Monthly Archives: July 2020

2 Untitled Pieces by PD Lyons. 1985 Dimensions, Mattatuck Community College, Waterbury Ct.

as read by himself ~


Wordless Wednesday, 29.7.20 ~ Pompeii by pd Lyons photography



today’s walk or how to deal with meme-isms while on the path



Only through awareness



We are all on a spiritual path – know it or not.

every thing is working through karma


Opening up to the unlimited = relaxation

Relaxation = benefit for others = purification for our self


Each expression of ignorance is a cry of suffering

a lack of awareness

each ignorant individual lives in a personal suffering of their own design

Ignoring this, where else but with the Bodhisattva will they have a chance for liberation.


This is the work of the Bodhisattva   ~ through the Bodhi awareness relaxed = all who suffer benefit.

Every moment of staying true is a Bodhisattva act

A Bodhisattva act is beneficial to us all.  


dublin street artist unknown

Sometimes In This writing Life/ part ~ you got to re commit by pd lyons


You Are Still My Favourite Poet


You know how it is. Memory is that country where there are

no direct roads and this one leads me to you. How was I supposed to know your poems

weren’t just poems, but prayers, invitations, how is it that now twenty-six years later I remember, realize you wrote prayers to me and it stuck in my head literally like an axe that concept of you can’t be friends and lovers, so I was afraid to lose our friendship. what bullshit, you know, that saying. You can’t be lovers with any one you’re not friends with. But I didn’t get it then, even though I would have loved to have been your lover, even though I wrote to you like some misguided troubadour. getting high and writing crispy critter poem things there in the back of the class, there on the street corners leaning up on the concrete and improvising social commentary as if we knew everything about everything and of course we did.

Now all these years later you come to me,

I’m not sure if its telepathy some intuition of my own. a ghost or are you simply thinking of me now in a way that I can sense?

I’m sitting on the second-floor landing in a house in Ireland where I live now with my wife. I’m sorting through manuscripts, poetry, come across the things you wrote “To Pete”, and I get that sense you know so I say out loud “where are you?”

Me? I’m not in our town or on our streets though I’ve made nostalgic pilgrimages, yet even when I did, I never got this sensation of you. so that’s why I’m wondering. Why now? To the point where you inspire me yet again to write another poem for you…

Yes, I still write, yes, I’m still here in this mystical land whereas you so

aptly put it I am “a great unknown poet”. Where are you though? Did you let them convince you that self-doubts were real or did you catch on that it was just projections on their part. Did you eventually believe them when they told you, you weren’t beautiful? did you ever find out that it wasn’t your body that lacked  but rather the boys you chose for lovers were not the men you thought then to be?

Me, I’m still here, I almost got caught out though, remember that last time we met. I was working the shopping mall, an assistant manager as if that meant something, and you were working in a restaurant there or no you were working in some retail shop too. You told me how you’d get tuna sandwich with extra slices of onion for lunch just so you could breathe on the customers later. So that’s what we had for lunch. I was married then for the first time and well you know she ended up being well lets just say  that in her way she saved me from the dismal life that staying with her in that town would have been. But you know how it goes, Tam doesn’t play guitar any more divorced last I heard and works for a T.V. company, Jeanie doesn’t paint she’s married with kids to a guy who owns a gas station, Buzzy is dead drove into an  I- beam at a construction site on the highway some rainy 2 am attempt to get to Hartford or something. You know like Dylan says, “some are mathematicians, some are carpenters’ wives, don’t know how it all got started don’t know what they do with their lives”.

So, me yes, I’m married but I’m not sure I could describe it accurately. You know everything you ever thought true love and marriage should be but learned that it could never be? Well it can because it is us. We are well blessed with each other.  Life has blossomed not withered with her. We live in Ireland now, an old house that is habitable but needs some work, so we do that, you know painting tiling etc. Any way we have two horses both in foal and we live out in the countryside where our nearest neighbours are cattle herds. But I’m still here, still writing, still no luck with the publishers and I didn’t mean for this to be a letter to you because I don’t know where you are. Just meant to write something about our times in high school and the town and how memory is a spiral thing but ended up “talking” to you.

Are you my muse again?

What’s with this, you being so present? It’s never been like this.  Of course, I’d think of you, think well of you, read poems I wrote about you and wonder what you’re doing, but this is freaky man.  Like I almost called the states to try and get my son to see if he could track you down via the computer or just look you up in the book, but you must have left the town. I know you did long ago.  seem to remember, something about Florida or was it some other country?

So, what do you want? Tell me what’s going on girl? Am I getting this flash because you died or because you’re sending cosmic energy or just because I been sorting through tons of poetry coming across the ones you wrote for me?

But like I said I’ve sorted through before and never got such intense feelings and today I intended to do something totally different, but I decided on one more binder of the old stuff and that’s where yours were.

Any way even this isn’t what I meant to do either. I wanted to write something more creative than my speculations as to why I’m getting all these feelings of your presence aroused.

So, any way I have become that great unknown poet. I wouldn’t expect you to remember that,

but you put it in a poem to me that you wrote on the spot during one of our THC days. But you were right about that, you know I’ve been writing poetry since I was in the eighth grade and now, I’m forty-two or three I think three. Trying to get something going but can’t get any luck with the editors. Sometimes I get so pissed off but what can I do?  Helpless helpless, helpless…

But who would I be if I weren’t a poet?

