the swans out in the field their secrets not revealed passing into silent flight are they perhaps their subtle sigh stifles some deeper cry as they know you’ll be leaving much too soon
walking down the lane the filly foals refrain their running is the sound of falling rain are they restless from the summer? or somehow do they know you’ll not stay to see them fully grown
by the fairy mounds of old the pock marked GPO cross the Boyne to bang your head on spiral stone see the wonders down at Fore and the ancient seat of kings on Tara hill
now sitting by the fire the music’s playin’ low (guess) i’ll raise a glass or two before i go though it’s to an empty chair not your smiling face i stare (yet) whenever that door slams i expect to see you there.
and sitting here i wonder all those stories finally told revealed how in our youth we were so very much the same was it drink that made us bold? or did we speak so true because somehow we knew you’d not be coming back this way again?
So now I sit here alone with nothing but rain and exceptionally high tides.
Nothing left alive, shore covered with bodies and scraps of bodies.
A hand out of the sand fat slightly blue, argued with over a gold wedding band. A sailors striped shirt knotted with sand and rust, search the pockets finding only small teeth and more sand. In between rocks flightless sea birds, black eyes minute reflections of broken wings reflecting empty promise of free flight.
Suck tiny tid-bits of ripe flesh from abandoned snails, drink from swollen fish. Smash stones of the sea together, dreams of murderous contortions, fists sunk into some seaweed gathered carcass resembling a small dog,
Scream blood from my vocal chords, scream for the black eel strangling me with its own throat, scream for the oozing woman finger nails infecting me with dismembered sex.
I don’t know how to live any other way, I don’t know how to breathe anything other than decay, I want to swallow everything I see, every stone everybody, every woman by her cunt, every man by the cock, everything – until the only thing left is me swallowing myself.
you never know what you’ll find when looking through the attic files.
This morning Wrap myself In a one of a kind memory Close my eyes Slip into my hands, Cock my head back Lean into a Manhattan Sunday Just before summer On the luxury side Of uptown Slightly smiling.
I was very proud to have this poem included in the Human Rights Consortium and the Institute of English Studies and London-based poetry collective the Keats House Poets Anthology 150 Poems For Human Rights. I submitted it along with The Diary – a poem in response to Anne Frank. https://pdlyons.wordpress.com/2014/06… While published in 2014 it was written contemporary with the second National Geographic photo of April 2007. ~
The Orphan As Adult by PD Lyons, was written upon seeing the famous National Geographic cover photo of the grown up Afghan girl who was herself originally on the cover as a child during the Russian involvement in Afghanistan. Twenty years later and not much has changed.
The Orphan As Adult
my eyes were not green for you I did not rebel or lead never even learned to read. children dropped from me in a pain no one cared about. my years marked by long days and short lives.
as if expecting greeting, you return. as if your photographs meant something other than a young girl momentarily annoyed her world same now as it was then a place where things just are the way they are.
my eyes were not green for you only an accident of birth same as your own. For Afghanistan
Description
Edited by Helle Abelvik-Lawson, Anthony Hett and Laila Sumpton. Published 2013. ISBN:9780957221032.
Detailed Description
In Protest: 150 Poems for Human Rights is an anthology of new poetry exploring human rights and social justice themes. This collection, a collaboration between the Human Rights Consortium at the School of Advanced Study, University of London, and the Keats House Poets, brings together writing that is often very moving, frequently touching, and occasionally humorous. The 150 poems included here come from over 16 countries, and provide a rare insight into experiences of oppression, discrimination, and dispossession – and yet they also offer strong messages of hope and solidarity.
This anthology brings you contemporary works that are truly outstanding for both their human rights and poetic content. Arranged across thirteen themes – Expression, History, Land, Exile, War, Children, Sentenced, Slavery, Women, Regimes, Workers, Unequal, and Protest – you will find within this collection a poem that inspires and engages you. ‘Poetry brings tiny details to life, and in a world where human rights is mostly about reports and abstractions, where real life and real details are lost – poetry can still make us see, and feel.’ – Sigrid Rausing.
always no matter how often i listen – tears of joy and loss. makes me happy to have lived and still be living.
Buddy Miller and Emmylou Harris sing this song from his “Universal United House of Prayer” album.
