Category Archives: ghost poems

he had watched her soft like snow edited by pd lyons


He had watched her

Soft like snow

Every movement

A steady meticulous tenderness

Touching each part of the world

One particle at a time

Acknowledged gently

Precisely

Irrevocably

 

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would i see you there by pd lyons


would i see you there

with your big face smiles

your sense of wonder

your denim styles

you were shy to me

yet you followed me

when I turned around,

until you betrayed by your own laughter

I had no idea

What you would dare.

Oh

But where ever you are now

I cannot say

Whatever you went through I have no clue

Those streets those hometown streets

Once mine

Once yours

I have not returned

I have not ever left

And you not really you

but still the you I used to know

Wouldn’t you be there

If I went back

Your big face smiles

Your denim styles

Your ever wondrous self.

Where else could you really be

Who else could you ever be, to me

he had watched her soft like snow by pd lyons


 

He had watched her

Soft like snow

Every movement

As if the whole world

More tender than herself

A steady meticulous tenderness

~

She was not afraid

She was aware

Touching each part of the world

One particle at a time

Acknowledged gently

Precisely

Irrevocably

 

Molly Elizabeth Onyx (2002 – 2017)


 

I’m sitting here alone in the rain.

Last time I was here, you were with me

the snow had caught the tall green pines

sun glowed their bark red and honey gold

 

the wind to our faces occasioned by loose flakes of December snow

and we not really minding, picked up our pace

for not other reason than the sheer joy of being able to do so.

 

today I’m just soaked through

feeling the rain, neither warm nor cold

simply a fact .

 

maybe when I get up I’ll go the way we used to go

one more time for old times sake

before choosing another way

that only I can take.

 

 

 

 

 

If I needed you
Would you come to me
Would you come to me
For to ease my pain
If you needed me
I would come to you
I would swim the seas
For to ease your pain
Oh the night’s forlorn
And the morning’s born
And the morning shines
With the lights of love
You will miss sunrise
If you close your eyes
And that would break
My heart in two ….
 
from If I Needed You by:Townes Van Zandt

 Chose Emmy’s version. I have both hers and Townes on CD in the car. From Townes I heard the words. From Emmy’s I had to stop the car and cry.

Our molly missed her last sunrise and it surely broke my heart. At about 630 I found her lying on the kitchen floor near her pillows.

I figure she had tried for one more. See I get up to make the coffee then and at that time molly goes out for a pee. She had taught me that if I left the door open so that she could come right back in to her bed, she’d go out with no fuss. These winter days the sun doesn’t rise around here until about 730.

 

She was the oldest dog I ever knew. Deaf as a post she had learned sign language with the help of her favourite treats. Raise my hand over head and drop it down to my side and she would come. Trouble was I’d have to wait for her to look back for me, so she’d see the sign. (always brought my dogs where I could let them run free)

 

She also came to learn the come here now sign and the just messing with you sign when shed turn right around and run back ahead. We ‘d do the walk we used to do with Mara. Molly had learned all the tricks Mara taught her, like how to slip through the gates, so you didn’t have to wait for the old man, places where there’d be pools of water even in high summer and to wait at the end of the trail to get the lead put on because – ” ladies don’t go naked through the streets.”

 

 

sometimes I miss the horse days & someplace, by pd lyons


occasional it happens

 stray song over the kitchen radio

 old photo tucked into a book that for no reason i just picked up to thumb through

i hardly let it pause me

i usually just keep going

 

occasional it happens

 my old bones do an old ache

  glimpse that crooked clavicle in the bathroom mirror

 hardly let it pause me

 usually just keep going

 

occasional it happens

strong scent of well oiled leather maybe someones coat

packed tight on the morning train

mists trough the damp windows

shadows moving up the hills

hardly let it pause me

 usually just keep going

 

occasional it happens

but you know sometimes when it does

i just don’t feel like moving

stay right there  face the tears

yeah sometimes i miss the horse days

sometimes i just fucking do

 

Someplace

Down on the avenue
Work ’til the day is through
I just want to get away
But you know I never do.
And when the sun goes down
I’ll be sitting all alone
Watch them old cowboy shows
On some second hand video.

Wishing I was someplace
Where grass just grows n rain is clean
Where horses run and black birds sing
Someplace where the sky is big n the only cry
From an eagle on the wing.

But I’m city bound by plastic chains
Robbed to death by men with ball point pens.
My hopes gone up in Marlboro smoke
N ghosts of what used to be my dreams
Haunt me with wondering if I’ll live long enough to ever be

Someplace where grass just grows n rain is clean
Where horses run n black birds sing
Someplace where the sky is big and the only cry
From an eagle on the wing.

