Monthly Archives: February 2023

25.2.23 coffee morning notes

Some mornings are a long time coming

You begin to count on them and then to remind you not to take then for granted they become elusive. Taunting little false dawns, strange sounds, sensitive bladder, dry cough. Eventually they get here. Well at least that’s what happened today. Guess there are no guarantees though. Except for this,

If there is a morning soon there will be coffee. 





At some point I realised

There is a place

One can go with pain

That is not oppositional



So not only can you give life

You can bleed without dying




Don’t forget

Spiders want to live too



You Might Look To Remember Me

Walking the maple groves

When spring causes swift the sap to rise

The crisp hard frost early in the morning

When the hunting’s best

An old chair strategically placed in the living room.

Remote nearby

Joy and tears of my children and their children

Steadfast loyalty of my loving wife

Wherever & whenever comrades old and new should gather

The dogs barking at some random things.

Yet able to restrain themselves enough to wait patiently for their dinner.

Roll of waves playing guitar with the sunlight.

Old fishing boats at the end of a working day.

Sure, these and so many places you might look

Even occasionally catch a glimpse

Though through the years more and more elusive these might be.

But I can tell you this for sure no matter what.

As long as you have room in your heart.

That’s exactly where you’ll always find me.

Morning Coffee Notes 24.2.23 ~

On todays menu ~ Spring, Horseshoe Crab, Body/brain Memory According to Horses, This Mornings Repetition and of course  COFFEE!


Empty bird feeder

Dappled sunlight

Budding trees

I get to notice




Picture 091



Horseshoe Crabs


I think about horseshoe crabs, when child, discovering them.

My friend telling me they were dangerous because the ridge along their sone and tail would cut your foot. And they were poisonous too!

Notwithstanding I forum them fascinating. Would have called them alien but I didn’t have that word you. Extra-terrestrial creatures you know.

Later I heard that they were a creature that had silver blood and were used to discover way to treat leprosy. There were definitely a colour of unseen worlds. Upside down there was bits of orange a more familiar thing. sometimes we’d find small little ones not as intimidating as the adults which were about a foot or so wide. Besides all the little one we ever found were dead. Bleach whitish by the sun, shells thinner than a potato chip.

 Any way I don’t know how much of what I believed as a kid is true. Don’t want to know enough of my childhood has been disproven. So I’m keeping this for my childhood and my friends as if that would keep us walking along the big giant oceans sharing stories and the adventure of comradery.

The Body/Brain memory according to horses.

Has its own memory. Things a brain might rather not know. The body remembers and will act automatic to prevent, or at least try to prevent a reoccurrence of such things.

 I remember getting busted up by a horse. First time thrown, first time in hospital, first broken bone, first collapsed lung a long list of things. All firsts that I wished were nevers.

So after I was discharged from hospital I realised I need a cane, There was no medical reason, But I found whenever I was walking around in public and people got to close I’d flinch and it’d hurt. They weren’t really too close but according to the body’s memory they certainly were, So I carried a wooden cane. Not to menace folk but people generally give a wider berth to a person with a cane.


The brain too has its own memories. Maybe sometimes it decides the best way to manipulate what’s happened is to go full throttle out there. To prove to itself and the body too that though a thing happened once doesn’t always mean it will happen again’ Kind of rushing away from what the body remembers and mind does not wish to acknowledge. Apart of something that wants to prove something to its/my self?

So anyway that’s the reason I got back on the horse so to speak. Never rode that other one again. A difference between courage and stupid?

And so that was enough for firsts although my second time in hospital was from being kicked by a horse. That was the first time I lost a spleen and at least I know that can never happen again. 

 “Your spleen looks like smithereens’.” said the surgeon. Needed to be quoted somewhere don’t you think? They wanted to cut my chaps off. That of course did not happen. But that’s another story.


This Mornings Repetition


If I let these days

Gentle lie falling fallen leaves

Like green leaves

Wind whisper rain through poplar

 How can any one of them be bad?

This is my privilege

To be kind is my honour

These are my vows

Today tonight tomorrow

 To you to me to this whole world.


(Repeat daily)

morning coffee notes 23.2.23


Today I get to have another one



Dog wiggling with joy

Allowed up on the bed



That morning still dark

Slender glow along the horizon

Promised a sunny day.


I already had the horse groomed and tacked.

One of my favourite things to ride out alone early

No plans for when we’d come back.

The joy of it

Me and this wonderful creature

As if we could really never come back.

The sense of truly anything could happen.


I knew we’d head down to the river

A small pool there she liked to splash

 I was thinking up the goat trails

Then into the peaks.

She had great balance and true to her breed

Feet like steel.


How would the valley look this morning?

Where would we find ourselves by afternoon?

These questions opened our hearts.

Hearts of gratitude. Pulsing life as something to be unknown

Embraced Rejoiced Savoured.


Thank You.



Cold diamonds


Early sun


The longer I live the more I know I don’t know.

