just back from the walk poem, first draft by pd lyons

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a painted picture

left out before the snow

the wind blows through it

an old sheet of organic plastic

caught on

torn on

hard   wire

a post of whiskers greyer than the stone which holds it

loos ends going no where on each side

cattle long ago

bones softened

no memory even earths recalls them now

hard ground

brown ground

no trail to keep you from getting lost

no place really left to get lost

incline

something shadowy even though its sunlight

fingering illuminating

another afternoon

good fortune

among the winter

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last october note

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Last day before the school break. Morgan gets her week off from school again for Halloween, her birthday. Dress up for the last friday, no uniform today! We walk to school by the sea shore as usual, up the stone road to the main road and school. She runs off to play in the school yard. All the children dressed up, skeletons and witches classics still win out but plenty of cats, ghosts, and un-deads – but not a single Frankenstein. We sit on the bench, Michelle and i, waiting for the bus into Galway City. Its the first frosty morning. Its the pale pinks and greys breaking up over a restless bay. Its the season. Remembering.

dont make me cast a spell on you!

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may all who journey

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The gravest sorrow comes from closing our minds to the suffering of others and feeling justified in doing so.

Pema Chodron

Where loves rules there is no will to power; and where power predominates, there love is lacking. The one is the shadow of the other.

Carl Jung

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may all who journey

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not what breaks your heart,

but what hardens it –

this causes true harm – djanet tozeur

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Tramuda Blues, from My Badlands, work in progress by pd lyons

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Tramuda Blues

A drink
Bombay on the rocks

A smile
Money for the jukebox

If I deserved love
I’d see you more often
But you’re slippery and sharp
Too much alive for this ol’ timer

If not for the ghost of your eyes
I’d call you a dream

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space one size fits all

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no matter how much stuff, law, guns, money, strength you have – your fear will still run you. the courage to erase fear begins with space, the more space you give your self, the more space you give to others so they can be themselves. Space to relax, feel, do nothing, do something etc. space one size fits all – each and everyone of us. we have an abundance of mind space – the more we allow for ourselves and others, the less fear. the less fear the less suffering. if we are not afraid of losing our selves we can allow the possibility that the universe hold us all even those who disagree with us.

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“Tattoo on Leaving Gettysburg” —P.D. Lyons The Ides Of March Journal Version

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may all who journey remember

“Tattoo on Leaving Gettysburg”
—P.D. Lyons

For Stacy

The dead of Gettysburg reach out, soak us with desire.
Teaching us its tears that shape their ghosts.

Even down at the Blue Parrot,
Drinking Pennsylvania Porter and Jameson’s
We find ourselves with them,

And at the motel
Phone ringing with 2am complaints,
Does not stop us the living from honouring the dead.

In the morning Stacy’s Chrome Garden
Soft hum needles lullaby beneath my skin,

Winged horses form a few more drops of blood for Gettysburg
While you, holding my hand as if in hospital
Think of ways to further delay our leaving

Because like me you crave the company of ghosts
And too you know the need the dead have for healing.

**

from the Ides of March Journal Vol 1, issue 3. september 2011

http://theidesofmarchjournal.blogspot.ie/2011/09/volume-1-issue-3.html

st. john

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W. B. Yeats, poets we like and live with – Politics by W.B.

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Yeats has always been a favorite of what I call true poets. Luckily he was not beaten out of me in any school. Never had a Yeats exam. Although in university where I learned to love Shakespeare by being taught how too  read him, I was also exposed to Yeats in a more formal setting. But Yeats had come to me long before – O human child, Wandering Angus, Byzantium…. always on my fathers bookshelves or on the Clancy brother records. And at that early time in my relation ship with my now dearest partner – you know when signs, coincidence and such were so import to see if we really matched – I definitely   noticed my old friend, Yeats upon her bookshelves and took it for a good omen.

So while looking up Byzantium, I found this little gem – the last poem. Considered by some to be…

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Wake Up for David, Drinking milk shakes cold and long

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Arcade Fire – Wake Up

Somethin’ filled up
My heart with nothin’,
Someone told me not to cry.

Now that I’m older,
My heart’s colder,
And I can see that it’s a lie….

Children wake up,
Hold your mistake up,

Before they turn the summer into dust.

If the children don’t grow up,
Our bodies get bigger but our hearts get torn up.
We’re just a million little god’s causin’ rain storms turnin’ every good thing to rust.
I guess we’ll just have to adjust.

With my lightnin’ bolts a glowin’
I can see where I am goin’ to be
When the reaper he reaches and touches my hand.

With my lightnin’ bolts a glowin’
I can see where I am goin’
With my lightnin’ bolts a glowin’
I can see where I am go-goin’

You better look down below.

Songwriters: Butler, Win / Chassagne, Regine / Kingsbury, Tim /…

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Morgaine Speaks the great secret, from Mists of Avalon by M.Z. Bradley

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For this is the great secret, which was known to all educated men in our day : that by what men think, we create the world around us, daily new.

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Mists_of_Avalon

Marion Zimmer Bradley stated about her book:

About the time I began work on the Morgan le Fay story that later became Mists, a religious search of many years culminated in my accepting ordination in one of the Gnostic Catholic churches as a priest. Since the appearance of the novel, many women have consulted me about this, feeling that the awareness of the Goddess has expanded their own religious consciousness, and ask me if it can be reconciled with Christianity. I do feel very strongly, not only that it can, but that it must… So when women today insist on speaking of Goddess rather than God, they are simply rejecting the old man with the white beard…

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