Monthly Archives: January 2019

Two poems and three songs for my Father Donald R Lyons Nov 21. 1925 – Jan 26, 2003.


DAD

The swans out in the field

Their secrets not revealed

Passing into silent flight are they

Perhaps their subtle sigh

Stifles some deeper cry

As they know you’ll be leaving much too soon

 

Walking down the lane

The filly foals refrain

Their running is the sound of falling rain

Are they restless from the summer?

Or somehow do they know

You’ll not stay to seen them fully grown

 

By the fairy mounds of old

The pock marked GPO

Cross the Boyne to bang your head on spiral stone

See the wonders down at Fore

And the ancient seat of kings on Tara hill

 

Now sitting by the fire, music’s playing’ low

Guess I’ll raise a glass or two before I go

Though it’s to an empty chair not your smiling face I stare

(Yet) whenever that door slams I still hope to see you there.

 

And sitting here I wonder

All those stories finally told

Revealed how in our youth

We were so very much the same

Was it drink that made us bold?

Or did we speak so true

Because somehow, we knew

You’d not be coming back this way again?

 

Somewhere Still

Somewhere there is still a place, you sitting in the sun, concrete porch paving slabs, Cape Cod Grey picnic table, small summer savages running jumping clinging – immune bare feet impervious to sun. Skin frosted with salt, lotions, cake icing.

Somewhere children still take your hand, invite you to cross the street walk with them down to the beach, taking them sometimes instead to lunch…

Long-time companions, comforts of old age, afternoon naps, books, TV, mail order catalogues, big band music and too those ever-dangerous memories –  love, marriage, a hole never in twenty-three years has time healed.

Somewhere she still takes you by the hand. Ohs your name laughs into the open window, Fifty-five Chevy, summer bright chrome. So close to flying great American V8 highways up through the Canadian border dwindling into heavy Nova Scotia sands.

There has never been an ocean too cold for her to swim in. Long after your retreat to safety – Flamingo towels, Knickerbocker beer, USMC Zippo, Old Gold cigarette spiral prayers. Gratitude at last. Unable to fathom any reason to feel bad about surviving.

Deep breath wonderful (not a god damn palm tree in sight). Watch that woman of the sea; only wish there would never have to be a time to leave.

Later she gets tipsy; acquiescing when the waiter offers to sweeten her drink no knowing here to sweeten means more liquor. Out on the dance floor, hold each other tight as you want because she’s your wife now and you always liked the Mills Brothers.

Sometime after midnight, small cedar room, Stuart tartan blankets, crisp white sheets. Strange night sounds traipsing gingham curtains. As if tiny fingers, she ohs your name. Answer back with words you never knew before.

This spring by the sea your little house will not find you. Gone now perhaps to wander just like W.B. said –

 Glimmering girl once more beside you and pluck

 Till time and times are done

The silver apples of the moon,

The golden apples of the sun.

(For: D.R.L. –  with regards to W.B. Yeats, his favourite poet.)

 

Donald Raymond Lyons
Donald Raymond Lyons, 77, of North Shore Blvd., East Sandwich, MA, formerly of Rockledge Dr., Waterbury, passed away peacefully on Sunday, (January 26, 2003) with his family by his side at the Mary F. McCarthy House in Sandwich. He was the husband of the late Flora (Rosano) Lyons. Mr. Lyons was born Nov. 21, 1925 in the Waterville section of Waterbury, son of the late Raymond and Ethel (Pollard) Lyons of Waterville. He graduated from Crosby High School in 1947 and served in the U.S. Marine Corps from 1943 to 1945 during World War II. Mr. Lyons joined the Waterbury Police force in 1953. He was promoted to police sergeant in 1965 and to lieutenant in 1973, retiring in 1984. He loved family gatherings, his books, wine, dancing, lunch dates and his grandchildren. He was a member of B.P.O. Elks Lodge No. 265 and the VFW Mattatuck Post No. 8075. He leaves his devoted family of three sons, Peter D. Lyons of County Cavan, Ireland, Mark J. Lyons of Waterbury, and David M. Lyons of Sagamore, MA; two daughters, Pamela A. Beane of Sandwich, MA and Judy M. Donovan of Plymouth; a loving brother, Raymond “Buddy” Lyons of Waterbury; and 11 grandchildren that adored him. He was predeceased by a sister, Shirley Aparo. The funeral will be held Friday at 8:45 a.m. from the Mulville Funeral Home, 270 West Main St., to St. Francis Xavier Church for a Mass at 9:30 a.m. Burial will be in All Saints Cemetery. Friends may call at the funeral home Thursday from 4-8 p.m. Memorial contributions may be made to the Mary E. McCarthy House, 73 Service Rd., East Sandwich, MA 02537, or to a charity of the donor’s choice. The family wishes to express their sincere appreciation for the love and support given to their father by his longtime companion, Eleanore Bryan of Sandwich, MA.

