Pdlyons's ExplorationsBaskin-Robbins
Sixty- two Chevy pick up
Bondo dust and shot exhaust
Your brother driving 84 east
Neil on the radio
I smoked a million cigarettes
So you wouldn’t try n kiss me
Not cause of that but because your brother already wanted to kill me
Was only driving me to Waterbury
So I wouldn’t have no excuse
To hang around you
Cowgirl in the sand
Thank you to the folks at Muse Pie Press- Shot Glass Journal
http://www.musepiepress.com/shotglass/index.html
for including two of mine in the issue #20 September 2016. It is nice to be wanted!
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.
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
http://www.musepiepress.com/shotglass/index.html
alone along the border line
cigarette struggles with her finger tips
her pale lips
her naked throat
and
moving through fields between snow
and
holes where there is still water
a heavy heat awakens
deep within
she mouths her lover’s name.
now when all the west is orange
clouds race black across it
ask in voices lent by the winds of winter:
do you
do you
do you
through the taste of midnight
into the wound of sunrise
until the evening sparkles into dawn
even when the day light spreads out broad
do you
do you
do you
still believe
and on the double edge of sacred steel,
her voice met by the winds of winter,
she almost always answers –
Yes.
I was very proud to have this poem included in the Human Rights Consortium and the Institute of English Studies and London-based poetry collective the Keats House Poets Anthology 150 Poems For Human Rights. I submitted it along with The Diary – a poem in response to Anne Frank. https://pdlyons.wordpress.com/2014/06… While published in 2014 it was written contemporary with the second National Geographic photo of April 2007. ~
The Orphan As Adult by PD Lyons, was written upon seeing the famous National Geographic cover photo of the grown up Afghan girl who was herself originally on the cover as a child during the Russian involvement in Afghanistan. Twenty years later and not much has changed.
The Orphan As Adult
my eyes were not green for you
I did not rebel or lead
never even learned to read.
children dropped from me
in a pain no one cared about.
my years marked by long days and short lives.
as if expecting greeting, you return.
as if your photographs meant something
other than a young girl momentarily annoyed
her world same now as it was then
a place where things just are the way they are.
my eyes were not green for you
only an accident of birth
same as your own.
For Afghanistan
In Protest: 150 Poems for Human Rights is an anthology of new poetry exploring human rights and social justice themes. This collection, a collaboration between the Human Rights Consortium at the School of Advanced Study, University of London, and the Keats House Poets, brings together writing that is often very moving, frequently touching, and occasionally humorous. The 150 poems included here come from over 16 countries, and provide a rare insight into experiences of oppression, discrimination, and dispossession – and yet they also offer strong messages of hope and solidarity.
This anthology brings you contemporary works that are truly outstanding for both their human rights and poetic content. Arranged across thirteen themes – Expression, History, Land, Exile, War, Children, Sentenced, Slavery, Women, Regimes, Workers, Unequal, and Protest – you will find within this collection a poem that inspires and engages you. ‘Poetry brings tiny details to life, and in a world where human rights is mostly about reports and abstractions, where real life and real details are lost – poetry can still make us see, and feel.’ – Sigrid Rausing.
As the events of 2020 put paid to my intention to promote this book via live readings etc. I have decided to simply read the book in order on short videos. I believe the work should be heard and hope to make that happen here. Thank you if you have for listening. cheers pdlyonspoet@yahoo.co.uk.
Something in the Night, Lessons On Foreign Languages in a Reeperbahn Café, Once While I Was Away. erbacce-press Liverpool UK c2019 video c2021 pdlyons poet.
If you’d like a copy of the book contact me via email to arrange. inscribed limited editions 20.00euros regular postage incl. anywhere in the world. 15.00Euros if you’re lucky enough to live in Ireland.
good luck. bye!
note there are some sexual references here. no violence, or graphic descriptions
you can read them below but as the youtube folks say if you want the joy of watching yours truly read ’em you gotta go ~
back then when knowing the night was an obligation
I got to meet you
we had nothing to do but each other
we had no one else we wanted to bother with
I was working at a local gas station
pump the gas, check the oil, fill the radiator, fill the tire
only other things we could sell – cigarettes, maps and coca cola.