Like Dylan said – I was so much older then I’m younger than that now,

The certainty of youth seems to give way to the wisdom of not knowing and not for the most part giving af.

All I can do is cultivate kindness to  everyone else that don’t know anything either. Although some folks get really spun out about it. If you spend generations insisting on things being a certain way well good luck to anyone who shows its different. I am grateful for the evidence of revolution. Makes these hardships a bit easier. How can you look a seasons ageing empires come and go and come up with a belief in a never changing anything.

On the other had as a great master once reminded his students upon his departure “Don’t Know. Don’t need. Don’t want.”


When we stop splintering in order to “know”

how bright will the universe be



oh rebel

when you return

a joy to all

after all home is where the heart is




King Laoghaire by pd lyons

King Laoghaire

Let the high hill speak for me:

Those who look shall see,

Full regalia compared

With stones of destiny.

Those with memory

Shall know

Cruelty the old belief

Compare with loving points of Christianity.

Let the high hill speak for me:

Bishop or pagan disguise

Usurper, still by only lies

Once Bridgit discards such foreign shame –

Who will stand high on Tara Hill again?

originally published by the now defunct The Ides of March Journal september 2011. archives :

the king in question was adversarial towards Patrick and the christian ways. he was steadfast to the old religion. many years later there was a drive to get a new statute of st. patrick built up on the hill of tara, the original seat of the high kings of ireland. there was a request for poetry which would be included in a publication to be sold as generating revenue. not being overly christian and wondering why the hill of tara should have a statue of partick – i wrote an submitted this poem, which was accepted by the organization. the book was never published because there was some benefactor(s) who donated all the cash needed.  later i sent it over to the Ides Of March people and the chose to publish it.

Morning coffee notes 22.2.23



She told me she was going out to lunch with her friend. Even asked if I wanted to come along. I was busy at the typewriter, so I said maybe next time.

  Came back, told me she’d seen a lawyer and wanted a divorce. I was so angry I just said Fine. Packed a back, left.

 A while after, once it was settled I was picking up the rest of my stuff.

She asked me Why?


Why didn’t you fight for me, for our marriage.

I don’t remember what I said but I wasn’t angry anymore.



How should I treat pain?

With kindness.

When I can.

No matter how many years it takes.



February sun dances

Crisp morning across my fingers

Each breath catches wonder

Each step keeps me close



In fact, we don’t really see anything. We perceive reflections of light. And of the light spectrum we only perceive partially. Our eyes are limited. So, what we can’t “see” we decide does not exist. Or we decide it might exist according to our own impositions. Either way, all the while our vision of reality is based on what we don’t really see much like that which our eyes cannot perceive anyway.

Why are we crazy?



Somethings I’ve known Come back to me

Meandering horses, stray dog, orange cat

A smile you had when you were three



coffee morning notes 21 2 23



Morning Coffee Notes


Late morning still in bed

The only green leaves

Vines wove around

Catch the wind

Dark empty trees

Bright silver sky behind them.




No better luxury sleep

And when waking up

Get to stretch back into sleep



Sleep is a nourishment




I didn’t want to

But the day was hungry for me

And admittedly so was I

Besides if I got up now

I could beat the bladder to it




Thank you for saving my life


I’m sorry I never told you. But that night I came home terrified you really saved my life. I lay in bed your cool hands on my for head on my arms. Talking softly all I could say was that someone must have slipped something in my beer. When actually what it was, was I had bought these little white pills after being told they were mild like Valium. Turned out they were white lightening acid. And so, I spent a few hours trying to figure out what was happening alone in the woods coming up with answers like I was dead or I was god or if I didn’t want to be dead I had to become god. Usual seventies acid stuff which at the time even with my experience I couldn’t tell .well any way. I didn’t need to do any of those things, I just had to make it back to you and then it all came clear and you were my mother and I was your kid and I slept for most of a day and it was ok.


Sorry too that we never really talked about your sickness. Maybe I didn’t want to know? Or I was too afraid to know that I would be loosing you. Loosing my mommy. I was feeling I couldn’t do anything any way. Well, what could I do? Today’s answers are not the ones I had back then.

 Helpless when all I could do was hold you – and didn’t even do that much,

 Today’s answer – one of them, I hold you now and always in my heart. I see you in my beautiful son and daughter, for that always I am grateful.

Thank you for saving my life and for giving it to us all.




Water Hare New Year

I hang flags in the garden.

Leave them to sky.

Make bread.


