Information on my new book

i am very fortunate to have a copy of this. thanks donna

poetry from the frontera

 

NeoPoiesis Press link to various distributors in the world

 Amazo

 Barnes and Noble

 Abe Books

or for an autographed copy, buy it directly from the author   donnajosnyder@gmail.com

 

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Focus on Kandinsky’s white dot

poetry from the frontera

                    dedicated to Trayvon Martin

focus on Kandinsky’s white dot
let the banality of real disappear
the colors like musical chords
the drama of primary
the black on white of keys

the white dot
it makes everything else black
dark holes envelope the whole
the emptiness of space stretching
from your there to my here

artificial constructs of time and space
memories of colors red and yellow
the impact of light on matter
what matter gives up to the eye
what it keeps for itself is black

black the color of all colors
the white dot in the dark whole
the sound of breath inside your head
imagines you are more than a dream
but your there is only a dream

my here nothing but a dreaM
forget the rules of the academy
there are no rules
forget theory of the iconoclasts
remember Einstein was wrong

there is no theory…

View original post 67 more words

What I wrote this morning

I woke up to the endless tragedy of your death.

Sat there

The word, endless like a metal ball

Caught warm and pulsing in my own throat

 

I reached,

My fingers elongate

As if inverse,

A mother bird removing substance from her young.

 

The metal ball

Clotted blood warm in my open hand

Viscous, spreading

A tacky web of darkness

Not of my own

Not of my own

 

I got up

Followed its single red thread,

Coiled into my own shaky hands

As I walk

 

Through the empty door

Through the empty hall

Into another room,

Familiar except for now,

Your little bed

Your little empty bed

~

I wake up to the tragedy of your death

 

The Yearning / El Anhelo , a snippet by pd lyons

so back in bed with the morning coffee. needed to make some poetical notes, rummage for a piece of paper . found a hardly used note book from 2012 in the dresser drawer as one does. anyway scribbled what i needed to and then found this little bit of a poem. thought; should blog it. later in the kitchen doing some clean up popped on a CD hadn’t played in years Carrie Rodriguez, the last song on the cd done in Spanish. “La Punalada Trapere”. Had no idea what it meant but thought it might be cool with the poem. in looking for a you tube to post here, found one with her doing the song live on a radio show, she tells the interview where it comes from, her great aunt Eva Graza.

so here is the poem, which i would title “The Yearning / El Anhelo “, which is not about the song and the two versions of the song which is not about the poem but somehow of course they go together with my morning coffee, my kitchen chores and my long illustrious life. from here in Ireland. adiosa. mind how you go & watch your back.

 

all night

waiting

nothing but moon light and stars

where is the one who loves me

where is the the one I love

 

 

all night

 waiting

nothing but moonlight and stars

only the night

only the night

only the night

hears me whisper

over and over

his name

 

 

5.Sept.2012

 

How long my own unfitting skin is the night? by pd lyons

she had come down from Gunnison

it had been a hard ride

 thin air refusing to support her

 old shoes raised and popped needed to be thrown away as soon as possible

~

 met for drinks at The Last Chance

she told me brief stories 

life in the wilderness

 ways of ghosts and proud flesh

we booked a room from the man who wore the star

~

make believe log cabins

steel spring mattress

Jim Beam on the bed side

we smoke silent shapes up at an invisible ceiling in the dark

I was happy to be there 

thought she was too

~

 

but somewhere after moon light

she had gotten up

knelt by the drifty  window

to whatever she prayed all i could make out was –

 

How long my own unfitting skin is the night?

 

Endowment for the arts

Endowment for the arts

sometimes i want to take the words

light them on fire

spread their ashes

in the ocean

drink until

i cannot breathe

have you take the sea chnage

sun bleach

whirlwind bones

clean the last bit of cartliage

piss a piss of on the piss

all over them

cover them in mucilage

hang up on the wall

with a sign please place all tongues here

acrylic on paper pdlyons

 

Queens 1985, by pd lyons

 

 

she dreams her grandfather tries to kill her with a knife

her grandfather killing a girl very bloody with a knife

hitting the walls until her hands bleed

it doesn’t matter

let them bleed

let me die

bacon I believe

A Mandala of Dinosaurs, A Message of Lovers, A Mostly of Crows by pd lyons

A mandala of dinosaurs   A pestilence of motorcyclists.

A red sky of warnings   A coyote of marzipan.

A zygote of intelligence   Crystal of Elan-ists.

Soda of psychopaths   Preponderance of dictators

Herald of crows   Kansas of superpowers

An eclipse of educators   Blessing of coffees

An autumn of smudges   A winter of geese

A summer of topiaries   A spring of dreams

Empire of penises   A squander of vaginas

A catapult of efforts   A plethora of crows

An envy of ravens   A parcel of pachyderms

A coagulant of desires   A   Mercury of fish

Kick-start of starlings   Meandering of serpents

Bucket of worms   Sack of cats

A giggle of girls    Shyness of boys.

A Saladin of wisdoms    A crisis of faiths

A plague of religions    Carpet of bread crumbs

Sanctity of prisoners    A rats-ass of carers

Trombone of sex    Conglomerate of crows

A pudding of infants     A declaration of sea shells

A tumble of puppies      A cartoon of kittens

Meander of mysteries   A half league of words

A complaint of crows      A severance of hopes

An ignorance of drivers    A Shenandoah of daughters

A crux of sons     A crossing of souls

A delightful of crows     A smatter of kisses

A moonbeam of tongues   A secretion of secrets

A message of lovers.

 

 

Rumors of Another Summer

 

 

95º

4^th of July

Connecticut

Bare Trees, Winter Night; oldie not so familiar says the radio.

 

this is age

& what it’s like

& how is there anything else now?

 

But poplar silver

still sounds like rain

quick sand springs still stream

maples shade deep gorge brooks

high stones circle the pool

of where going down to the horse bones

we were kids.