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Yale art gallery artist ?
Public Service Announcement WPKN 89.5 FM
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
I spend more time on looking back than anything
Turns I should have taken
Places better if I hadn’t stopped
Miles mostly dust and sun, fog and dark
salt and grit, steam and slick
Anyway, sometimes I still see you clear
As if I could convince you one more time
As if you’d still be in that same town
Still with that boy who worked the bowling pins
Bluest eyes either of us ever saw.
But I didn’t have time to stay, Figure it out
Did you really love him? If so, was it more than me?
See, there were these wide empty spaces
Pulling in my heart like fish hooks
Wanting me in ways I never thought you could have.
Copyright © 2023 P.D. Lyons
P.D. Lyons was born and raised in the USA but traveled and lived abroad. Since 1998 he has resided in Ireland. The work of PD Lyons has appeared in many formats throughout the world. Lyons’ poetry collections have been published by Lapwing Press, Belfast and Erbacce Press, Liverpool. Winner of the annual erbacce-press International Poetry Competition for 2019.
on todays soapbox ~ truth, fear, abstract, peace, freedom and of course coffee
If you’re not here {in the Moment} then everything that happens
HERE
distracts you
here and now {is the teaching}
no matter how determined, how angry, how focused,
no matter what you try do or respond with –
here and now
will always distract you from your deluding
We fight for what we think because we think that will make us solid, powerful, proving our strength
but
like all thoughts these only cause suffering/delusion
Truth is peaceful because it isn’t hard ridged , has nothing to prove no fear to avoid
with nothing to prove truth is easily peaceful
come out of the abstract
live freely fully in this life
I Fire
Will it hurt? Asked the Birch Tree
Will it hurt? Asked the birch tree
Yes. Said the woman shimmering rainbow. But it will be quick
So, saying she reached one of the youngest branches snapped it off
Ahh. Was what the birch tree said
Carefully the woman peeled back some of the tender bark. Then holding the leafy end dipped it into the pure silver pond of the woodland. Swirling it slowly, as deeply as she could; 3 times one way 3 times the other. When she pulled it out there was a length red and ribbon-like dangling from the branch’s end.
The woman stood, careful not to let the ribbon touch the ground, began to twirl it so that it wound itself around the branch. Not until it was complete and wrapped all around did she squat to place it on the ground. By then the leaves had become fine hairs, the stem a body of arms and legs resembling for the world a sleeping human infant.
Amazing Said the birch tree
Yes. Said the woman. She is.
How could you do that?
I don’t know said the woman, it’s just a thing I can do.
You have power. Said the birch tree.
Yes. Said the woman. But without you and the woodland pond, what would my power be?
The woman then leaned in, blowing breath across the little body until the child stirred, opened her silver blue eyes, and laughed.
Must you go Said the birch tree
Yes, said the woman. You know we must.
I only know sadness said the birch tree.
Yes, said the woman. Well you know I will be back.
And the daughter?
Even I don’t know that said the woman, But… she might.
Ahh said the birch tree. You will go to the human place?
Yes, said the woman. She must be raised among them.
But you look less like them than she does.
Yes, said the woman, But…
She drew herself up slowly and as she did shimmering rainbow woman became no more, and human skin woman had become.
Ah said the birch tree. And the child?
She will always have hair the faint colour of your leaves, skin slight marks like your bark and she will never lose those eyes of the silver pond of the woodland – not even by my power.
Will that go well for her among them? Asked the birch tree.
Yes, said the woman. And no.
Is that really you, my sister?
Must you go my sister?
Will you take the child sister?
Voices asking questions of what they already knew.
The woman did not bother to answer. They did not need or expect her to.
On her way the woman moved steadily through their colours through their times. Learning the way of her human skin. Carefully watching the child’s changes as well through the accelerating time. Shifting. Changing. Changing. Shifting.
By the time they made the edge the daughter seemed a grown girl; no more infant and the woman fit well and proper into her human skin as if she were the girl’s mother.
Will we wait here? Asked the girl.
Yes, said the woman
Long?
Not very. said the woman.
The Caravan
The woman’s strength and bearing won the respect of the caravan leader. For miles they rode side by side, the quiet pace of the pack animals afforded them hours of speaking time.
He told her of the lands he’d travelled. Some of which even she had never been to or heard of. He told her how he loved the way of this life. Like living in a different time, a different rate of time. A steady ebb and flow. A caravan time so outside the time of settlements.
