Z Wordless Wednesday ~ 30.9.20. with seashell by pd lyons

 

 

 

If We Could Allow Grief by PD Lyons

In the latest issue of Buddhadharma Quarterly  I read a beautiful article by Joan Sutherland, Roshi titled Here at the End of the World In it she eloquently and effectively explores our social grief and lack of expression and how it is impacting our response or lack of response regarding the environmental situation. Below is my own attempt to express myself regarding grief and gun violence. While I make no comparison to Roshi Sutherland and my own pale writing I felt I must site her influence. Perhaps from here you’ll seek her out? Here is a direct link to her site and the complete article https://joansutherlanddharmaworks.org/Detailed/186.html

Thank you for reading.

pd Lyons

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

If we could allow grief

Our grief to manifest

 

A school room of 7 year olds 

Shot to death

A spring morning

Their families

The responders

The survivors

The shooter

All grief worthy

 

If we could allow this grief

Wouldn’t we be able then to progress?

 

Fear of grief

Shielded with anger

Anger stifles, prevents movement, stagnates into polarity, perpetuation of fear.

 

If we could allow grief

Could we not then allow healing?

 

this courage, is it not worth daring?

 

he could not find you amazing, poetry & photography by pd lyons

“feed on us before you bury us” – Anais Nin

 

he could not find you amazing
he could not touch your mystery
he could re call vast wilderness
adrift among archetypal feminine
a wash among deltas
Venus like salt mingling with new rain
blood like midnights paling   lunary

a pleasure beyond wounds
a mingling beyond physicality
a hungrier type of mouth
willing to feed and to be fed upon

 

 

drawn up the spectre of a planet from the limbo of lunary souls — E. A. Poe

To — — –. Ulalume: A Ballad

By Edgar Allan Poe

http://www.poetryfoundation.org/poem/174155

riverside waterbury ct

 

Baskin-Robbins, poetry and photo by pd lyons

Baskin-Robbins

Sixty- two Chevy pick up
Bondo dust and shot exhaust
Your brother driving 84 east
Neil on the radio
I smoked a million cigarettes
So you wouldn’t try n kiss me
Not cause of that but because your brother already wanted to kill me
Was only driving me to Waterbury
So I wouldn’t have no excuse
To hang around you

Cowgirl in the sand

Poems from “Some Lives” by Leeanne Quinn

yes

Poethead by Chris Murray

Cave of the Firbolg 

(Nano Reid, oil on board)

Not even a trespass of sky to compromise the dark 
where blood beats in the body of the heart. 
Nobody thinks, Why do we do this? 

The nervous system ferries its thin shards of glass 
down among the clay, where the blunt flint
of the soul remains. 

Pollen embedded in the riverbed, a prehistory 
of refuse in the lower layers, every end 
is a chance to start over, but the river 

cannot start again, or the voice in the cave
speak in a righteous tongue. The body too 
gives way as the blood deposits its memory 

in the tributaries of the cave, the sky 
pushed out, the heart yet to know 
it can go without.

---

Could Be The molten coin of the sun  slots behind the horizon without making  a perceivable sound  city lights distract from the dark  we…

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I would abandon all other cities for this never to call you anything but by your long-ago name the one your mother whispered once all sea spray hidden away from anyone else but me.

(so a ruff work in progress what do you think?)

 

To wake from sleep with neutral angels

Cross weeping waters   Opiate lilies

Rolled tobacco   Porcelain skin

~

I give out money, paper money for free.

 Answer: Because you are sitting on the streets I was born into this world on.

 

I pass from them streets like loose wrappers

cobbled stones lost mythologies; strangers foreign even to my self.

But  could if I want sift sea salt stolen dreams.  Camera fantastic songs.

 Long meandering trails to and from siren spiralling stairs.

 A better life only in theory because I would give up all other cities for this.

 

To wake from sleep with nameless angels

Cross weeping water smugglers

Beggar a hazy sun dry enough for a nod.

~

Soft we talk knowing no tomorrows. 

your head rests on my shoulder. Safe from all clack and clatter,

from hard shelters, rough searchers, mingling watery blood sucked ones.

Only respite from the past, we drift.

 

I tell you stories of cities abandoned long ago

Where warmth was free. Where angels had names

Where heroes would rescue even you.

Asleep without being asleep, your head on my shoulder.

I don’t move when tenderly

You pooch my pockets

 find something worth taking.

 Let you have it

 not moving while you leave

With Alessandra

With Alessandra

          ~

time travels softly

across the river

sun pours

volcanoes of night

suck away the day

ghosts rise hungry

clean olive scented bones

in another sleepless night

                                                                                 along this land of green dreams

 

 

 

Old freighters ruff, words and photography by pd lyons

Old freighters splocked red with rust

Holds haunted

cagros exotic, mundane, contraband 

list easily into slumber

yet unable to refuse

invincible the call

return once more

unable to refuse relentless the shipping lanes

23. sept.

yes

Pdlyons's Explorations

finally got to go to work. spent a few hours cutting grass in the village. done just before the showers. home with shelly for lunch and then pick up the child from school. homework, meal prep, walk down by the lake. tomorrow we’ll go to town, watch Morgan swimming lesson and then do a grocery shop – picking up some vodka for  hawthorn tincture. tired now but in a good way. an evening yoga before bed, again the music of real silence, in other words whatever sounds there may be.

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true

Pdlyons's Explorations

ever onward something goes

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