Last time I saw Jerry was two years ago. I was back for a visit. It was St. Patrick’s Day. He runs his father’s bar now, The Shamrock downtown, any way the first thing he asks is “are you still writing lad?  That’s great! keep it up” But anyway I guess the hard thing is getting out there, being sociable, it seems that art is like any other business, you know if you don’t schmooze you lose. Other than Emily Dickinson I don’t know of others who like me seek to be a poet of isolation. You know they all hung out with other writers and artists, the beats Ginsburg, Kerouac, and Burroughs etc. Henry miller, Anais Nin, and that lot. Oh well not worth complaining about.  funny thing memory you know I wanted to tell you how I did some jail time for a drug bust, was ratted out by someone I think we both knew, funny thing is I forget the guy’s name, can you imagine forgetting the name of the guy who got me busted? Now I don’t have organic brain damage or anything so it’s really weird because I would have bet money that I’d remember him for the rest of my life. But I never saw him again after that (that I can recall) but I heard Buzzy and his brother met up with him and beat the shit out of him while I was in New Haven (Great name for the town where the jail is: New Haven). Well that’s what goes around, I guess.

Maybe you’re the new or at least returned muse for me? Maybe a figment of the Robert Graves influences a la white goddess. An archetype rather than true memory? a return to the carefree poetry of youth when we didn’t care who liked what we wrote or if it ever got printed it was enough to simply create for the joy of creation, to create for the joy of ourselves.

so, any way here’s looking at you kid wherever you are…


all acts of freedom are dangerous



new haven ct artist not known

Today’s Walk.



Wind whistles across the gate

When I’m gone

Who is it for ~

I love rock and’or roll!

PREPARING TO ACCEPT , from Lessons on Western Riding by pd lyons

Pdlyons's Explorations

(From: Lessons on Western Riding)

Crisp snow,
Sleeping village,
Almost daylight from the moon.
Thin smoke rising,
Unseen fires,
Some dogs
Heard the barn door slide.
Horses snort n nicker greetings
Inside a soft watt glow,
Seek out my bridle, saddle, and
That old Indian blanket from Mexico.

Shuddering saw dust she greets me
As if trying to erase that white blaze star n snip
From her otherwise pure liver-chestnut body.
As usual I give in, step back.
As usual I take a moment, rub her head n ears,
Lean my face against her, whisper terms of endearment
Breathe that deep sweet smotherly scent…

And find myself thinking of all the things we done together.
Not big things like times she’s broke my bones;
Waited out that all night colic;
Turned them panicked horses running away with that family from New York City, just before they made…

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May all who journey realize they are on the way

Pdlyons's Explorations

(Almost) Instant Dharma

If you pay attention for just five minutes, you know some very fundamental dharma: things change, nothing stays comfortable, sensations come and go quite impersonally, according to conditions, but not because of anything that you do or think you do. Changes come and go quite by themselves. In the first five minutes of paying attention, you learn that pleasant sensations lead to the desire that these sensations will stay andthat unpleasant sensations lead to the hope that they will go away. And both the attraction and the aversion amount to tension in the mind. Both are uncomfortable. So in the first minutes, you get a big lesson about suffering: wanting things to be other than what they are. Such a tremendous amount of truth to be learned just closing your eyes and paying attention to bodily sensations

–Sylvia Boorstein

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Morgan le Fay/ Women We should Know

Pdlyons's Explorations

salamander yellow pad


Thursday, February 21, 2013

Morgan le Fay/ women we should know

excerpts from wiki site:

Morgan le Fay

Morgan le Fay by Anthony Frederick Sandys (1864)

Morgan le Fay /ˈmɔrɡənləˈf/, alternatively known as Morgan le Faye, Morgane, Morgaine, Morgana and other names, is a powerful sorceress in the Arthurian legend. Early works featuring Morgan do not elaborate her character beyond her role as a fay or magician. She became much more prominent in the later cyclical prose works such as the Lancelot-Grail and the Post-Vulgate Cycle, in which she becomes an antagonist to King Arthur and Queen Guinevere.
Morgan is said to be the daughter of Arthur’s mother, the Lady Igraine, and her first husband, Gorlois, Duke of Cornwall, so…

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Wordless Wednesday ~ Fore, County Westmeath, Ireland

enjoy some peace and quiet

all photographs by pd lyons ©2020 For more please visit, Pdlyons’s Explorations Irish American Poetry Photography Worldwide ~

Fore Abbey

my father, my mother, Yeats, golden apples & silver apples – reading by PD Lyons

read by PD Lyons poet~

The Song of the Wandering Aengus by WB Yeats & Somewhere Still by PD Lyons

The Song of the Wandering Aengus by WB Yeats from Eveeryman’s Poetry, J.M. Dent, Orien Publishing. London 1998 Somewhere Still by PD Lyons from When You Worship Swans No Longer Limited Edition, Supported by Westmeath County Arts, 2017


The Song of Wandering Aengus

I went out to the hazel wood,
Because a fire was in my head,
And cut and peeled a hazel wand,
And hooked a berry to a thread;
And when white moths were on the wing,
And moth-like stars were flickering out,
I dropped the berry in a stream
And caught a little silver trout.
When I had laid it on the floor
I went to blow the fire a-flame,
But something rustled on the floor,
And someone called me by my name:
It had become a glimmering girl
With apple blossom in her hair
Who called me by my name and ran
And faded through the brightening air.
Though I am old with wandering
Through hollow lands and hilly lands,
I will find out where she has gone,
And kiss her lips and take her hands;
And walk among long dappled grass,
And pluck till time and times are done,
The silver apples of the moon,
The golden apples of the sun.
Source: The Wind Among the Reeds (1899)

.Noun. 1. Aengus – Celtic god of love and beauty; patron deity of young men and women. Angus, Angus Og, Oengus.


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.)

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