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”
Caribu & Sister Stones published by lapwing belfast

Sometimes in this Writing Process #1 from scraps to ruff ~ How the Goddess of Wisdom Taught Me the Tarantella 

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

harmonic of all i’d seen and all i’d ever see

she said dance

so we embraced a dance named for spiders

mingling sweat lead our lips to meet

undisciplined tongues ballerinas  inside our mouths

she said hush

so i  took breath 

together we sunk dampness upon a warm green earth

she said know

and I was certain.

Little Witches & The Winters House in Winetown read by the author pd lyons

Little Witches

One little witch

with bright yellow shoes

did a magic spell and then there were two

two little witches

in a white birch tree

did a magic spell & then there were three

3 little witches

at the red kitchen door

did a magic spell and then there were 4

4 little witches

sharpen  silver knives

did a magic spell and then there were 5

5 little witches

on blue broom sticks

did a magic spell and then there were 6

6 little witches

At a quarter past eleven

Did a magic spell and then there were 7

7 little witches

on a green metal gate

did a magic spell and them there were 8

8 little witches

making spider wine

did a magic spell and then there were 9

9 little witches

chasing grumpy ladies and cross face men

did a magic spell and then there were 10

10 little witches

with their little black cats

did a magic spell and next Halloween they’ll all be back!

The Winter’s House in Winetown

Was Saturday the witches came

haggard hoary bristly three

and in the kitchen at the sink

incanting charms and pantry spells

resorted themselves to beauty.

Then went down to the lake again,

 fairy visits and cool trees,

bouquets cut of certain weeds

grown only on forgotten graves.

Taunted dreaming frogs with transformation.

Lured from whispering reeds,

wood duck, heron, silent swan.

Cupped and rubbed soft feathered chins,

 left them fast asleep invisibly protected for the night.

Velvet bats alight upon their fingers

 sang them softly twinkling songs,

until blown away by kisses, flew off beeping through the dark.

Back home then for mid night tea

around a blazing fire.

Wood rum, pale cakes, spiced ales.

Nettle cheese, pumpkin slices, chestnuts roasted,

mushrooms honeyed, cups of steaming coffee coco.

Where greeted right well all manner of visitors.

Unknown travellers of the night.

Those with, as well as those without, a definitive day time shapes.

But none so well as the tabby cat.

Intent on playing catch the front porch pixies

strayed bounding in across the flagstone floor

and before she could correct herself and flee?

Clear bowls of cream.

Cooked river fish.

Petted, stroked, and secret named,

until red cushion velvet by the fire purred herself to sleep.

And at the first faint sign of sunrise?

a final toast of elderberry

a spell to do the tidy up

stumble giggle up the stairs

to find their way beneath the blankets into my creaking bed

bookcoverimage (2)

What’s left of our gaze in these fatal strategies…

one of my many favorites

lemanshots - Fine Pictures and Digital Art

Designed and created by Josephine R. Unglaub.

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Public Service Announcement WPKN 89.5 FM, as published in Erbacce #43, by pd lyons

Pdlyons's Explorations

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 sweetbourbon kisses

DSC_1266                                                     Centre du George Pompidou
as published by the good folk at Erbacce issue 43

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except america by pd lyons

Pdlyons's Explorations

the sun is out

i’m just sitting in the shade
breezes stir the unkempt lawn

music drifts out the kitchen door
Ali Farka Toure and Roy Cooder
and because of this

and because of the bourbon ginger lime in my glass
and the perfectly drawing romeo y julieta
i could be anywhere
any you could come

except America

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Alic Farka Toure & Toumani Diabate – magical!

Music to be savored over and over again!

wordless wednesday 28.10.20. happy halloween


Hope you all have a happy healthy safe and FUN holiday! cheers!

Thank You For Watching!

Aengus Gets It Right, by pd lyons; as published by the legendary

Aengus Gets It Right

breathe in the fever
perfect wood wind violin
single note shape sigh release
weightless tongues
sweet water curls up
fine black pearls clung
each finger brought to your rowan mouth
until unable to bear it any more
laugh and plunge
this time even deeper


where are you singing?
where are you dancing?
tonight in open spaces of my heart
memories keeping us together or apart
when life is only looking back
trading places with the dark
wisdom drawn with silver sticks
without books without roots
unspeakable night this time
I will not medicate fear
I will not dogma soul
I will wide open in the dark


as published by the legendary (May 20, 2010. Issue 17).