She laughed with him at this waxing of poetics. But she agreed with him. Knew exactly what he meant. And saying to him in a question that, which she knew for sure, maybe there are many realms of time. Maybe like currents in deep water, or layers of clouds crossing blue sky?
Maybe as many as colours as in the light? He answered.
Their voices trailing into an established ease of mutual silence.
She enjoyed their time together. The easy rhythm of the horses. The uncontrived rhythm of their speech and silence stirred long dormant tendrils of her heart which a twining with those of his own. Sternly, she drew them back. This was not why she had come. This was not her purpose.
Meanwhile the child, ran free among the animals and the men of the team. Eagar, enthusiastic attentive fearless among the horses. Beasts of burden, half savage mastiff hounds. She learned quick the languages of men Their stories, their names, their sweethearts, their wives, their families. Their longing to return. A dozen different names for home.
They felt not bothered but flattered by her inquisitiveness. Took pride in telling her about themselves and their work. She was genuine. her willingness to help whether to hold the tent stakes fearlessly steady or to sing to them evening songs in the language of their origin – Appreciated, easily favoured eventually each of them fell a little bit in love with her. They gave her a name of their own. In the language common of traders, it meant, beloved daughter of the caravan.
Tarzan’s Totem
Lawns of ripening parrots.
Sixteen millimetre chimpanzees.
Bone china. Sugarcane midwives.
Dry blood,
Hard on the savannah,
Volcanoing like heavens revenge.
A Pierce Arrow rotting away in the lumberyard garage;
A Quart of Muscatel tucked up in the rafters,
A slat back chair cornered with a brown webbed window,
An electric light bulb hangs.
~
this version appeared in Caribu & Sister Stones Selected Poems by PD Lyons, Published by Lapwing Belfast. They were selected by Deirdre Kearney and edited by Dennis Grieg. Links to the Lapwing site below –
https://sites.google.com/a/lapwingpublications.com/lapwing-store/p-d-lyons
Johnny Weissmuller (born Peter Johann Weissmüller;[2] June 2, 1904 – January 20, 1984) was an Romanian-Austro-Hungarian-American competition swimmer and actor best known for playing Tarzan in films of the 1930s and 1940s and for having one of the best competitive swimming records of the 20th century. http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Johnny_Weissmuller[
Crisp snow. village sleeps.
Almost daylight from the moon.
Thin smoke rises, unseen fires.
Some dog hears the barn door slide.
~
Horses snort, nicker.
In a soft watt glow,
Seek out my bridle, saddle,
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 against me.
As usual I give in, step back.
As usual take a moment, rub her head, her ears,
Lean my face against her,
Breathe in deep that sweet smothery scent…
~
How many times have I groomed this horse?
Untangled mane and tail, picked feet, mixed feed,
Had her shod, filed her teeth.
Spent hours just watching her in the field,
And like I am right now, unable to sleep,
All these thoughtless motions of tacking up.
~
I warm the bit with my own breath
So, the frozen metal won’t burn her mouth.
And this great creature of my heart,
Slightly bends so her bridle can slip on.
~
Down the aisle my boot heels
No match for her borium studded shoes.
Last of the sleepy horses stir.
Each step increases their curiosity.
Whinny, snorts, some strike their stalls, some stomp the floor
And we both know that black gelding’s bass drum kick.
Each charging the air
If you were watching, you’d see steel blue sparks
with every step our connection wove the mare and I,
Until muffled by snow in false dawn and moonlight,
Though every inch of her is saying “go” ,
She stands, for me.
~
Up into that healing sensation of being whole again I swing.
Savour the moment before she, as if in imitation of her birth,
Boldly arcs liquidly into motion.
We make for the west ridge,
Where for the past week, waking from a sound sleep,
I’ve seen from my window a lone wolf.
Sometimes just a glimpse. Sometimes lingering,
Head high as if to test the air,
As if at any moment stillness shatters…
But there’s never been a sound
Only a drooping dark shape turning away.
And at the top, footprints? Signs? The creature, real or a dream…?
~
Through winter swells we crest the ridge
Pause slightly
Before down onto the valley floor,
Share the last two good apples of the year.
I Roll the first cigarette of the day,
Smoke doubled by cold drifts
Dancing like spirits slowly shrinking from the sun
To where just before the rising timber line
The Frozen river spreads its dare.
~
for: Katie, Jeanie, Mara, Jenny, The Bay, The Roan, Ali, Lance, The Mare, Phyllis,
all my own true heart.
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