Published in The Hartford Courant on Jan. 28, 2003

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The Day It Didn’t Snow


Pdlyons's Explorations

The day It didnt snow


Rita asked me to tell

her about swimming

in the halls

But my mind was on

other things

Crunch the candie

in my mouth

tiny pieces of pain

on my tongue

satining my

mouth in

december12 1973

flavours

so intense i could not tell her anything that mattered

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choice


indeed

Pdlyons's Explorations

Since death is certain

and the time of death is uncertain

what is the most important thing? – pema chodron from: getting unstuck audio

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Waltzing the Night, by PD Lyons as published by Inquietudes Journal Issue 1: Ardor and Anguish


thank you Inquietudes

Pdlyons's Explorations

Waltzing the Night

We’d hold ourselves like prayers between each other
bare feet, beating hearts
soft by each breath
full moon kisses
beyond any daylight horizon

it was one o’ clock this morning.
woke up no particular reason
didn’t even need to pee.
kitchen floor so cold I hurt for shoes
stood there adjusting to Frigidaire light
three bottles of beer on the second shelf
opened one by the window
chugged a salute to those long
hard rain halos
this is not the city I used to know with you
maybe I go for another
maybe it’ll help me sleep
probably not
these days once I’m up
even beer can’t touch me

deserted even by the small comfort of your ghost
still I sway as if somehow
we’re dancing

https://inquietudeslitjournal.weebly.com/

https://www.facebook.com/inquietudeslitjournal/

https://inquietudeslitjournal.weebly.com/issues.html

Thank you to Inquietudes for their support!

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Learning To Be Friends With The Rain


Pdlyons's Explorations

c Mogan Lyons 2016 c Mogan Lyons 2016

~

if i put each of these days

end to end

how many times around the world

would they go?

~

no matter what

yes

the only choice

~

living in the peace

so many would die for

i walk the dogs

 old growth

cross clear brooks

splash for drinks

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

sometimes this sense of failure

is all I’ll ever be

sometimes that loneliness

is all I’ll ever see

~

it’s the price for being true

it’s the cost of no surrender

the double helixed blessing

of being me

~

maybe tomorrow

the courage will come

all that ever was –

undone

CSC_2217

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Satin Blues


Pdlyons's Explorations

 

an elegance of sorrow

nights, no matter how alone

never wishing that they’d end

sometimes the moon

sometimes the stars

sometimes mortality at midnight

halos struck by strange light

rainbowed by the rain

re d Ellington 1956 newport

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draped in white your invisible hands , poem and photography by pd lyons


 

 

 

~

went down by the house you used to live in

all the windows had the same curtains

the one where your bedroom was was open

for a moment

draped in white

your invisible hands

wave

~

 

Once While I Was Away, by pd lyons


Pdlyons's Explorations

Once While I Was Away

You might have come
Expecting awkward greeting won by
Philosophic well planned answers to
What you thought my unasked questions were –
Accidental touch
Silent linger hands
Knowing prelude to a kiss
All it would take to un-clench my heart
Inviting you in
So you’d have something to do for the afternoon

paris by pd lyons paris by pd lyons

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I don’t like clever


Pdlyons's Explorations

I don’t like clever, it has no heart.

I tend to go for the empty things, that’s where the meat is.

DSC_5298

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Ogham, an ancient alphabet used to write Old Irish and other Brythonic/Brittonic languages — Fran B. ANAYA (Traductor Literario/Literarischer Übersetzer/Literary Translator/Литературный переводчик)


Ogham (OH-am) is an ancient alphabet used to write Old Irish and other Brythonic/Brittonic languages (such as Pictish, Welsh) from about the 3rd century CE. The Ogham alphabet is sometimes called the ‘Celtic Tree Alphabet’ as each letter is assigned a tree or plant name. However, this was probably done after the initial creation of the Ogham script. After […]

via Ogham, an ancient alphabet used to write Old Irish and other Brythonic/Brittonic languages — Fran B. ANAYA (Traductor Literario/Literarischer Übersetzer/Literary Translator/Литературный переводчик)

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