Monthly Archives: June 2016

Just a Cat, by pd lyons

Just 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

collage by pdl


My Butterfly. My Axe.

Stainless Unmarked Sky, from Myths of Multiplicity by pd lyons, the runner up for the 2014 erbacce prize for poetry

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

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


















where does sky begin

Myths of Multiplicity by pd lyons, the runner up for the 2014 erbacce prize for poetry

Myths of Multiplicity by pd lyons, the runner up for the 2014 erbacce prize for poetry


25.3.11 ruff by pd lyons




today out on the veranda of all gone away youth whiskered timber dreams woke another coffee



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.





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.




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





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



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.



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




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




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, by pd lyons – floppy version

Pdlyons's Explorations

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.

View original post

The Buddha Trees, by pd lyons


sometimes autumn is all there is

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.




no look away for america

Pdlyons's Explorations

no look away

it is through the gathering of our broken hearts

that hatred be



sorrow shared is not weakness

it is a statement of intent


View original post

The Beautiful Fragments that are Orlando

One week ago, 49 people were killed by one man with two guns. Dozens of others injured. The world is watching, Orlando. We have witnessed time and again how beauty can come from the broken. But fir…

Source: The Beautiful Fragments that are Orlando

this rose of peace, by pd lyons


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

this is a weapon of mass destruction

Putting The Tea Cup In, by pd lyons

Pdlyons's Explorations


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…

View original post 55 more words

%d bloggers like this: