The Great God Pan Is Dead by pd lyons

 

photographer unknown

 

Within the pages of illusion,

Before the glass of no reflection,

The sensuous form of her adoration,

(White on blonde)

Rises to the occasion of the

Mysterious relation between,

The pale worship of a

Vanishing god and the blue

Whispers of her blood.

As fevered as silk in cedar,

Fanatical as dew dipped spider webs;

She’s come and gone.

Her absence heavy in the spicy

Dust of death, where her foot steps

Spell out the haunting word

Amen

 

1987

memorial by pd lyons

ever onward let me go
ever onward let me go home

this world of lamentation
these buds of easy bloom

you don’t know where
but i’ll find my way

so let me go

i’ll leave a little light for you – if i can

 

remembered a dream i had last night by pd lyons

 

someone i didn’t know had come to the front door

 told me you were looking for me

on horses we used to own

i couldn’t believe my luck

went to meet you

took those trails we used to take

certain that’s the way you’d come

raced the river

edged the narrow ridge

ducked low hung branches

even found

the old red barn

the wild turkey barn

the shelter from the rain barn

surprised  after all these years-

it hadn’t changed at all

 

 

Year Book & Tramuda Blues as published in Shot Glass Journal

Thank you to the editors of Shot Glass Journal for supporting my work. These appear in Issue #20 September 2016.

http://www.musepiepress.com/shotglass/preview/pd_lyons2.html

~

Year Book

these are the streets
I came from.
these are the people I knew;
who were gonna live forever.

names I cannot now recall
ways that I cannot find
places no longer there
unrecognisable even in daylight.

if you live long enough
no one will know what you’re talking about

 

 

 

Tramuda Blues

woke up this afternoon
my arms still felt like they were holding you.
I had been dreaming about you,
probably because I slept cold on the floor
and wanted to be warm.

I tried to work some but your presence kept distracting me
until I couldn’t help but give in.
got dressed. got out by the reservoir
just in time to watch the first sunset of the year
when my breath came up like smoke

 

pdlyonsphoto 2016

World Teachers’ Day – Big Giant Thank You!

Over all my years of   schooling where I learned to read, to write,  to be – I have had many many wonderful teachers. I have also had the ones who didn’t make much impression and a few who I would be happy to call them out should I meet them today and at least ask them why they bothered to enter the profession.

But today is a day for those who were the stars in my becoming who I am  – a pretty descent bloke in my own expert opinion. Any way every day I write and every word I write i must thank my teachers for. Humbly and luckily there are two of my English teachers, one from high school and one from my university days that actually take the time to follow this blog. So to them and to all those others, especially from my younger days when I did not know how lucky I was to have them –

big giant

 

THANK YOU!

Apologies

for the delay.

Sincerely,

the boy in the back

 

What Is True Remains

for me writing is something I do,

sometimes I want to

sometimes I don’t,

but always I do.

as if someday maybe all those written words,

sifted through,

subtracted from ,

will leave remaining some thing I don’t know,

but want to find out –

what’s left after I subtract all the words of a life time?

that’s what I want from it.

For what is true remains.

sometimes in this writing life

ruff fragment from : ceremonies of the horsemen, by pd lyons

 

“I support the whole universe with a single fragment of myself” – Bhagavad Gita

there will be a time when I walk alone no possibility of interruption, no sense of anything but wonder. ready to go anywhere – I will alone step upon a beach of star dust, a twilight evening morning without distractions of any sun rise. Body resembling translucent moons encircled with rings like Jupiter silver oh you know what I mean.

to walk alone totally alone; the great adventure that. every step a holy ground, every step unknown places beckoning without distraction. the only one around, me walking without reluctance across the universe. And when like some great invisible hand reaches out cupping me as if my whole body but a sweet lovers cheek, the last eyes I see before I know of eyes no longer? my own reflected back across an endless sky as if in kissing my own self one brief momentary glimpse of the Krishna that is and always has been me.

No longer afraid, narcissism the enduring aspect of the world in the jingle jangle mornings I have followed and loved only you.

scorpion night 1

I’d like to be the ghost on the beach with regards to M&M & Emily

I’d like to be the ghost on the beach

haunt the place where sand meets sea

to know I’d be forever chained

to always be what must remain

better than any heaven be

if I could haunt the sand and sea

Rumors of Another Summer

 

 

95º

4^th of July

Connecticut

Bare Trees, Winter Night; oldie not so familiar says the radio.

 

this is age

& what it’s like

& how is there anything else now?

 

But poplar silver

still sounds like rain

quick sand springs still stream

maples shade deep gorge brooks

high stones circle the pool

of where going down to the horse bones

we were kids.

 

 

 

Just a Cat, by pd lyons

Just a Cat

 

No longer

Will morning find you  pondering the flight of birds

 

You won’t

Trip me in the kitchen, a bandit circling – like I’d forget the milk

 

Up on the bed

Attack everything  beneath the duvet

 

Purr with my daughter and the Barbies

Watch  some favorite TV show.

 

No more my little one

Trust me to carry you like a slip of black velvet still sleeping in my hands

 

No. No more because

Some ignorant bastard drove like a maniac and thought, oh just a cat

 

collage by pdl

 

Stainless Unmarked Sky, from Myths of Multiplicity by pd lyons, the runner up for the 2014 erbacce prize for poetry

Stainless Unmarked Sky

Single bed against a powder green wall
Magazine photos yellow cellophane taped
Favourite red t-shirt no underwear
30/06 lever action
Blue barrel fingerprints
Weevil tick toes
A Fly between the glass hums
Until heat makes everything
Even outside
Still.

Beneath that shirt
Each little island bump
Up to where if a boy
An Adams apple‘d be.
Knee steady, butt-end
On a white board floor
Spidering fingers
Raw cotton breath
Knowing it’s loaded
Stainless unmarked
Alone in that room

Sky.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Myths of Multiplicity by pd lyons, the runner up for the 2014 erbacce prize for poetry