dead, heard bits n pieces on the radio and randomly a house parties, but never really followed. But this was great grateful dead stuff. some of my most favorite pieces of music – the china cat/know your rider, sugar magnolia. Course as we did in those days we played things over and over and sang along. we particularly got stuck on Tennessee Jed – mostly because it had an easy enough chorus. I still remember though John telling me how much he didn’t like that part of the song where the dog gets kicked. We must have played it or bits of it anyway for hours. I don’t know what happened after that. i don’t remember anything else of the day. Just me n john and Europe 72 on a second hand turntable-radio-8track tape player- combo my mother had found at a tag sale. Eventually the stereo got stolen and I had to move out due to certain legalities interrupting my outlaw ways. About a year or so afterwords John got to be best man at my first wedding. Then he got married too. And then divorces and now I have no idea wherever he is but if i could I’d say thanks. Thanks for being my friend, thanks for the Grateful Dead, thanks for Europe’72 . I’d tell him how its become a tradition of mine on Good Friday to play nothing but The Dead and how because of that I’m sitting here in another bright and sunny kitchen thousands of miles away from that one where we sat and smoked the day away; thinking of him as I write.

 

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Grateful Dead Yoga

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who is she? with video this time


horses are the heart

of the planet

we

the blood – pdl

 

 

Women Buying Guns In America, by pd lyons


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Smash the fuckin’ TV walk barefoot in the snow

Pierce ourselves with steel

Chew tequila worms ‘til the hand of god wipes our mouths

Piss wherever, say whatever fuck whoever

Fearless with the night of any street of any place

And no Thelma and Louise

We don’t die

Don’t even get caught

We hide

Disguised as geriatric cunts

Happy enough to sleep now

Two ends of the same rope coiling

Richly deserved pools of never never land

Surrender only to each other

 Our Peter Pan tongues.

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~~~~~~~

 

 

as published in/by

http://www.lulu.com/shop/rolling-thunder-press/rolling-thunder-quarterly-fall-2013/paperback/product-21229352.html

Neptunian by pd lyons


again

Pdlyons's Explorations

Neptunian

My ugliness raised in both hands
Almost expecting something from you
And if I had a gun I woulda’ made you
And hated myself forever for being so desperate

If only I could believe
Then how easy it would be
Walking away, leaving you alone
In love with my own sense of self
Free at last to wander endlessly the starry nights I have always dreamt of

Instead I let you
Tattoo blue around my mouth
Tell me that I’m privileged

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This blog post was inspired by Patricia’s weekly link up In Other Words where you’re given a quote to use as inspiration for a poem, photograph, or wherever the quote may take you. Interested? Visit Patricia at her blog  http://patriciasplace.me/2016-3/

http://patriciasplace.me/2016/01/20/15233/

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Fog on the levee at dawn (for DA)


yes

The Ghost of My Mother’s Lover by pd lyons; Gone Lawn version


Pdlyons's Explorations

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The Ghost of my Mother’s Lover
Sometimes I would find the things he left, loose change under the cushions, a little red box of wood matches (that my mother took away), black liquorice candies wrapped in stripped silver foil.
And once a big silver skeleton key — that he really left for me.
One night I woke up, hearing his voice, his voice from my mother’s room, his voice talking and talking. I went up to the door which was not quite closed — they were in bed together. He was sitting up and mother lay with her arms around him, head on his bare chest. He wasn’t just talking he was reading, so I sat down there in the hallway and listened about Morgana the sister of a king.
I guess he didn’t notice my mother was asleep because he kept on reading and whenever he turned the page…

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when he had finished covering you with kisses, by pd lyons


Pdlyons's Explorations

photo by pdlyons photo by pd lyons

Back in my early horse days when life was mostly pure drama and mad passion – sometimes but not always self preservation would step in –

So one day when he had finished covering you with kisses

not long after you knew he’d be leaving for good

you went out on that flea bit mare

old trails just before the picnic rapids

crossed the shallows

goat trailed it up steep rock ridge

high enough to be free from cob webs and biting bugs

above the serpintine valley

restless the mare

bored with standing argues the bit

pulls the reigns

paws the rocky ground

and for a moment

you think of your own Spanish spurs

and then remember :

“never give your heart to anyone but a horse”

foolish? yes.

but still in the saddle

bend her round your leg for home

– from Lessons on Western…

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if there was only one song this would be it


 

 

the song of my own pilgrim soul

 blessed alone in night

occasioned by mystic lovers

daring  mortal life against all comers

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