I have no idea what you did something textile?
Bobbins, threads, piece work, bonus
somehow, we had met and that was all that mattered.
we liked to drive around at night,
few beers, couple packs of smokes, FM radio.
didn’t go to bars much, drinking there cost more
besides we both had this inability to not piss people off.
last time we were in a bar?
this old Irish guy, the owner, liked you at first
gave you your third drink on the house
but when he was playing pool, money on the table
you kept grabbing the back of the cue just as he shot.
by the third time it wasn’t funny, except to you.
few of the regulars told me; Better get her out of here. Now! So, I did.
we stopped off in the middle of the intersection by St. Joseph’s cemetery
smoking, talking, kissing – more than kissing.
never a soul, not even the cops came by to bother us.
we had some incredible luck when it came to it.
I told you what my favourite breakfast was.
so, you invited me one morning, your mother’s house,
eggs Benedict you made yourself just for me.
I met your little brother then.
he was 7 maybe 10. He asked if I ever went fishing?
sure, when I was your age my dad used to always take me.
must a said I’d take him sometime
cause about a week after we stopped seeing each other I get this phone call
could we go? maybe tomorrow? you know fishing?
I don’t remember how but I told him no. It made me feel sad.
I knew what it was like to believe you were going fishing then not.
And you? Even if you were around, I don’t think there’s anything here you wouldn’t have already known and forgotten long ago.
Trees or torture…
My breasts were made for children and your hands
Choices are limited by the boundaries of the playing surface
How do you know that’s not a table?
We could meet in Ireland by the palm trees.
Everyone drinks Guinness and whiskey, everyone drinks Paddy
Even in the ancient holes of Greece, the big dig and who
wouldn’t give up school for the bones of Archimedes?
To find the way past childhood, finding the past of childhood,
the paths of childhood past the personal to the collective…
Who wouldn’t give up tomorrow for a chance to come into Pandora’s Box?
Well when I am god, I shall bless Pandora, bless Eve, bless all those who
turned away from paradise, instead followed the stars.
Why? Why everything? Why not something else?
Ignorance may be bliss but consciousness divine…
…but if I could meet you in Ireland by the palm trees
yes, even I would drink Paddy whiskey with you from the bones
of Pandora’s ass; and we could trace the historic exile of
our childhood to the music of Springsteen’s: Point
Blank, The Price You Pay, Ties that Bind, as it tins through
some battery cassette. So, roll up another cigarette and pass
the Pandora but first let me see your eyes,
Let me lay my tongue on yours.
Let us swallow some of each other’s spit,
like a Red Indian blood-brother ceremony and
yes, you can be Winnetou if you want to…
When I was in Greece I lived on dirt. No not even dirt but
sand – dust. The dust of hot sun and cruel fate, the dust of
ancient tombs split open like over-ripe fruit covered
everything with a resin crust. We were fond of bones and
murders, sacrifices, lesbians, our Spartan
swords and sleeping children. We hated columns and
Parthenons. Sweated ouzo and goat fat and when we farted
little black olives rolled down and out of our pant legs.
When I was in Europe I lived on sleep. I slept for days in
Wien, Vienna, Vienne, Vienna. Slept for Beethoven at his
tomb and at his little Platz by the statue near the
Shubert ring. I was frozen in the Maria Theresian Natural
History Museum – lost among stuffed and pickled corpses of every
creature known to man.
In Hamburg, the whole city is made of sleep. Sleep like a
giant smog impregnated everything and every moment. Its
embryonic motion grown heavy in a damp heat, like breath on
a still winter night of North Sea drifting downward with
hunger, for those German girls, who with the slenderness of
a homosexual fantasy covered me in the slick semen of their
love. Mouths moaning with love, cunts hungry
with love, assholes a dream of love…
In the states I lived on flesh. The flesh of pigs.
