By PD Lyons

By PD Lyons
n 1974 I started work on a biographical/fiction. ( originally titled salamanders) incorporating bits of journal, drugs sex and drama from the point of view of a 18 – 20 something male living in an old factory town New England as he discovers drinks weed cocaine love sex marriage divorce fatherhood etc. it began by the river it hasn’t ended yet. here’s another excerpt – for what its worth. still ruff n ready I suppose
He saw a picture of you today. Still there on Abbey St. Blonde hair like straw thatched out from under the rain soaked brim of that old black hat. There was mud on your wellies, there was a crooked smile on your face as if some wonderful power of secrets about to be told… then left to silence. How many years, how many miles, how many faces, strangers and places so called home? In a punch full of tears all at once he knew it wasn’t himself or them or even you but Dublin broke his heart.
Small Towns
She walked up McNelly street. Passed the fish market with it’s ripe seven in the morning ice crates, the vegetable docks with smashed cucumbers rancid orange juice and diesel fumes. She passed the nine to fivers in their Mademoiselle dresses and Mr. Nash hair styles. They were all heading high heeling it to newsstands and coffee-to-go shops before filling themselves into banks or offices or some other such proper place of employment. These were women of a hectic time, these women of another breed, She responded to them as one species might respond to the similarities found in some other with curiosity, a passing thought as to what they must be like, a bit of compassion giving way to pity and then a final contemptuous dismissal of them all since they couldn’t possibly have any bearing on her life.
King Laoghaire
Let the high hill speak for me:
Those who look shall see,
Full regalia compared
With stones of destiny.
Those with memory
Shall know
Cruelty the old belief
Compare with loving points of Christianity.
Let the high hill speak for me:
Bishop or pagan disguise
Usurper, still by only lies
Once Bridgit discards such foreign shame –
Who will stand high on Tara Hill again?
originally published by the now defunct The Ides of March Journal september 2011. archives : http://theidesofmarchjournal.blogspot.ie/2011_09_01_archive.html
the king in question was adversarial towards Patrick and the christian ways. he was steadfast to the old religion. many years later there was a drive to get a new statute of st. patrick built up on the hill of tara, the original seat of the high kings of ireland. there was a request for poetry which would be included in a publication to be sold as generating revenue. not being overly christian and wondering why the hill of tara should have a statue of partick – i wrote an submitted this poem, which was accepted by the organization. the book was never published because there was some benefactor(s) who donated all the cash needed. later i sent it over to the Ides Of March people and the chose to publish it.
for my dear friend from long ago and far away. remember?
Rose was the first thought
Remembering was coming
But put back
Almost worn out
Now – where roses bloom
Not trying
For anything
Now – where roses bloom
Not trying
For anything
Now – when I am
And am not
Then or pretty soon
Or never or forever
Now
When words burn meaningless
Giving warmth to bodies not left behind
The thoughts are all
Growing like flowers
Coiling like snakes
Blooming gaping
Snakes and flowers
The flesh we care for
The planet we care for
The stars we strive for –
Close you eyes
See .
Sept.12.73 for Loretta.
Lyrics
I’m a back street rambler
Got no place to go
My lovers are crazy
My money is low
And it’s a slow death
I’m waiting for
A slow death I’m praying for
Got no gifts to offer
No money no dope
All I gots my love
And they say it aint right
Its long night I’m going into
A long night I’m going through
My mirrors are many
My insights are few
no tears left to cleanse me
Got nothing for you
So, I’m two feet for the highway
Two feet for the road
Don’t know what’ll happen but I hope it goes slow.
Taught them tricks
Sit up
Stay
Beg
Roll over
Play dead
Got them to fetch
Escort us on the lead
Not mess in the house
Be careful how they peed
And whenever we wanted
We’d change them.
Start again with new ones –
Tricks
Treats
Training
Sometimes they’d fall in love with us
Break their own little hearts
But our love?
Only meant for each other
Was not that kind.
ruthless pursuit of your own dream.
suffering, the only reward for those who commit themselves to a dream.
swamped by muck of the masses.
vain valiant fool.
exhaustion your killer.
all sucked away, your ideals, your blood.
too late for you.
too late for those who loved you.
the people get the leaders they deserve.
no one asked you to die for them,
so they killed you.
2002.
We almost changed the world
from hate to love
from war to peace
from stress to joy & compassion
sickness to care
poison to healing
abusiveness to kindness
starvation to nourishment
subjugation to inclusiveness
greed to respect
you get the idea?
and it could have been so much easier than what we decided to allow instead – wtf