 How should I treat pain? With kindness.

morning coffee notes pd lyons 20.2.23


20, 2, 23

Those small oranges

Not even big as a handful. The only type easy enough to peel. Flavourful enough to be worth the peeling. That first piece of peel, Always pinch it between my fingers so I can inhale the stronger scent of citrus oils. Did you know if you hold a lighted match close to the peel while you squeeze the little jets of oils will do split second bursts into flames. Each flame sounding a little bit like a whistling fire work. Tiny streaks  blue flames  for tiny moments whistling themselves out. Don’t remember who taught me that. It was one of those boyhood things that everyone in the neighbourhood seemed to know. Like how to make a sling shot using a coat hanger and some inner tubbing. Which yards you could cut through to sneak up to the reservoir. How to whistle, how to tie a slip knot, how to light a match, how to sneak cigarettes from your parents, how to fix a bicycle chain,  friends showing things to friends.


Today the rain

Sails across the sky

Sounds against the house

Even the dog keeps patient

Let’s me finish my little orange and a cuppa tea

Before setting up we’ll walk.



Let them be unto themselves

Secret never to be told

A futile fantasy

Reveals nothing

But the fact

No one can be truly known



What can you do when you don’t know where the trauma

Shaking you around all knee jerk and random

Comes from?

Where do you go when you don’t know where to go?

No places but for slow simmer heart aches occasionally boiling over. 


PD Lyons reading & text from PTMN.TEAU Issue 1 ~ Pilot

the poet gets to read two of their own from the pilot issue.
thanking Ruby & Shona of the Portmanteau LDN Team

You can check out more fine writing and sending some of your own by going to

thanks for joining me hope you find something you like.
good luck


Putting the Tea Cup In

what can be said about the rain?

does it have a politic?

philosophy, religion?

It must have history,

for there must have been a time

when there was no rain

and then there was.

what language does the rain speak?

what alphabet does it choose?

or perhaps, prefers memory to letters,

silence over words?

And even if you understood,

would the rain decide to speak to you?

Perhaps it does and you do –

But right now, you’re not paying attention as you’re trying to be quick about the packing

as you’re trying to carefully wrap that tea cup. the one without a saucer. the saucer broken so

long ago, you can’t quite remember how or when…

but you’re in a hurry now because you know if he came in and saw you putting the tea cup in,

how he’d give out, saying there’re more important things to pack, that he can buy you a new one,

that you’re really silly to fuss over such a thing…

and for a moment you consider leaving it out,

maybe on the garden wall,

leaving it to share its history with the rain,

for there must have been a time

when there was no tea cup

and then there was.

~ for e.e. & t.s.


When I Was With the Cypress Born

On damp round stones,

our bare feet.

On night’s soft feathers,

our arms reach.

On unsettled currents,

our hands grasp.

On precisely the middle of the night,

we rise up.

Maiden Lane, New York, NY

And you spoon-fed in the dark room

curl keeping quiet across the bed

draped white with butterfly hands

angels tiptoe all around

out there

the city stirs

dark wrapped overcoat soft with age

room for only damp cigarettes

and no place to go


( so a little annoyed w/myself that I forgot to read this one, Maiden Lane which is also in the Pilot Issue. It does sound cool read out loud. Maybe as a favor you could read it out loud to yourself? why not? give it a go. slow and steady. Don’t forget to breathe! )

Morning Coffee Notes 19.2.23

Sometimes the only purpose pains serves is distraction. Or is it? It calls my attention, but I have no answer. When there is nothing can be done, why doesn’t it just go away? Instead, unrelenting elaborates via frustration, anger, despair.

The Buddha says to meditate on what gives you trouble. So, do I meditate on this pain coming from nowhere,? Incessant, unsolvable? This no reason, no thing, unactionable situation.



Behind every noise there is quiet

Letting noise be as it is

Unadorned without judgement

Peace presents itself naturally.




The cold doesn’t hurt

Or rather its sting

Is not distracting but invigorates

Air easier to breath

Not heavy with heat

From those delusions of comfort

I have been taught to crave.



We were on the road in Clare heading to Galway. We had found a musician named Colm Mac Con Iomaire. So, benefiting from technology we had him playing through the car speakers. The soft beauty of greys greens and daylight, Irish daylight. The yellow lines on the road seemed golden and just sticking the phone video out the window was joy enough. The road fairly empty except for ourselves, occasional farm tractor and elusive visions of the sea.

And you drove and we looked

Spoke about what we saw.

And we listened

Spoke about what we heard

Hoping the Hares Corner would come again and never end.



Morning Coffee Notes 18.Feb.23

Don’t worry the Teaching takes care of itself.

Take care of yourself

As you are an extension of all the buddhas

That is enough.


 Oh, fortunate precious human life

I have splintered you into demons


Forgive an old man’s delusions

Let us liberate our self.



If I could I would

Hold you close

Not saying a word

Give you my heart




Sometimes there’s nothing to be said or can be said? I realised today I had fallen out of love with words. Therefore, with writing/poetry. Had actually for some time now verbalised how words are the enemy, the limitation of poetry. I have, for years now when making notes the bare bones of poems by hand scribbled as if wanting to get it over with. This morning reading about Rosemary Daniell on FB, her work and her life her poems this epiphany came. And so still scribbling I’m wondering how does one return to a place of love.

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