one of the things i love best about still being alive is:
suiting up in that old 3/4 dark almost black green wax coat, slipping on the knee-high wellies (reinforced so nothing can pierce the sole) zipping up every zip, snap, hood, buckle etc and going out in the near dark of winter walking with the little jack Russel for company – even when the rain is hard and wind is strong or maybe i should say especially when, like tonight the moon late rising one star amidst the breaking clouds, mud n bog n field n down along the grassy banks the lake waves like an ocean, occasional squawks of errant crows not yet settled for another winter night. nothing stops the little dog, she is an atv of heart and blood, through the hedge rows, along the rocky shore catching waves, like some mad moon in orbit she always returns to me and we walk until we find our way back hardly able to see, she knowing there’s some treat, a bit of old bacon or such, me knowing that there’s something sweet from the oven and that michelle and morgan have the fire tended and after a bit of washing up and maybe a cup of black coffee, i get the evening meal started and i suppose that’s more than one thing, its truly somethings i love best about still being alive.
and that coat you know, did you ever have one? you can go out in any weather and not mind, as if you sealed up every bit of whatever was and is good in your life and it settles all around you keeping anything cold or harsh or wet away – but you know not really away, because somehow you still feel every bit of weather and you really wouldn’t not want to feel each and every inch of it, but rather that magic of the coat is somehow it transforms even the most daunting winter night into something you can’t wait to experience?
was living in cape Breton for a few winters. had a dalmatian dog named max. we brought him over from Ireland with us. he had 125 acres of woodland for a back yard and the Atlantic ocean for the front. those days had a canon AE something or other so film photos and they’re in a box somewhere…
Where I could step out into the night Smoke with the stars Hear an ocean just beyond the pines And something’d draw the Dog off barking Into a pitch black forest where really anything could be When all I wanted was the sparkling solitude of Orion But you know when the s.o.b. came back All proud of himself waging his tail – All I could say was Good boy – Good boy
I dreamed my love had found me
my children gathered too
put down all their weapons
eased their hearts cried their fill
then they began to play
like they did when they were young
and when I woke I’d forgotten
all my dreaming days were done.
I went down to make the coffee
sat by the open window
ran my fingers through my hair
thought I heard somebody talkin’
voices carry on the air
birds out over the ocean
rising silver like a prayer
Big Lorraine is in Cape Breton Nova Scotia, Canada. In one of those vast woodland logics of Cape Breton, Big Lorraine is much smaller a town than Little Lorraine is. In fact, I don’t think there’s more than a house or two visible from the highway. Maybe it was different back in the day? Anyway, Cape Breton is one of the most beautiful places I’ve ever lived in. There are many ghosts along the rugged coast and throughout the highlands where sometimes they don’t even get a town left standing for them. So, this is a ghost poem, and it is obviously for Big Lorraine.
A version appears in Caribu & Sister Stones: Selected Poems by PD Lyons, selected by Deirdre Kearney, Published by Lapwing, Belfast, 2009.
About the Poet:
Born and raised in the USA. Currently residing in Ireland. The work of pd Lyons has appeared in publications throughout the world. Poetry collections published by Lapwing Press, Belfast, erbacce-Press, Liverpool & Westmeath Arts Council Ireland. For more please visit https://pdlyons.wordpress.com/
after the show she’d call him
wait with the security guys out back
in the open door way if it was storming
watching waiting smoking.
she’d heard they added menthol to ‘em so you wouldn’t feel what they were doin’ to your throat,
she wasn’t sure about that – isn’t there just too much miss-trust in the world?
anyway it never took him long,
no matter what the time was
even if the show ran late
even if there was snow
he was never long.
run up them iron stairs
and every time
kiss her before saying hello, how was the show?
and walk her arm ‘n arm to the car,
open and close her door …
she was back up singer in a steady small town gig.
the one who wore a black beret,
sang better ‘n most of the stars she broke her ass to make look good.
and maybe if she were younger…
and maybe if she weighed a little less…?
back home,
he’d always have something good and warm and ready to eat
and sometimes in the shower the hot water lasts an hour
and sometimes she’d have a little something strong to drink.
and he’d put something on the stereo real low like madam butterfly
and lay her down until falling asleep
only by some taunting dream
she’d wake
to find
his arms
around her.
The International Women’s Day issue of A New Ulster one of Northern Ireland’s online Journals featuring the works of Marion Clarke, Helen Harrison, P D Lyons, Marie Lecrivain Judith Thurley and Mari Maxwell and many more
can come up for a visit without leaving their home behind
my mother meets me by the creek once marked the boundary of our beach walks
we are walking back I am telling her everyone is doing pretty well.
she is pointing out to where diamonds of the waves briefly meet the sky
my cousins brother-in-law brings us to the breakwater to fish. I’ve smoked all my cigarettes and he, the brother-in-law, is generous supplying me from his own. They get bored want to go down to the beach side to swim. I don’t want to, So I stay smoking someone else’s cigarettes fishing for nothing keeping an eye on the gear. Nearby there’s woman on a huge flat chunk of granite. She has two children with her. They are playing together with bits of sea weed. She lays there luxuriant in the sun sounds of the waves and the laughter of her children.
walking on the beach with a girl I know from school. the tide high and slack.
we are finding things in the sand noting as we go strips of green weeds, bits of sea glass, bleached bones of small creatures skulls of small crabs. Sometimes there are these pink stones. I pick them up put them into the pockets of my cut-off jeans. She picks them up as well and even though she has pockets on her cut-offs she is rather throwing them out into the sea. I give it a go but mine fall short. They’re nowhere near the long effortless arcs of her own. So instead, I give all mine to her and watch. We continue on in that way. Me picking up small pink stones handing them to her so we can enjoy the long grace of her connections with the sea.
PD Lyons – Born and raised in the USA. Currently residing in Ireland. The work of pd Lyons has appeared in publications throughout the world.
Poetry collections published by Lapwing Press, Belfast. erbacce-Press, Liverpool. Westmeath Arts Council Ireland.
Do hope you enjoyed some of these. If so let me know!
all the best wishes to you all. Thanks you for reading.
Preparing to Accept – by PD Lyons for: Katie, Jeanie, Mara, Jenny, The Bay, The Roan, Ali, Lance, The Mare, Phyllis, all my own true heart
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 be slipped 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 sound charges the air
As if you were watching, you’d see with every step Our connection wove the mare and I, Until muffled by snow in false dawn and moonlight, Though every part 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 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,] 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 birch tree line The Frozen river spreads its dare.
PD LyonsPD Lyons was born and raised in the USA Since 1998 has resided in Ireland. Has worked as dishwasher, floor washer, textile mill labourer, construction worker, pesticide sprayer, fire safety inspector, toy shop manager, substance abuse councillor, women’s shoe shop manager etc currently cutting grass in a small medieval village in County, Westmeath Ireland. Pdlyons’s Explorations