Wide River to Cross
The lyrics: Buddy and Julie Miller
there’s a sorrow in the wind
blowing’ down the road i’ve been
i can hear it cry while shadows steal the sun
but i can not look back now
i’ve come to far to turn around
and there’s still a race ahead that i must run
i’m only halfway home i gotta journey on
to where i’ll find the things that i have lost
i’ve come a long long road still i’ve got miles to go
i’ve got a wide wide river to cross
i have stumbled i have strayed
you can trace the tracks i made
all across the memories my heart recalls
but i’m just a refugee won’t you say a prayer for me
cause sometimes even the strongest soldier fall
The blonde in the bleachers
She flips her hair for you
Above the loudspeakers
You start to fall
She follows you home
But you miss living alone
You can still hear sweet mysteries
Calling you
The bands and the roadies
Lovin’ ’em and leavin’ ’em
It’s pleasure to try ’em
It’s trouble to keep ’em
‘Cause it seems like you’ve gotta give up
Such a piece of your soul
When you give up the chase
Feeling it hot and cold You’re in rock ‘n’ roll It’s the nature of the race It’s the unknown child So sweet and wild It’s youth It’s too good to waste
so the way this went was up in bed this morning after second coffee. only paper sticky notes (pink) sitting quiet spacey then this came first the tongues then other bits. Now I’ll transcribe into first ruff draft. this time using keyboard. sometimes a yellow pad is the first transcription. Sometimes there is only one sometimes there are many edits, the number depends on my things but mostly on my self. some photos of the original notes as you may see it is part of the illegible scribble that is an integral part of the process .
So the first bit =
And she said look
And I did seeing the play of sunlight slip
along the green hills a silver streak above the valley
a river mirroring catching sapphires between the roiling cumulus clouds….
SO Right away i notice too many the’s breaking up the image. Also I need to look up cumulus to make sure hos are the clouds I want… lets try it this way ~
she said look so I did seeing the play of sunlight slip
along green hills a silver streak along the valley
a river mirroring, catching sapphires from between cumulus clouds
Or Wait Maybe This ?
she said look so I did seeing the play of sunlight slip
along green hills a silver streak along the valley
a river mirroring, catching sapphires from between the cumulus…
So as you can tell or if not let me tell you it is a longish process sometimes. Anyway here’s the rest a first ruff ~
How the Goddess of Wisdom Taught Me the Tarantella
she said look so I did seeing the play of sunlight slip
along green hills a silver streak along the valley
a river mirroring, catching sapphires from between the cumulus
she said sing
so i offered
breathless wordless a what else can i do but be true refrain
On today’s tray ~ Woman Blood Christ Female Darkness _
23 3 23
Grail Woman Blood Bride Christ
Easy to read the new testament with feminist eye. The goddess is there before us. The only missing part is ourself. To read with our heart not with someone else’s law.
Try Eve ~
Serpent ancient symbol of immortality
Knowledge wisdom tree of knowledge
Every oppressor dictator in history considered knowledge to be a sin.
There is more mannishness than godliness in the wrathgod’s jealousy.
Eve the mother offering immortality – life to her children and to the one she loves.
Someone has deemed that a sin worthy of being exiled.
Again, smells like toxic masculinity rather than god to me.
So, we are exiled from Eden/eve.
We are exiled from the mother. The one who gives all in favour for the one who doles out.
The one who loves freely as the mother as the Christ.
Love.
Put it back. Make it real.
Every feast day for every woman saint together in the front pews women should sit together. Every event for Mary. line the pews together. Every rosary sit together. Show every priest the solidarity of the mother with her children. Mary with Christ. Children with the Mother Church.
What Christ has wrought with eve
What Christ has Wrought with Mary
Let no mere man break asunder.
One of the most female based religions needs the involvement of women in order to be restored. Healed.
The new testament of Christ is to be read as antidote to the old testament of wrathgod. That’s the rebel Jesus. Love over idolatry. Kindness over stone.
Once We Knew the Dark
No matter where days may differ but darkness is the same.
What if I lead you by the mouth?
Places underwater you could breathe in
Fingers taught on instruments stranger than bones
Drawn by strings reminiscent of words long ago
Familiar colours since extinct.
When winter was all there was could you find reasons to celebrate?
No matter how elaborate windows intricate trees harmonic songs
What does it take to lure a silver sun?
Bleaktitude chased
Hot whiskey voices
Oak wood smoke
Red berry holly
Slender secret ghosts vulnerable to love.
If it were long ago and my name was Jesus
Would you change your name for me?
Would you be my Mary?
I have become food for other creatures
Things I never knew existed indulge themselves in me
Grey not white birds mark my passing secret self
No evidence during that time of my existence
Yet even so something still remains:
A dying ember tenderness unquestioned.
Drawn to the wound in you moon strong as my own
A thing to be fingered or fucked a place to meet or loose ourselves.
What makes me want to reach in wonder what shape your creatures take as I do?
Unlike them others, reverse rodents unable to stay,
I’m not afraid. I know nothing survives the future.
Why wait for secrets? When we forget enough we die.
