Pdlyons's Explorationsthe ghost mother
disappeared
as if each son
spontaneous
generated
upon this dominated land
sticks of war
lures of porno
century
after century
yet still there are some
knowing they are the mothers sons
dare to say –
i love you
artist unknown/pdlyons photo
paris 2016/ pdlyons photo
Poet as Noun
he did not know what else to do
so he wrote
he did not think of it
he did not believe it to be divine
he was afraid of everything else
so he did this one thing
not that he didn’t do other things
but they were all varying responses to fear
attempts to over come
deny
hide from
himself and others
like the first one to do acid
like the first one to not cut his hair
like the first one to get married have a kid get divorced
get arrested go to jail
leave town leave the country
all the while knowing the falseness of bravado
he did not know what else to do
so he wrote
no matter how high
how angry
how lonely enough to believe that god did in fact exist and abandoned him
no matter how much sex
how many lovers
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Artemis & Dog. Roman copy of the 1st cent. CE after a Greek original, 4th cent. BCE. Rome, Vatican Museums.
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►Introduction:
The dog is the first domesticated animal, and is symbolically associated with loyalty and vigilance, often acting as guardian and protector. Dogs are portrayed as guides and companions, hence the notion of “man’s best friend.”
Dogs almost always appear in a positive light. Native American legends generally portray the dog as the symbol of friendship and loyalty. The Joshua Athapascans believe that dogs were the first beings made by their creator-figure, Xowala’ci. The Jicarilla Apache, on the other hand, tell the story of God Black Hactcin, who first created a dog and then made man as a companion for the dog.
In Irish Mythology, dogs were the traditional guardian animals of roads and crossways…
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Young boys near village Mass-grave, Kosovo 2001, Photo – (c)Michael J. Whelan
Children of the War
(Peacekeeping in Kosovo)
Once, on the outskirts of a future memory,
we stopped our convoy
on a narrow road
near a fallen tree.
I was in the lead vehicle
bringing supplies to a forgotten village
the war had touched,
our first time on that ground.
The tree blocked the route
as if booby-trapped.
There was movement in the woods
as we pushed through,
we didn’t shoot.
It was good to see them,
we drove by and they came in to view
hands raised high- begging.
The ambush turned out
to be scared children
weary of uniforms,
we gave them chocolate
for their little victory.
There was nothing to fear
though they didn’t know it
when they saw us coming
and in the long run of things
their tactics worked –
their smiles keep me…
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dawn found us wishing we could do something
when that night began to end
so i told you
the only thing i ever prayed for
was that it wouldn’t
Mom | Trivandrum, Kerala, India
Pictured here is my mother. This was one of the first shots I took using the 28mm lens for my new 28mm Portraits Project. To find out more about this Project, click here.
There are no flowers here but snow.
The bay not yet free chunked with ice
the white of which exists only against a distant liquid sea.
at least the sun visits, comforting,
illusion though it is,
visions of thawing, melting down to something green.
In the long sleep of winter, I have dreamed
something Spanish that you said along a twilight turquoise
something soft covering sun drenched shoulders
silver threads an old man’s harp
played for money by the moon
http://lostsparrowpress.com/shop/#!/The-Lost-Sparrow/p/86541732/category=0
Why do I like Subterranean Blue Poetry?
Because in addition to a real cool name they have fine sense of the poetic – very happy to have been chosen to keep such good company!
Nocturnes At The Borders
by PD Lyons
a long passing caravan of days
deserted debris
hope a pitch black oasis –
sparkling the only un-still things
such as stars, jewel throat ghosts,
your eyes beyond all knowledge,
the only dark that shines –
a different kind of sun.
my mouth for your love
dreams smoke wandering horizons
red glow desert
a voice wet silk
drawn as if my skin
found out in the wind
perfumed by foreign creatures
nourished by such exploring
my heart contains a fertile seed
A treasure trove for beetles an insect paradise.
I saw you with tears in American gowns
you were just like Picasso but knelt on the ground
as if genuflecting before the print page you’d inhale
the spirit right out of his grave and I just couldn’t
take it so I wandered around as if I could shake you
Like salt from my skull
Always returning an orbit of doubt.
The scent of your soapy skin draws me in
ways I cannot identify
like ivory in the morning someplace else away
beyond a snow tipped mountain
before the savannahs open prayer
dark meandering luxurious survival
Our daring selves mortal among the Edens.
Leaving This House
by PD Lyons
Through leopard clouds the day’s sunlit fingers open,
soft afternoon, occasional whispers between finches
knowing my need for such kindness
even crows come quietly…
What is it of memory and seasons?
What does this shift to autumn bring me?
Why remember what I do? Forget what I forget?
A bed of rolled up cotton,
sun dried white sheets against pale skin,
wishing it was some hangover
so wind chimes could sound beautiful again,
sunlight be inviting and coffee all the medicine you’d need.
I know of this other time when drowsy dancing on sweet wine
we sank beneath that wind chime tree
surrendered on the beating earth
something more than blood and bones,
a tender lightening wove between us
our own muscles able to morph the world.
Now such things cannot be spoke of.
Distorted by sick eyes they’d only deepen your
regrets, as if what was could ever not be.
If you responded to preaching, I’d simply preach.
Instead I must lure you by disguise –
Coffee from thin sharp equatorial mountains,
audibly stirred blue stone mug.
Herbs infused with full ripe summers.
Small secret woodland tinctures.
Ointments rich in years of flowers.
Oils soaked in sunlight, stored in our own damp cellar
warmed as needed over an open flame.
Somewhere past all anger, melted only by tears, yield the ways of memory.
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