French Apples In A Christmas Tree Shop Bowl – Still Life Photography by pd Lyons

Pdlyons's Explorations

apples from France

pdlyons photos

Black and green bowl with squiggles from: The Christmas Tree Shop, Sagamore Cape Cod

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merry christmas and other holi-daze!

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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Ghosts of Christmas Past ( from NYC – Salamanders) by pd lyons

Pdlyons's Explorations

snow by morgan lyons

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…

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true for christmas is metaphor – best wishes from ireland

Pdlyons's Explorations

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

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freedom meditation / happy new year

Contemplate this,

We are all going to die.

Every one we know or who has known us

Will die.

I will die.

~

Then think on,

What is worth doing with every minute that is my life time?

~

Then,

Act accordingly.

~

Repeat as needed.

she thought they would be safe, from Bella and Shirley by pd lyons

– she thought they would be safe.

told them that they were supporters, that her older son

was in their army.

sure they said and shoved her, sure then we’ll be gentle.

her youngest son they shot for coming to her aid.

they tied her to the bed post while they did things to her daughter.

then they shot the daughter to death as well.

when we found her she had torn her wrists bloody trying to get free.

She says:

These are not my hands

They do not belong to me.

These are the hands that did not save my children.

She begs us to chop them off

We have to always have someone with her otherwise she tears off the bandages with her teeth.

 

The woman would speak only in whispers and leaned into Tilkon

– Oh Tilkon said, ah she wants to give you something

meaning Shirley

 

The woman reached into a canvass bag she’d carried slung across her chest

fumbling, needed help

one of the younger girls who had been her watcher assisted

whispering

– are you sure? asked the girl

and the woman nodded

so she handed Shirley the news paper wrapped object.

– it is a shirt . the girl explained. it was for her son.

more whispers

– she thinks it will fit you said the girl,

she wants you to have it.

she made it for her son.

she says yours has too much blood.

Shirley opens the packages.

– thank you she says, thank you for this kindness. gives it to me to hold while she pulls off her bloodied old shirt and puts on the new denim blue carefully fastening each riveted button.

 

Before we can do anything else the woman, fumbles in the bag again

– Wait she says wait she says out loud in her own voice.

shes pulled out a photograph. rushes up to Shirley

– Here she says her this is my boy, my son, my only child. look

he is not like them

he is no animal

please if you see him

please do not kill him

please his mother loves him tell him

please he is a good boy he would never do such things she waves her arms

across the dead woman across the tied and dying naked man…

 

Shirley takes the photo

– yes i will remember him. i will promise.

shows me the photo as well

– yes i say, yes i too will promise.

 

– take the picture back. Shirley says. We will remember, we wont forget.

the woman smiles,

– I know she says . I know.

wipes the tears from her face with her bandaged wrists, turns away comforted by the young girl .

 

 

Amarillo as published by Literariedad December 2016

 

Amarillo 

like that street
wandered down street
no siesta noon
shadowed woman leans
black iron filigree not quite a balcony
lace the colour of some-place else
drawn as if a breeze
pecan smooth her face

what would the story be?
choose that place you should not go
walnut doors second floor
barefoot invitation
whisper of late grapes
hint of something strong
dull embroidered armchair
unlaced boots
dusted finger prints
smooth as kisses table
folded towels
uncertain colour
enameled basin
clear glass tumblers
lemons sliced in water
sunlight striping something velvet on the bed

https://literariedad.co/tag/edicion-de-diciembre-de-2016/

Literariedad es una revista electrónica nacida en Pereira, Colombia, en mayo de 2013. Asume la literatura, la poesía, el cine y el teatro como calles, lugares de encuentro y desencuentro. Inspirada en la idea que suscitó Jaime Sabines: “No soy un poeta, soy un peatón”, y en la obsesión que llevó a Robert Walser a morir en la nieve, busca difundir la crítica, la ficción, la poesía (y el pensamiento en torno a la misma) sin ninguna razón más que la de existir como todas las cosas: por un impulso ciego y desbocado.

Literariedad is an electronic magazine born in Pereira, Colombia in May of 2013. Literariedad presumes that literature, poetry, film, and theatre are like streets, places to be found and lost once again. Inspired by a quote by Jaime Sabines, “I’m not a poet, I’m a pedestrian,” and the obsession that carried Robert Walser to die in the snow, this magazine seeks to spread criticism, fiction, poetry (and thoughts on poetry) without any other motive than that which drives all art: a blind and uncontrollable impulse.

 

Puede enviar sus textos para ser evaluados por nuestro Comité Editorial a la siguiente dirección de correo electrónico: editorial@literariedad.co.

For submissions in English, you can send your pieces to the following email address: englishsubmissions@literariedad.co.

Phoebe, the tabby cat who lived in the shed, By pd Lyons – English/Irish/French

 

Phoebe

the tabby cat

who lived in the shed

the semi savage

yet ever grateful for the feed

is dead

~

and i am feeling so alone

and i am so sorry

sorry for the whole fucking world

i am

~

crying like a baby

no matter what

everything ends in tears

and the next time…?

the next time…?

~

je répondrai

je répondrai

oui

Phoebe

an cat tabby
a bhí ina gcónaí sa chaillfidh
an Savage leath
ach bhí riamh buíoch as an bheatha
marbh

agus tá mé ag mothú mar sin féin
agus tá mé leithscéal sin
leithscéal as an domhan fucking ar fad
tá mé

ag caoineadh cosúil le leanbh
is cuma cén
Críochnaíonn gach rud i Tears
agus an chéad uair eile ...?
an chéad uair eile ...?

je répondrai
 je répondrai
oui


~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Phoebe

Le chat tigré

qui vivait dans le hangar 
le sauvage demi encore 
jamais reconnaissants pour l'alimentation 
est mort

et je me sens si seul et 
je suis tellement désolé 
désolé pour tout le monde 
putain je pleure comme un bébé
 
peu importe ce que tout 
se termine dans les larmes

Et la prochaine fois ...
la prochaine fois

je répondrai

je répondrai

oui