In Irish mythology, Óengus (Old Irish), Áengus (Middle Irish), or Aengus or Aonghus (Modern Irish), is a member of the Tuatha Dé Danann and probably a god of love, youth and poetic inspiration. He is also called Aengus Óg (“Aengus the young”), Mac ind Óg (“son of the young”), Mac Óg (“young son”) or Maccan.

The Song of Wandering Aengus by W.B. Yeats (1865–1939) is one of my favourite poems, and of which this piece does refer to.  you can find the full text of Yeats work, along with another of my own relating to Yeats at this link


my father, my mother, Yeats, golden apples & silver apples – reading by PD Lyons

read by PD Lyons poet~

The Song of the Wandering Aengus by WB Yeats & Somewhere Still by PD Lyons

The Song of the Wandering Aengus by WB Yeats from Eveeryman’s Poetry, J.M. Dent, Orien Publishing. London 1998 Somewhere Still by PD Lyons from When You Worship Swans No Longer Limited Edition, Supported by Westmeath County Arts, 2017


The Song of Wandering Aengus

I went out to the hazel wood,
Because a fire was in my head,
And cut and peeled a hazel wand,
And hooked a berry to a thread;
And when white moths were on the wing,
And moth-like stars were flickering out,
I dropped the berry in a stream
And caught a little silver trout.
When I had laid it on the floor
I went to blow the fire a-flame,
But something rustled on the floor,
And someone called me by my name:
It had become a glimmering girl
With apple blossom in her hair
Who called me by my name and ran
And faded through the brightening air.
Though I am old with wandering
Through hollow lands and hilly lands,
I will find out where she has gone,
And kiss her lips and take her hands;
And walk among long dappled grass,
And pluck till time and times are done,
The silver apples of the moon,
The golden apples of the sun.
Source: The Wind Among the Reeds (1899)

.Noun. 1. Aengus – Celtic god of love and beauty; patron deity of young men and women. Angus, Angus Og, Oengus.


Somewhere there is still a place, you sitting in the sun, concrete porch paving slabs, Cape Cod Grey picnic table, small summer savages running jumping clinging – immune bare feet impervious to sun. Skin frosted with salt, lotions, cake icing.
Somewhere children still take your hand, invite you to cross the street walk with them down to the beach, taking them sometimes instead to lunch…
Long-time companions, comforts of old age, afternoon naps, books, TV, mail order catalogues, big band music and too those ever-dangerous memories – love, marriage, a hole never in twenty-three years has time healed.
Somewhere she still takes you by the hand. Ohs your name laughs into the open window, Fifty-five Chevy, summer bright chrome. So close to flying great American V8 highways up through the Canadian border dwindling into heavy Nova Scotia sands.
There has never been an ocean too cold for her to swim in. Long after your retreat to safety – Flamingo towels, Knickerbocker beer, USMC Zippo, Old Gold cigarette spiral prayers. Gratitude at last. Unable to fathom any reason to feel bad about surviving.
Deep breath wonderful (not a god damn palm tree in sight). Watch that woman of the sea; only wish there would never have to be a time to leave.
Later she gets tipsy; acquiescing when the waiter offers to sweeten her drink no knowing here to sweeten means more liquor. Out on the dance floor, hold each other tight as you want because she’s your wife now and you always liked the Mills Brothers.
Sometime after midnight, small cedar room, Stuart tartan blankets, crisp white sheets. Strange night sounds traipsing gingham curtains. As if tiny fingers, she ohs your name. Answer back with words you never knew before.
This spring by the sea your little house will not find you. Gone now perhaps to wander just like W.B. said –
Glimmering girl once more beside you and pluck
Till time and times are done
The silver apples of the moon,
The golden apples of the sun.
(For: D.R.L. – with regards to W.B. Yeats, his favourite poet.)

The Ways of Sitting, by pd lyons

acrylic on paper pdlyons

The Ways of Sitting

A mans hands ~

on a woman’s thighs

One on each rolls them out

A better view of what he’s dreamt for so long.

Muscular even in yielding

She allows her deep breath body freely.

Outside women ~

talk how the year slips

School days into holidays beginning school again.

A woman in love writes her name ~

Moon soft ivory

Pale sky

By the Buddha

By the open window

Major piano chords

A simple charm

Like where in dreams we can’t be hurt.

A man begrudging poetry ~

Leaves out such things as joy

Hopes a mirage of his own making

Hides in clothes made from mistaken identities

Secrets like superman behind caped crusades

Although blurred some character always lurks

Despite the roles he thinks he should,

He thinks they want, he thinks he must.

A series of figures exchanged through out his life

Even the god he picks a model of dysfunction.

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