spiral

he went down

a stairway

a stairway made up of days and other debris

such as people such as love such as violence subtle and also blatant

it took him decades to descend

sometimes the railings wobbled

sometimes his ankles twisted hung up on random fantasy broken dream tomorrows

sometimes ghosts would shadow him for a while

sometimes shadows would pass their lips upon his own

phantom tongues rising his desire

but each transient

each eventually relinquished

gave way

 

 

 

 

 

e

maybe there is this kitchen, random on the spot by pd lyons

theres no place left to walk

there no where ever to go

and whatever might need doing

sure it’ll just get un done

 

so maybe there is this kitchen

maybe the coffees ready

and all the sun that hasn’t shined

decides to forget about winter and

hang around these windows instead

 

what could i do to tell you

what could i say to show you

one day when we were not yet old

didn’t we have so many things to do

and despite all that busy we still found out who we were

 

but now at the end of music

now close to the end of time

now that i’m just on my own

seems like loneliness is ok

some new girl on the stereo

reminding me

a few minutes

to remember

a few minutes beyond regret

you and me

once young

once upon a time

maybe you ‘ll come by

before its too far gone today

i’ll put more coffee on

i’ll share these new tunes with you

and the sun will smile even brighter

or maybe its just me

a bunch of yellow flowers in a jug

a sink of dirty dishes

an old pointer dog greeting you with what was silent tail wag

 

so

 

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she could have told you

if you had asked

she could have told you,

because her bones ached

because her joints crack

because the balance on her feet was swimmingly

the weight of the planet on her eyelids

but probably not

even if you had

because there’s nothing to be done

because there’s nothing to be done

but wait

and meanwhile deal with  another fight

 

 

what if i could tell you, by pd lyons

What if i could tell you about the day?  first real snow? Crows huddled in the grey fingers of that tree, watching as if waiting for  for something I didn’t have to give

 

What if I could tell you, that poem you wrote? I’ve hung copies of it up on the bedroom wall, the back door, the horses’ stalls, and along the straight wire fluttering like little white flags between the paddocks and the pasture.

If you were here? Oh I know what you would say, you never liked it anyway, kept it only out of loyalty. That poem you tried to write for me

now like some accidental prophecy  no longer needing to be read

 

mix media by morgan lyons