Pdlyons's ExplorationsJust a Cat
No longer
Will morning find you pondering the flight of birds
You won’t
Trip me in the kitchen, a bandit circling – like I’d forget the milk
Up on the bed
Attack everything beneath the duvet
Purr with my daughter and the Barbies
Watch some favorite TV show.
No more my little one
Trust me to carry you like a slip of black velvet still sleeping in my hands
No. No more because
Some ignorant bastard drove like a maniac and thought, oh just a cat
collage by pdl
Stainless Unmarked Sky
Single bed against a powder green wall
Magazine photos yellow cellophane taped
Favourite red t-shirt no underwear
30/06 lever action
Blue barrel fingerprints
Weevil tick toes
A Fly between the glass hums
Until heat makes everything
Even outside
Still.
Beneath that shirt
Each little island bump
Up to where if a boy
An Adams apple‘d be.
Knee steady, butt-end
On a white board floor
Spidering fingers
Raw cotton breath
Knowing it’s loaded
Stainless unmarked
Alone in that room
Sky.
Myths of Multiplicity by pd lyons, the runner up for the 2014 erbacce prize for poetry
25.3.11
today out on the veranda of all gone away youth whiskered timber dreams woke another coffee
1
you wouldn’t have to wait for anything to boot up
turn on or upload you could just sit down
bang away royal keys upon a cotton rag of water marked paper
you wouldn’t have to settle for crap wine, Bordeaux châteaux
would be easily accessible even to a low level pot dealer
you could get a soft pack of Marlboro that tasted good – better than the hard pack in the days before anyone even thought of lights
the rent was 180 for five big rooms a laundry room full bath including heat and utilities
you could sit on the second floor back porch blow a joint in broad daylight watch some old ginger tom prowl around some inner city orange rose bush while the most beautiful girl you thought you’d ever know sat on your lap your hands finding ways to make her melt underneath her long gypsy soul skirt.
2.
girls go by to boys that somehow remind you to your own self except instead of love they sell schemes and plans and how to maximize income and output and the most beautiful girl in the place gives her precious attention to someone who won’t even make her come, too busy trying to sell her something that she won’t ever need on her death bed.
3.
don’t know what the reasons for the way we are is
don’t know how we got to be so far away from where we were
but there’s a time a place for everything
there’s a never ending ever changing way of everything
so they say and who are they for us to disbelieve when we can see it in our selves
we cross the street together out of step we walk up stairs without noticing our own eyes
we can’t get on because all we want is something we remember way back there
4.
so much can happen when we live long enough
so many things we thought were no possible could have come to pass
but not believing in the future
did we not live grandly in the past?
my mother wanted things for me I did not believe in
my father wanted me to somehow not be a worry
my regret is only that being so inarticulate I could not explain
how I could love them but not want to ever become them
5.
cannot manage this consistency too well
I know your chimes of freedom flashing
I am the outlaw child of all these blue collar working class heroes
I am not them but am eternally grateful to them
all they gave of their own unrequited youth so that I could be the rebel born
and I will not forget you and I will not neglect you
and I will raise your soft n hidden heart to my own pure unbridled lips
my kisses unconcerned with the blood of my mother and my father
I will cherish your suffering transformation into peace.
6.
whatever went winkingly down the stairs clinkily
open and wondering wounded and proud
never more thinkingly would she be drinkingly
out on the balcony summers no more
7.
how many times have I thought to see you there?
after all these years – damn near 40
don’t I still imagine; come down the wooded path way bend
by that pond you’re somehow there
ghosts haunt the places that the living know
it has nothing 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
8.
today I do not want backward
I know there is no such thing as then or later
and now’s so fleeting it hardly exists
I know the moon
calls me on the road of no stone no sand no steps
mix medi m&p lyons a
mix media collage with crayon m&p lyons
mix media collage with carpet m&p lyons
She Would
turn the armadillo
tickle his stomach with her tongue
black beetle tears swoll
June bugs snap high heels
crickets rip trying on new clothes
caterpillars hum dull dreams of a sex life
through irises and junipers
these she breaths
recently re-discoverd a file untouched since it’s floppy disc days, called “A Work On”. About 50 pages of various state of stuff. As the above indicates the 1980 6’s was a place of intriguing possibility.
sometimes autumn is all there is
The Buddha Trees
I have escaped.
Finding myself
In a foreign country
Smoking endlessly free tobacco
Finding myself
Only able to sit by this window
Looking at trees
One after the other
I have escaped.
Finding myself
In new running shoes
Safe among strangers
Finding myself
Only able to hear music in my head
La la la la la la laaa
A woman’s voice
As if asking,
Could I take up my instrument once more?
As if saying,
Together we could skip through spring once more.
As if trusting the concealment of trees
Had been enough.
.
it is through the gathering of our broken hearts
that hatred be
defeated
sorrow shared is not weakness
it is a statement of intent
this rose of peace and understanding
flower of compassion and tolerance
tell me
where in the heart
of this desert does it grow
this is a weapon of mass destruction
Putting The Tea Cup In
what can be said about the rain?
does it have a politic?
philosophy? religion?
it must have a history,
there must have been a time
when there was no rain
and then there was.
what language does the rain use?
what alphabet does it choose?
or perhaps prefers memory to letters,
silence over words?
and even if you understood,
would the rain decide to speak to you?
perhaps it does and you do –
but right now you’re not paying attention as you’re trying to be quick about the packing, trying to wrap that tea cup, its saucer broke so long ago, you can’t remember how or when.
you’re in a hurry now because you know if he comes in and sees you putting the tea cup in, he’ll give out, saying there’s more important things to pack, that he can buy you a new…
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