Category Archives: ghost poems

from my badlands / words and photographs by pd lyons


along the north sea port

join a Virgil woman

guiding darker underground

 beneath the cities of men

 

up for air

 

ice hung with our breath

long wrapped woollens

nestling steel in our pockets

heated by such as our own mortal blood

behind the drapes

through the doors

 company of sailors whores and other stranded strangers

ritual of smoke

purification of rum

dreams spoke of southerner seas

twined with stories of the ice

phantomed like Frankenstein and Winnetou

every one of us a mythology onto ourselves and each other.

what you we do but cling?

what could we do but put our breathing mouths together?

labyrinth

tongues

underworld

archetype

alive.

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Entering Us through Breath poetry and photography by pd lyons


Entering Us through Breath

I couldn’t tell you which was man or which was woman
Or how they met their end.
I couldn’t see where one began, another ended
Or begin to guess how many.
But I can tell you this for sure:
They had never taken to the ground,
No matter how much heaped upon them,
They are always now, creatures of the air.

 

 

 

 

With Alessandra


With Alessandra

          ~

time travels softly

across the river

sun pours

volcanoes of night

suck away the day

ghosts rise hungry

clean olive scented bones

in another sleepless night

                                                                                 along this land of green dreams

 

 

 

In Death if Dreams Be loved


he had stayed away before

afraid of his own dreams

now 5:30 in the a.m.

she had come to him

so real he cursed god

 

wept into the kitchen

cursing god again

once more when sleep had took him

with out words she came

sat with him on deep scorch-less grass

head to head

dark her eyes kept him breathless

until once more was gone

draped in white your invisible hands , poem and photography by pd lyons


 

 

 

~

went down by the house you used to live in

all the windows had the same curtains

the one where your bedroom was was open

for a moment

draped in white

your invisible hands

wave

~

 

Rattlesnake Spells by pd lyons with photos


pdlyons photography

 

Rattlesnake Spells

A blind man on acid
Finger reads the face of god
 
His name
The colour of mirrors still wishing to be ravens

 

mix media by morgan lyons

 

pdlyons photography

Next Morning, poem by pd lyons


 

 

 dry as steel

echos walking home 

 

believing in what you knew was not

and calling it love

One poem as published by – Literariedad


Amarillo

By PD Lyons 

 

like that street
wandered down street
no siesta noon
shadowed woman leans
black iron filigree not quite a balcony
lace the colour of some-place else
drawn as if a breeze
pecan smooth her face

what would the story be?
choose that place you should not go
walnut doors second floor
barefoot invitation
whisper of late grapes
hint of something strong
dull embroidered armchair
unlaced boots
dusted finger prints
smooth as kisses table
folded towels
uncertain colour
enameled basin
clear glass tumblers
lemons sliced in water
sunlight striping something velvet on the bed

Literariedad

Revista dominical que asume la literatura, la poesía, el cine y el teatro como calles, lugares de encuentro y desencuentro. ISSN: 2462-893X.

Literariedad

Revista Latinoamericana de Cultura. Año 5. Desde Bogotá, Colombia. Apuntes de Peatón. ISSN: 2462-893X (En línea)

As published by Inquietudes Literary Journal Spring 2018


Waltzing the Night

by PD Lyons

We’d hold ourselves like prayers between each other
bare feet, beating hearts
soft by each breath
full moon kisses
beyond any daylight horizon

 

it was one o’ clock this morning.
woke up no particular reason
didn’t even need to pee.
kitchen floor so cold I hurt for shoes
stood there adjusting to Frigidaire light
three bottles of beer on the second shelf
opened one by the window
chugged a salute to those long
hard rain halos

this is not the city I used to know with you

maybe I go for another
maybe it’ll help me sleep
probably not
these days once I’m up
even beer can’t touch me

deserted even by the small comfort of your ghost
still I sway as if somehow
we’re dancing

_________________________________________________________________

links to the full issue #1 and the Journal for submissions of your own work

 

https://inquietudeslitjournal.weebly.com/issue-1.html

 

issue_1_ardor_and_anguish

 

 

poetry & photography by pd lyons


 

In the Language of Flowers, It Meant We are Already Dead

 

 

Beside whatever water there was there

Over flowing bowl an undulate of green tendrils

Draped swan songs

Left morning a capture of sorrow

She reached out to nothing there

She reached out to something ridged

Pulling itself from her heart

In and out

A pornograph of pain

The table set with only bones

Memories picked clean

A criticism of cutlery

Every single question ever asked –

A useless pointlessness recycling

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