Flesh of Ronald McDonald. Catholic flesh of Christ, bloodless
white and sour. I lived with the flesh of dead dogs, aborted infants;
sucked juices from the fresh wounds of teenage girls down
in the darkness of their daddy’s garages. Dracula had nothing on me man.
I walked the ninety-degree heats of New York City streets.
Streets made of skin and muscle like some giant souvenir of Auschwitz.
Tattoos sweating black ink and muggers.
Whenever I couldn’t buy anything to eat all I had to do was lick the street –
Meat Street USA. And when I could afford to bribe my way out to
the countryside? It was for a breath of fresh blood with a
little something still warm from its own body heat to chew on.
… But now we sit by the palm trees of Ireland
our harps hung up to dry. Pandora’s ass so dry, is
like a sponge sucking up Irish whiskey the way a drowning
man, sucks sea. We don’t sleep any more. The only flesh we
eat is our own. You have met me here have taken the blood
of my wound into your own.
So, my dearest look at me; you have the saddest eyes I have ever known.
Do you remember the peace I stole from you in Hamburg years ago?
Now there is nothing to heal, nothing, no reason to
steal. So, roll up another cigarette. But first let me lay my tongue upon
yours, let my tongue sleep awhile in that sweet hole. Let
us see how long we can stay still like that and yes, you can be Winnetou if you want to.
for Cordula
Once While I Was Away
You might have come
Expecting awkward greeting won by
Philosophic well-planned answers to
What you thought my unasked questions were –
Accidental touch
Silent linger hands
Knowing prelude to a kiss
All it would take to unclench my heart
Inviting you in
So, you’d have something to do for the afternoon
No matter how hard I wait,
Rain won’t stop any sooner.
I can focus on streaming bay window panes.
Or distance, green as it is rolling up to a still bare tree line.
Or even something unrelated like a little pile of shit left by the neighbour dog.
Could I stand here all day?
Instead get dressed,
Yoga later or maybe not at all.
There is a softness an absence of anxiety allows.
A nonchalant free from worry over what to do,
When after all there is nothing –
Things will remind me no matter what I choose.
Tears a lot like rain,
Seem to never stop until they do and
Then they don’t
Again
.
scorpion night 10 pdlyons
ruff poems
it was me with nothing left
to spire about
a complete enemy of words
a point of hot winter sun
hard glass walled heart un-bending
damp handed pen
not a thing left
at this point remembering the perfect portrait of the artist
touched not a myalgic fibre of my un-known self
so to hallowed hands
Ulysses trust all my open wound n proud flesh
one last a miracle
heal
bruised leg muse
heal
every curse of every failure
heal
father
heal
myself
purged
lazy soul
quick silver quenched
go on
do on
no do
more
a new
*
when last seas
iodizing sharif
hoarse whispers long meandering
scented by late November birth
salted scented tinctured gloves
slipping sticking sable sweat
soundly sighing satin and sighing
mother held by other hands I was
*
some un provoked violence
I’d bring up
sightless wordless
rage
shake n smash
slap n wake n pull
from a constricting bag of skin
a weep a wake
to leave breath n bone behind again
*
what waits
outside the darking dogs
secret traffics
pre day dawn
natural as breathed
sooner than not
seeped stopped
eased no more wondering
all that other time at last
briefer miracle
no more so I know
falsely I am
every changing shape shifting
so called life
a moment thing
which my am I?
*
My old cities
rose up out
from above
ruins bright n shining
goliath shrines
silver unlike any bird
shadowing resurrected bays
long veined polished rivers
symphonically far as any ancient woodland lore
*
propped up
best I can
most uncomfortable ever bed
crow sounds
silver sun shadows the page
all it takes to ease the ache
not even knowing
what I read
unconcerned
the largeness an open window
dissolves all imposed restrictions
of my self
and what would comfort done?
a sleep til noon then what?
