Category Archives: ghost poems

Baskin-Robbins, poetry and photo by pd lyons


Baskin-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

DSC_4748

Year Book & Tramuda Blues by pd Lyons as printed in Muse Pie Press – Shot Glass Journal 2016


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!

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

http://www.musepiepress.com/shotglass/index.html

IMG_20160412_234800

alone along the border line, by pd Lyons


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.

The Orphan As Adult by pd Lyons, from In Protest 150 Poems for Human Rights. Read by the poet.


 

 

 

 

 

 

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

 

 

 

Description

Edited by Helle Abelvik-Lawson, Anthony Hett and Laila Sumpton. Published 2013. ISBN:9780957221032.

Detailed Description

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.

the next 3 from As If The Rain… read by the poet PD Lyons~ Something in the Night, Lessons On Foreign Languages in a Reeperbahn Café, Once While I Was Away


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 ~

 

 

 

 

  • Something in the Night

                                                                                                                                   

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.

  • Lessons on Foreign Languages in A Reeperbahn Café

                                                                                                                       

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 by PD Lyons


c Mogan Lyons 2016

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

.

ruffs from pd lyons


IMG_20160413_000458

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

 

Two from My Childhood Home in Waterbury Ct. by PD Lyons. read by the poet


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

Poem for All Seasons by pd lyons


The shade

of

old

trees

WHEN I’M GONE, WORDS & PHOTOS BY PD LYONS


 

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

%d bloggers like this: