Author Archives: pdlyons

Brief bio:
Originally from the states, (Waterbury, Connecticut) but liking it here for the past ten years in Ireland. Spent a few years before that in Cape Breton Nova Scotia – great winters there for writing. Travelled a bit, worked a lot, and raised two wonderful children as well as horses (Morgan, Andalusian, Thoroughbred, Irish Sport Horse) in U.S. and Ireland. Have worked as a dishwasher, floor washer, textile mill labourer, construction labourer, pesticide sprayer, fire safety inspector, toy shop manager, women’s shoe shop manager, substance abuse counsellor, etc. currently working on new poetry collection :”The Women, a 46 year retrospective in poetry”
Cheers
Caribu & Sister Stones published by lapwing belfast
via
http://www.freewebs.com/lapwingpoetry/

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

an old guy walking #pdlyons #photography #horses & red bird


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grass is always greener – even if its a driveway

an old guy

walking on the side of the road

rain soft across my face

bird songs my smile

the wind sings through my bones

ancient instruments loving the moon

born in the month of strawberries.

Soft like snow

Every movement

A steady meticulous tenderness

muddy corner

by the gate

one horse waits

walking by

Those Long Always Summer Huge Silver Moon Nights the Colour of Your Soul Because They Are.


And you could reach out for my hand and I would take it

And you could whisper me questions and I would answer

And you could open my mouth bringing breath to me

And I the same with you –

A gift of moon

 of soul

of all those long always summer nights between us.

I am birds


bags of silk

Daydreaming as a profession

the other night she went to
sleep 
listening to 
subliminal audios

and woke up in the morning
saying, “I am birds. Many, many
birds trapped together in
a bag of silk. This thing
that the world looks
at and calls my body is but 
a bag of silk
that traps birds inside. I am not
the bag. A bag isn’t alive. I 
am the birds inside the bag. And
I must get out!” 

She ran into 
the bathroom

Her father shrugged. “Fuckin’ shit,”
he said, shaking his head. 
“To think that she could’ve
been a doctor, or a lawyer, or
an engineer. She could’ve
been anything. But she 
chose to study
creative writing in college. Now
she’s a poetess... 
and we are no more than
characters lost
in her verses.”


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Intryck, inre /Impressions, inside


English google trans

Dusk laughs magenta

weeping eyes desire existence

stars waste their time

pools of water spill silver

the streets stare red

But the footsteps follow in the footsteps of anxiety.

Throbbing, chasing, fleeing.

Dizzy along the square

Sparks against broken windows, dark green

Yolanda - "Det här är mitt privata krig"

Skymningen skrattar magenta

gråtfyllda ögon önskar existens

stjärnor slösar sin tid

vattenpölar spiller silver

gatorna stirrar rött

Fast fotstegen vandrar i orons spår.

Bultande, jagande, flyktlikande.

Yrar längs torget

Gnistrar mot trasiga fönster, mörkgröna

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october summer writing session music w/ Miles, Thelonious & P D


today 

october and all sun

so cool the air seems extra with oxygen

how simpatico 

the discovery of Miles meets Thelonious

the music for todays writing session

the music for easy deep breathing

~

 

north to rome – by pd lyons from Morning Movies


we took the train north to Rome
started with sweat and bullets
wishing for a better meal next stop
village by village dust bells along
following the steady steel rhythm

hours drift lulling with common motion
 landscapes we have come to know
keep pace as we imagined
being closer than we ever were
before leaving

Reggio Calabria

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Tiananmen Square, Two Poems by Davyne Verstandig read by PD Lyons


So the other day sorting out book shelves and come across a 1990 Magazine called Hobo Jungle ~ a Quarterly Journal of New Writing. It was published by Ruth Boeger/ Marc Erdich in Roxbury Ct. The reason I still have it? Well they were one of the first to publish my work and the very first to send me a check for my poetry. In fact I’m sure I still have a xerox copy of that check in some box some where in then house. Any way the point is flipping through I cam across a striking piece of work which led me to look up the poet and write asking if I could reprint their work here and so with permission of this very fine artist I will blog the 2 poems and give some links to their bio and website. The first one is in my opinion a perfection of the micro~dot poem. Ruthlessly elegant and mercilessly immersed in reality. The short poem is almost impossible to be read out loud and remain effective although I’ll give it a go along with the other piece further on but first read it silently out loud to yourself. Thank you for your time.

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Tianasquare

Davyne Verstandig

http://davyneverstandig.com/index.html

Davyne Verstandig was a lecturer in English and Creative Writing at the University of Connecticut. (retired June 2020 after 25 years.)

Her books include two books of poetry, Pieces of the Whole and Provisions and her work appears in Sex and Sexuality in a Feminist World, Songs of the Marrow BoneWhere Beach Meets OceanThis One Has No Name, The Monday Poets, and the forth coming anthology with an introduction by Margaret Gibson, CT Poet Laureate, Waking Up to the Earth, Connecticut Poets in a Time of Global Climate Crisis.

She has also performed improvisational work “composing on the tongue” painting and poetry at The Knitting Factory and Housing Works Café in New York City and given readings throughout New England.

She gives writing workshops at Wisdom House Retreat Center in Litchfield, CT. and at Camp Washington Episcopal Retreat Center in Morris, Ct.

She is Poet Laureate Emerita of Washington and is a Justice of the Peace. She can be found at mymindisintheink@gmail.com. She is a writing consultant.


Books available on Amazon, some at The Hickory Stick Bookshop, Washington, Ct.
Pieces of the Whole – poetry
Provisions- poetry
Anthologies
Sex and Sexuality if a Feminist World
This One Has No Name 
The Monday Poets
Laureates of Connecticut, An Anthology of Contemporary Poetry
Waking Up to the Earth, Connecticut Poets in a Time of Global Climate Crisis

In this hard Rocky Earth/ #pd lyons #poetry #stonework #wildroses #fore #westmeath #ireland


 

In this hard rocky earth

what have our bones become

what nourished creatures by our flesh alive

as if we really immortal

thought our marked stones  be cared for

remembered only by the wind

Fore

Fore,County Westmeath


Bridget Shields Rose

Bridget Shields Rose

from 2006 notes found in a box today. thanks for stopping by.

Thank You, by PD Lyons, as published by A New Ulster #29


 

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I was very happy that Amos Greig chose this a one of my pieces appearing in the #29 issue of A New Ulster!

Not sure when I first discovered Gabriel. I had known of his existence superficially. I was lent copies  by English majors back in the 80’s I think. Sat on my self til i gave them way. Any way years later – not quite a 100, I discovered/experienced one of the most wonderful artists I would ever know. The lush mystical worlds – the most wonderful novels I have ever read. And I would say that,  English literature was being saved by a man who wrote in Spanish. This is a poem I wrote on occasion of his death and my sitting out the back at my home in rural Ireland in the company of a fine Cuban and an exquisite bourbon…

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Thank You

My first cigar of the season
and I think of you Gabriel

I too have my river
like yours but different
although how different can rivers of men really be?

each travels the same
easiest option
easily taken
to the same sea
never stopping

each deals with whatever
is thrown into it
no matter what
only disappearing into the same saline never ending sea

does that sea greet you now
women you have loved and been loved by
comrades of good and not so good words food drink
fine smoke from properly rolled cigars
angels through an unlimited jungle of stainless sky

18 April 2014

for Gabriel García Márquez

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https://sites.google.com/site/anewulster/issue-twenty-nine

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