Pdlyons's Explorations
And you could reach out for my hand and I would take it
And you could whisper me questions and I would answer
And you could open my mouth bringing breath to me
And I the same with you –
A gift of moon
of soul
of all those long always summer nights between us.
The Ways of Sitting
A mans hands ~
on a woman’s thighs
One on each rolls them out
A better view of what he’s dreamt for so long.
Muscular even in yielding
She allows her deep breath body freely.
Outside women ~
talk how the year slips
School days into holidays beginning school again.
A woman in love writes her name ~
Moon soft ivory
Pale sky
By the Buddha
By the open window
Major piano chords
A simple charm
Like where in dreams we can’t be hurt.
A man begrudging poetry ~
Leaves out such things as joy
Hopes a mirage of his own making
Hides in clothes made from mistaken identities
Secrets like superman behind caped crusades
Although blurred some character always lurks
Despite the roles he thinks he should,
He thinks they want, he thinks he must.
A series of figures exchanged through out his life
Even…
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How The Green Witch Loved The Winter Man
When the green Witch met the Winter Man he was obsessed with another woman. He said to her, “This is the way. All I ever love retreats from me. Trees drop their leaves, water shrinks dares not move. The earth herself covers and hides. In all my travels all my searching all I’ve found was this woman of the wind. She stirs me, promises she will someday stand still in my embrace, then she flies… But, tell me about you. Who are you that comes to meet the Winter Man?”
With this invitation the Green Witch stretched out her arms so he could see and said, “I am keeper and protector of all that grows – herb and flower, fruit and tree, bringer of peace and healing. I am of the magic of each seedling poking through the soil and too the…
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Remember to Remember
Sometimes in this writing life
people take the time to listen, read
and let me know they did
sometimes even write a few words in response ~
As writing is by its nature a predominately isolation occupation
I just wanted to express sincere gratitude to each and every one who in one way or another participated with PD Lyons Explorations.
With best wishes to you all for a very happy, healthy & safe New Year!
Cheers!
When you worship swans no longer
Will you find your way to me?
Smoke rising in a breathless voice
Winding between shade and sun
A dream begun on dew drops
Daring midday like a ghost
Vowing never to fly
From your embrace
Special First Edition Limited to 150: each numbered and signed by the poet.
Price includes worldwide shipping by regular post in padded envelope.
15.00 EUROS
Items shipped upon receipt of order (purchase through Paypal)
Contact: pdlyonspoet@yahoo.co.uk
With your shipping information and any queries.
Additional inscription on request.
(Numbered books selected randomly)
“PD Lyons work stands at the threshold so loved in Ireland. That almost magical, almost mythical, almost otherworldly parallel that the Irish dip in and out of. Where we chose to believe in luck and superstition and destiny and embrace these as tangible factors in our daily lives. – from the forward by Una O’Neill D’Arcy, Journalist/Freelance Writer
Thank you in advance for supporting this project!
new haven ct artist not known
The Lover of Wisdom
He helped in the kitchen
While she was away.
One night he was worried about the wine
Her father noticed, told him
Not to worry
They said it was the best place they’d been to
That they were glad to be here,
Besides it was the second bottle they’d ordered.
It was then he grabbed her father’s hand, said
Are you my friend? Are you!
The towering man with black moustache
In a well-worn greasy apron said,
Always. I am your friend always!
It was evening when she came back.
He was sorting pots from the green house
Packing them into the jeep
Parked at the top of the driveway
When they pulled in
BMW convertible dark blue w/ tan leather.
He did not want to meet her friends.
Afraid they’d hear the beating of his heart
He stayed on the other side of the jeep
Pretending to be too busy
Waiting for her to come to him.
But after their long good-byes,
She didn’t.
He walked around saw her walking
Down the hill with her bags
He thought – she has not come back at all then.
Shortly later she came back.
Sat with him on the grass
Her black hair veiling them
As hunched together head to head
He opened what she gave him
Wrapped in white tissues
A ball of crystal inside a ball of alabaster.
I missed you so much he said.
Are you brave enough to let me shave you? She said.
Come on. Let me. I want to.
He had not shaved since she left
And her creamy skin could not abide a whiskered face
As If The Rain
Emily Dickinson used to sneak out.
Sometimes in day light, mostly at night.
Tip toeing carefully down the back stairs
Even though nobody else was there.
Always a hat a shawl or a veil
To keep the neighbours off her trail.
Walking along the streets of the town
Glimpses her reflection among dry goods and gowns
And in the shop she has been seeking makes her purchase from a little man who has always honoured their agreement
And never Miss Emily’s secrets revealed.
Bag of tobacco, skins and matches snapped up in her bag.
While wrapped in brown paper knotted with string – a bottle of port
tucks under her wing.
Emily Dickinson used to sneak out.
Later that night she did it again.
Carefully tip toeing down the back stair
Even though nobody else was there.
Making her way out to the train station,
Counting the stars as she sat on the bench,
Named new constellations while she was waiting.
A shudder of sighs defined by an overcoat of stains
he sits down beside her.
Rodent hands desperate in deep dead end pockets
Until, rusty knife retrieved by one opened by the other
String and paper, slit and peeled
Turbulent mouth not spilling a drop.
Until eased back against the slats.
Things he knows he tells her ~
Crossing the country by freight. Tin can meals around a fire.
Men who only knew for certain that they’d not meet again.
Bones broken by horses. Bayonets emerging from a fog.
What it’s like on the other side of the ocean.
Names of young girls, young men.
Who might be living? Who might be dead?
And sometimes, only warm smoke shapes between them linger
As if the rain would never come again on a Tuesday night in Amherst…
Wrote this in the late nineties. Sent it off with a few others to a small Irish poetry magazine called Brobdingnagian Press (if i remember correctly) the pun was that each issue was one sheet of broad sheet paper with small poems printed all over it. Any way this was much too long for it although the editor was kind enough to accept one or two of the shorts. The embarrassing part was that while he appreciated the Amherst poem, being an aficionado of Emily, he did suggest that i might want to spell her last name correctly when sending to other editors.
anyway we had a bit of a laugh over that, Em and I and then went down to the waterfront. it was autumn and a storm was heading in….
a version of this poem appeared in The Yes Factory first issue 2012 https://docs.google.com/file/d/0B58yt4q1_WOpenRMa3RCczVqMlE/edit?pli=1
at that time the knife he carried with him was a Barlow
she noticed it as they sat by some small unnamed body of water
he was making slices off the few good wild apples they’d found
she said oh a Barlow? you have a Barlow knife?
my dad had one. he always had it with him. he used to let me use it.
sometimes we went fishing,
sometimes he let me cut up apples too.
when he died my brother got it.
that night he drove into town
went into the sporting goods shop
picked out one for her
not exactly the same as his
not heavy and bone like her dads
but a ruby red
two good blades
trimmed by a bit of brass
it was the only thing he ever gave her
besides long deep kisses
slices of secret wild apples
spiced by an Indian summer
haunted by an early winter
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