Monthly Archives: July 2017

the ghost mother by pd lyons


the 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

 

 

But What If I Actually Suck?


The Rejection Survival Guide

I believe you have had the misfortune to meet my self-doubt demons. I wanted to dedicate today’s post to one of them; a tiresome little guy I like to call the What-If-I-Actually-Suck Demon.

He’s not one of my regulars, probably because I have a strong resistance to his wiles; I have been lucky enough to build up enough external validation from “high-stakes” critics (agents and editors, for example) that I have a solid pile of evidence against his case.

I’ll tell you when he does tend to show up, though. He shows up when I am unimpressed by somebody else’s work. Especially when that somebody approached me specifically and asked my opinion of said work, and I find it sloppy, or not well executed, or just plain bad.

You see, self-doubt demons are highly skilled at creating paradoxical vortexes of shame. On one side of the vortex is the fear…

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Poet As Noun, by pd lyons


Pdlyons's Explorations

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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true


Pdlyons's Explorations

every moment is guru.

yes. you are a moment.

buzz buzz

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►Mythology: “Dogs in Several Myths” 🐕 / “Collaboration with Brenda Davis Harsham” 💫.-


La Audacia de Aquiles

Mythology: “Dogs in Several Myths”🐕:

“Collaboration with Brenda Davis Harsham💫”

Artemis & Dog. Roman copy of the 1st cent. CE after a Greek original, 4th cent. BCE. Rome, Vatican Museums.

________________________________________________________________________________________

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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CHILDREN OF THE WAR – a poem by Michael J. Whelan


Michael J. Whelan - Writer

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 , by pd lyons


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

 

Portrait of my mother


Joshi Daniel Photography

Black and white portrait of my mother taken using a 28mm wide angle lens 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.

Join me on: Instagram | Facebook

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Mira Gut by pd Lyons as published by Lost Sparrow Press


 

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

 

The Lost Sparrow

http://lostsparrowpress.com/shop/#!/The-Lost-Sparrow/p/86541732/category=0

Nocturnes At The Borders & Leaving This House, as published by Subterranean Blue Poetry


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!

Subterranean Blue Poetry
Volume V Issue VII
(July 2017)

SubterraneanBluePoetryLogo
Subterranean Blue Poetry

www.subterraneanbluepoetry.com

© 2017

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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