Someplace where I can ride for days
N never see another human being

 

pdlyonsphoto

pdlyonsphoto

pdlyonsphoto

this spring ( for mara) by pd lyons


 

always willing to go

always yes, never no

protector of my daughter

her first time home alone

 

days so grey I couldn’t imagine telling any one else about –

you were my only confidante

 

where you are now

i don’t know

but there’ s this place in my heart

where, whenever i call,

i know you’ll come

 

do dogwoods grow in this country?

if so  this spring i’ll plant one where you lie

 

When I’m a Ghost I’ll Haunt the Beach w/ My Mother by pd lyons


Tide comes

Stronger now

Still myriad suns

Roll upon the silver breakers

 

Day like the tide

Has turned

Inevitable in it’s

Priceless way

 

But for now lingering

A little longer

Simply sitting in the sun

Breathing by the sea –

Not waiting for anyone

 

When I’m a ghost

I’ll haunt the beach

With my mother

 

The little bay

Where she’d sometimes stand

Looking out over the Atlantic

Imagining

 

I’d tell her its OK

Anyone with that many kids

Would imagine

 

I’d tell her

Everyone’s doing well

Everything worked out pretty much OK

 

The we’d stand

Look out over the sea

Imagining

Forever

 

 

from the Magician’s Hat by pd lyons


Kindness

~

the girl in the high heel boots

wishes she could pull something out of me

that would make her feel better

 

something with a life of its own

something magical

something that might even bite her

before disappearing into her audience

 

but this hat drooled by any rain

hemmed by cough and smoke

hods only the emptiness of my life

 

realizing my face , no slight of hand

she reaches from her pocket

drops something useful so that i can pretend i found it.

 

 

 

c Mogan Lyons 2016

 

Mira Gut by pd Lyons as published by Lost Sparrow Press


 

There are no flowers here but snow.

The bay not yet free chunked with ice

the white of which exists only against a distant liquid sea.

at least the sun visits, comforting,

illusion though it is,

visions of thawing, melting down to something green.

 

In the long sleep of winter, I have dreamed

something Spanish that you said along a twilight turquoise

something soft covering sun drenched shoulders

silver threads   an old man’s harp

played for money by the moon

 

The Lost Sparrow

http://lostsparrowpress.com/shop/#!/The-Lost-Sparrow/p/86541732/category=0

Nocturnes At The Borders & Leaving This House, as published by Subterranean Blue Poetry


Why do I like Subterranean Blue Poetry?

Because in addition to a real cool name they have fine sense of the poetic – very happy to have been chosen to keep such good company!

Subterranean Blue Poetry
Volume V Issue VII
(July 2017)

SubterraneanBluePoetryLogo
Subterranean Blue Poetry

www.subterraneanbluepoetry.com

© 2017

Nocturnes At The Borders

by PD Lyons
 

a long passing caravan of days

deserted debris

   hope a pitch black oasis –

sparkling the only un-still things

such as stars, jewel throat ghosts,

your eyes beyond all knowledge,

the only dark that shines –

   a different kind of sun.
 

my mouth for your love

dreams smoke wandering horizons

red glow desert

a voice wet silk

drawn as if my skin

found out in the wind

perfumed by foreign creatures

nourished by such exploring

my heart contains a fertile seed

   A treasure trove for beetles an insect paradise.
 

I saw you with tears in American gowns

you were just like Picasso but knelt on the ground

as if genuflecting before the print page you’d inhale

the spirit right out of his grave and I just couldn’t

take it so I wandered around as if I could shake you

Like salt from my skull

   Always returning an orbit of doubt.
 

 

The scent of your soapy skin draws me in

ways I cannot identify

like ivory in the morning someplace else away

beyond a snow tipped mountain

before the savannahs open prayer

dark meandering luxurious survival

   Our daring selves mortal among the Edens.

 

 

 

 

Leaving This House

by PD Lyons

 

Through leopard clouds the day’s sunlit fingers open,

soft afternoon, occasional whispers between finches

knowing my need for such kindness

even crows come quietly…
 

What is it of memory and seasons?

What does this shift to autumn bring me?

Why remember what I do? Forget what I forget?
 

A bed of rolled up cotton,

sun dried white sheets against pale skin,

wishing it was some hangover

so wind chimes could sound beautiful again,

sunlight be inviting and coffee all the medicine you’d need.
 

I know of this other time when drowsy dancing on sweet wine

we sank beneath that wind chime tree

surrendered on the beating earth

something more than blood and bones,

a tender lightening wove between us

our own muscles able to morph the world.
 

Now such things cannot be spoke of.

Distorted by sick eyes they’d only deepen your

regrets, as if what was could ever not be.

If you responded to preaching, I’d simply preach.

Instead I must lure you by disguise –
 

Coffee from thin sharp equatorial mountains,

audibly stirred blue stone mug.

Herbs infused with full ripe summers.

Small secret woodland tinctures.

Ointments rich in years of flowers.

Oils soaked in sunlight, stored in our own damp cellar

warmed as needed over an open flame.
 

Somewhere past all anger, melted only by tears, yield the ways of memory.

 

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