*
Old shirt
smells
days
walking laying
sleeping eating
over-steamed radiators
warm spells February spring
But
the colour is good
fit is right and when I catch myself
passing mirrors in hallways
bathrooms
shop windows
turned off televisions
Stop
and/or
glance
at
who I am
breath caught a moment
Old shirt smell
still me
still who I was
and am now
years later
in need of a shower
*
my daughter asks me
why did people invent war…
don’t hey know it’s the devil no god that likes war?
do children have to fight
do they kill children too
boys?
and girls?
how old?
why don’t the soldiers just quit
and then the sound of helicopter passing
she thinks it wondrous dashes off to look
unlike those for whom that sound is terror
because of them
we must love the world
even more.
*
today
walking with trees
steps to my breath
thinking
the joy of being alive
is free
*
colours
all on a merry day
each steps a moment
pass the dancer
un seen dance
if you can see it
you’re not it.
*
all the same wonderings
ages of ifs
lifetimes of whys
each life
history of wonderings
where it leads
where it goes
how it begins
and whatever is the selling point?
good business
machinery of welcome
voices of an independent language
give way silenter than plastic tombs
small electric dances springs
a whirl only god could hear
if the ear of god had no hair no wax no smell
but god
has pious milk bone men
absolution in the dark
disciplined n cleansed
children
in this dark & the ear of god
blind as onan eyes
silent voices raw language
silent screams despaired on crosses born
all those wondrous children hearts
their darkness
a long test of utter failure.
*
and quite back
all winter skirts n scarves
chapel of candle smoke
shadow shifts
all some
warm whispered
deep into pools
of clear n dark n blue
*
stone
silent selfish
walls
no weather
no violence
no movement freely done
blind witness
observe
all that’s done
all un done
*
not knowing what is
birds no longer pass
instead
songs in my heart
*
women shapes
dapple grey
helix trees
any shadow moon
pools deeper that any sun
*
slow
moon
miles ran
rain bent
poplar pine
remembered snow
flickering yellowing
butterly lite
echoes of breath
along washing windows
as if washed
might sense
a meaning other than tomorrow
april comes
and here I am
un gone
un knowning
When we Lived on Nelson Ave.
PD Lyons
days when my father took milk and sugar
leaving the spoon in his coffee
my mother whistled among lilacs and roses
mahogany furniture kept well polished
special knives and forks only used on holidays
I knew the name of Lilly of the valley
not to ever put them in your mouth
there were kittens in the sun porch
we watched born from a tabby cat named Felix
there were cherries from our backyard tree
so red I thought they were black,
tasting like no cherries
ever would again
The Girl Next Door
By PD Lyons
When I remember
Third floor windows
Tall white lace sails
Summer all running in our veins
Her mother in the kitchen
Making cool aid and plate full of something
Cookie sweet to eat
She wanted me to stay
I was afraid, wanted to go home
But didn’t want her to know
Not wanting to be in this house of too many windows
Overlooking the valley
But she wanted me to stay
Besides the rains begun
Going to be a real storm
Already rumblings a darkening horizon
her mother agreed
I’ll call your parents. They won’t be worried.
You can stay for supper. You like hot dogs don’t you?
that was how I learned not to be afraid of storms
Not to hide from thunder or lightning
Frances and her mother, exuberant
Ohs ahs joy over every
Menacing vibration sudden crash
Every flash veining skeletal zigzag
The shade
of
old
trees
When I’m gone
Who will know the feel of wooden handles held in bare hands
Measure the post hole deep enough below the frost line
Enjoy the scent of sweaty horses
The rain of walking home in the dark
Night rainbows
TV static
Driving 13 hours due west
Soft pack Marlboros Full moon rearview One van Morrison cassette
T’il dawn
Just to meet someone hardly known for breakfast
BISCUTS & GRAVY ~ 2.25
What’s grits? a quarter
Cuppa Coffee? a dollar
.
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