Refugee ~ by pd lyons

Refugee

 

I know the sorrow

and he is wide eyed for it

my son

wrapped in the colour of my bones.

 

 

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I Am Dead Already by PD Lyons from As if the Rain Fell in Ordinary Time erbacce-press 2019

I am dead already

~ So

there is nothing really to worry about

~ Although sometimes I still forget

think of myself as living

things to do

places to go

achievements to achieve

people to please and all

eventually I come around

focus by saying

” you don’t have to”

usually that’s enough to bring me back to what is

~ Other times,

especially if I have forgotten for maybe days,

years, occasionally decades

it takes stuff a little stronger not much though, you know

just say out loud to my so-called self;

“you are already dead “

helps me relax

brigs me round to that expansive place of what is

a pleasant space of truth

 

by pd lyons

from ~ As If the rain Fell in Ordinary Time, 2019 erbacce-press

nyc pdlyons

These Words by PD Lyons from As if the Rain Fell in Ordinary Time,erbacce-press 2019

 

These Words

 

from the tiredness of my bones
not syllables of warm water mouths
rather emanate rich with marrow silent sensations
hot cold
soft foetal
crescents of your ears
depth deeper than you know of your eyes
the vast rift of tears
your endless heart

alone sometimes in the dark
I have been a labour for you
silently aloud
likewise you should read
these words so unlike other words
each window through which invisible creatures
of what cannot be said climb

published by Poetry Warrior 2009 ~

Jenny

 

my fingers have touched

your face

your razor cut hair

rose bud lips

every square inch of how you define your

slender secret self

vulnerable to love

shielded by the city

defensive diaphragms

nicotine & coffee

shadow sister

manhattan monochromed & cool

believing anything was possible we were the same

 

beneath warm tones of old bones

pictures of girls and oceans

first born anxiety

visitation eased by distance

horizons met and thus reset

soft steady ache like something summer upon green lawns

time to talk in silence

—
The Poetry Warrior, The Real Poet’s Ezine.

www.thepoetrywarrior.com

jenny published by poetry warrior 6 issue aug.09 www.thepoetrywarrior.com.

Thank you to Abigail Beaudelle editor.

Sometimes in this Writing Life words & photography by PD Lyons

Zone

Propped up Best I can

Most uncomfortable ever bed

Crow sounds Silver sun shadows the page

All it takes to ease the ache

The largeness of an open window

Dissolves all imposed restrictions

And what would comfort done?

A sleep til noon then what?

He went by the quieter way, by pd lyons

He went by the quieter way 

nothing so annoying as small town tourist traffic feeding sharks, two local police SUV’s flashing lights clog main street to harass some elderly New Yorker who double parked to drop a letter in the post box. A quick drop off now in true police wisdom blocks the intersection for at least a half hour. Gallows hill brought him out behind all that. Right turn then left past the cemetery regiment GAR, immigrant Ireland, Poland, Italy, Japan, sisters, brothers, priests and the girl with the funny name, *Kelsley who had the same surname as he. How many years how many cemetery miles walked, and other than his own direct family never seen his own surname upon the stone? Right again, past the frozen pond where this past autumn ducks, herons, seabirds , turtles and G-E-E-S-E! spotted by the child. Then between the two smaller ponds, either side of the school drive way. It was there they’d stopped, watch the first beaver she had ever seen, keen eyes of hers noticed ripples on the water as they were heading home after her first day in American school.

He’d stopped the car along the roadside. They stood there for about a half hour before Mr. Beaver disappeared. At the top of the hill turned yet again into the parking lot, parked. Waiting watching for signs of school being over, made notes in a black notebook heard a radio interview and live music Madeleine Peyroux. Had been certain it was Billie Holiday. Listen now, maybe playing local, the wife would love that. It was greying up again cold enough to cause his fingers pain. Few more minutes and the little treasure would be his again

wonder is a natural response to beauty

 

 

* Kelsley A. Lyons

http://articles.courant.com/1998-04-11/news/9804110395_1_soccer-team-driver-s-license-teen-s-passion-was-soccer

As If The Rain by pd lyons from The Women Retrospect

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

Off The Book Shelf/ Poets We Should Know

So the other day I picked this little gem off the shelf and discovered Robert Louis Stevenson – the poet. I have had this book for a while now maybe 10 – 15 years bought it some where in America for .25 cents. It has only two poems by RLS; Requiem and The Vagabond. I think they both show just how ballsy a poet he was. Today as I was putting this blog together Shelly  posted on my face Book page about Tom Crean the Irish Sailor & Antarctic explorer. The inscription on Toms grave – Home is the sailor, home from sea. You can still drink at Toms Crean’s Pub ( he opened a pub once he retired from the sea) The last time I was there they pulled a very fine pint.

