Category Archives: ghost poems

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

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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)

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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.

 

A Barlow Knife


at that time the knife he carried with him was a Barlow

she noticed it as they sat by some small unnamed body of water

he was making slices off the few good wild apples they’d found

she said oh a Barlow?  you have a Barlow knife?

my dad had one. he always had it with him. he used to let me use it.

sometimes we went fishing,

sometimes he let me cut up apples too.

when he died my brother got it.

that night he drove into town

went into the sporting goods shop

he picked out one for her

not exactly the same as his

not heavy and bone like her dads

but a ruby red

two good blades

trimmed by a bit of brass

it was the only thing he ever gave her

besides long deep kisses

slices of secret wild apples

spiced by an Indian summer

haunted by an early winter

 

 

 

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

 

 

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