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Robert_Louis_Stevenson

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Tom_Crean_%28explorer%29 

THE GOLDEN TREASURY

of

Songs and Lyrics

selected from the best songs and lyrical

poems in the English language

and arranged with notes by

FRANCIS T PALGRAVE

London

MACMILLAN 7 CO LTD

new York St martin’s Press

1959

Requiem

Under the wide and starry sky
Dig the grave and let me lie.
Glad did I live and gladly die,
And I laid me down with a will.

This be the verse you grave for me;
“Here he lies where he longed to be,
Home is the sailor, home from sea,
And the hunter home from the hill.”

Robert Louis Stevenson

The Vagabond

Give to me the life I love,
Let the lave go by me,
Give the jolly heaven above
And the byway nigh me.
Bed in the bush with stars to see,
Bread I dip in the river –
There’s the life for a man like me,
There’s the life for ever.Let the blow fall soon or late,
Let what will be o’er me;
Give the face of earth around
And the road before me.
Wealth I seek not, hope nor love,
Nor a friend to know me;
All I seek, the heaven above
And the road below me.

Or let autumn fall on me
Where afield I linger,
Silencing the bird on tree,
Biting the blue finger.
White as meal the frosty field –
Warm the fireside haven –
Not to autumn will I yield,
Not to winter even

Let the blow fall soon or late,
Let what will be o’er me;
Give the face of earth around,
And the road before me.
Wealth I ask not, hope nor love,
Nor a friend to know me;
All I ask, the heaven above
And the road below me.

Robert Louis Stevenson

sometimes I miss the horse days & someplace, by pd lyons

occasional it happens

 stray song over the kitchen radio

 old photo tucked into a book that for no reason i just picked up to thumb through

i hardly let it pause me

i usually just keep going

occasional it happens

 my old bones do an old ache

  glimpse that crooked clavicle in the bathroom mirror

 hardly let it pause me

 usually just keep going

occasional it happens

strong scent of well oiled leather maybe someones coat

packed tight on the morning train

mists trough the damp windows

shadows moving up the hills

hardly let it pause me

 usually just keep going

occasional it happens

but you know sometimes when it does

i just don’t feel like moving

stay right there  face the tears

yeah sometimes i miss the horse days

sometimes i just fucking do

Someplace

Down on the avenue
Work ’til the day is through
I just want to get away
But you know I never do.
And when the sun goes down
I’ll be sitting all alone
Watch them old cowboy shows
On some second hand video.

Wishing I was someplace
Where grass just grows n rain is clean
Where horses run and black birds sing
Someplace where the sky is big n the only cry
From an eagle on the wing.

But I’m city bound by plastic chains
Robbed to death by men with ball point pens.
My hopes gone up in Marlboro smoke
N ghosts of what used to be my dreams
Haunt me with wondering if I’ll live long enough to ever be

Someplace where grass just grows n rain is clean
Where horses run n black birds sing
Someplace where the sky is big and the only cry
From an eagle on the wing.

Someplace where I can ride for days
N never see another human being

pdlyonsphoto

pdlyonsphoto

pdlyonsphoto

Public Service Announcement WPKN 89.5 FM, as published in Erbacce #43, by pd lyons

somebody said your name on the radio,
something going on up state,
not to be missed,
sure to be good;
sure I could agree,
except with the not
missing you part.

guess I could drive up?
but it be my luck,
standing outside,
all Dlyanesque without a ticket
not even in the rain.

so I sipped on hot tea.
went back to my afternoon.
knowing, if you were here?
it’d be wild turkey
and I’d be covered in paint
and your sweet bourbon kisses

                                                     Centre du George Pompidou

as published by the good folk at Erbacce issue 43