Category Archives: ghost poems

Age by PD Lyons


 

Age by PD Lyons

 

Sunlight on the window sill

Little red birds search the hedge

While pale ghosts of what used to maybe be

Slip away

No longer needing to be fed by me

 

photo by Morgan Lyons

 

Notice All the Silence That You’ve Left Behind, by pd lyons


Notice All the Silence That You’ve Left Behind

No matter how hard I wait
the rain doesn’t stop any sooner
no matter if I focus on streaming glass
or distant green as it meets the still bare tree line
no not even if I stare at the little pile of shit the neighbour’s dog left slowly steadily dissolving in the gravel

Couldn’t I just stand here all day?
Instead, get dressed
yoga later or not at all

There is a softness allowed by the absence of anxiety
a nonchalant free from worry over what to do
when after all there’s nothing –
Things will remind me, no matter what I choose

and tears a lot like rain seem never to stop
until they do and then they don’t again

~~~~~~~~~~

I go out, with the basket for wood
feed the fire started in the dark morning hours
ash and blackthorn limbs

and like the rain
and like the tears
that fire keeps my eyes busy
for a while

until some distraction
like my bladder
like my stomach
or the postman with some useless package
unable to fit the inadequate mail slot of my front door

moves me
onward

 

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When I Lived on West Main from As If The Rain Fell In Ordinary Time by PD Lyons


Another sample from the 2019 erbacce press international poetry prize winning collection by P D Lyons.

This one does what it says on the tin so to speak. I did live on West Main Street in Waterbury Ct. for a while. There really was a great Dane, a parrot, a park, a toy shop and sugar in the gas tank.

 

 

When I lived on West Main

When I lived on west main street
Third floor Victorian
Short walk for the liquor store past a little unnamed park
Not too far from downtown

Landlords’ cousins on the first floor
Stole my unemployment checks
Put sugar in the gas tank
And I don’t know why

We had a Great Dane, brindle dog
Got a cut on the end of his tail
And no matter what we did
He’d wag the bandage off.
Going up and down the stairs, hit the railings
Drops of blood splatter
As if his name was Jackson.

We bought a parrot
Called him Caesar
Filled the living room with plants
And let him fly around.

Got oil lamps to save on electricity.
Tall hurricane lamps,
Scented oil glowed in every room.
Tall well screened widows let the sky in.
Wood floors creaked waltzed all night by ghosts.

I went to work in a toy shop.
I was happy about the baby.
Still painted. Still wrote every day.
Still knew who we were.

It was the place where I’d smoke
As much as I wanted up into the middle of the night,
In that rocking chair your grandmother used to own.
Weight of endless summers in the dark.
Out over the roof tops, streaming lights, distant highways

 

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The annual erbacce-prize for poetry is open from January 1st to May 1st every year. It is entirely FREE to enter thus it attracts top quality poets world-wide… in 2019 we had close to eight thousand entries and all were judged ‘blind’.    P D Lyons was the outright winner! Below is the book we produced for him… it is sheer quality poetry, the whole book encompasses a simplicity coupled with deep insight; a truly beautiful collection which reveals more each time it is re-opened… (perfect-bound: 112 pages)

http://erbacce-press.webeden.co.uk/p-d-lyons/4586525519

 

I Didn’t Know words and photo by pd lyons


Got to go visit my daughter in cork city for her birthday shes attending uni there. train down from Dublin. So there was this woman…. and this is from the scribble notes….

 

as if never having seen

before

fingers such as these

elong both hands

explored tip by tip

by opposite

selected by a

pearl pink mouth

each taste slowly reminding her to herself

on this train

traveling alone

wherever she was going

i didn’t know

pdlyonsphoto

Somehow Coming out at Robin’s House… from As if the Rain Fell in ordinary Time by PD Lyons


Originally published by Subterranean Blue Poetry this was part of the winning entriy for the erbacce poetry prize 2019. I once worked in a Jungian  residential treatment ctr. in Litchfield Ct. Robin worked there too as did Eva who got lost with me once in a dream of deep winters

Somehow Coming out at Robin’s House Where She Rescued Us with Coffee

 

That morning we walked into the snow

Across old farm lands

Over walls of field stone

The flakes large steady

Making it hard to see anything but them.

We’d stumble.

We’d fall.

Each of us

Quick to help the other.

Laugh sometimes,

Kiss sometimes.

Push ourselves forward.

Always forward.

semi shelter of thin woods,

some nameless river,

steepening ridge.

swirls of ever deepening ever dancing

mesmerised not bothering to melt snow

Clung

Like new eyelashes,

Like soft old useless flannel,

Like wishes form a childhood

Unable to be blown away

Or ever to come true.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

The annual erbacce-prize for poetry is open from January 1st to May 1st every year. It is entirely FREE to enter thus it attracts top quality poets world-wide… in 2019 we had close to eight thousand entries and all were judged ‘blind’. P D Lyons was the outright winner! Below is the book we produced for him… it is sheer quality poetry, the whole book encompasses a simplicity coupled with deep insight; a truly beautiful collection which reveals more each time it is re-opened… (perfect-bound: 112 pages)

http://erbacce-press.webeden.co.uk/p-d-lyons/4586525519

 

sometimes softly in ruff draft by pd lyons


So a few moths back as a graduation gift to our daughter we got to go back to Connecticut for a while. On the way over had the head set plugged in and listened to the Classic Rock section! Hendrix, Byrds, Dylan etc. filed a half a note book with scribbles, just getting to them now. And as i ‘m wanting to do a blog  post today i made it easy on myself and popped this little piece from what i’m doing right now – here. Hope its not to ruff for you.

 

 

sometimes softly comes to me

the smile of your long long ago joy

 

sometimes softly comes so vividly

an open car

your laughter

the sun all ripcord silk and shining 

 

Sometimes softly comes to me

a song you used to dance to

Ol time rock n roll

Doulble trouble shakes n all

A man and a woman a dock on a bay

 

Sometimes softer still

A kiss that dared

A possibility accepted

Your answers to

My questions

Long remembered

~

i love rock and/or roll

I love rock and’or roll!

.

If We Could Allow Grief by PD Lyons


In the latest issue of Buddhadharma Quarterly  I read a beautiful article by Joan Sutherland, Roshi titled Here at the End of the World In it she eloquently and effectively explores our social grief and lack of expression and how it is impacting our response or lack of response regarding the environmental situation. Below is my own attempt to express myself regarding grief and gun violence. While I make no comparison to Roshi Sutherland and my own pale writing I felt I must site her influence. Perhaps from here you’ll seek her out? Here is a direct link to her site and the complete article https://joansutherlanddharmaworks.org/Detailed/186.html

Thank you for reading.

pd Lyons

.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

If we could allow grief

Our grief to manifest

 

A school room of 7 year olds 

Shot to death

A spring morning

Their families

The responders

The survivors

The shooter

All grief worthy

 

If we could allow this grief

Wouldn’t we be able then to progress?

 

Fear of grief

Shielded with anger

Anger stifles, prevents movement, stagnates into polarity, perpetuation of fear.

 

If we could allow grief

Could we not then allow healing?

 

this courage, is it not worth daring?

 

20 September 16, ceremonies of the horseman ruff by pd lyons


 

prisoners haunt the hallways

 

opportunities regretted

 twists turns past lives

I didn’t want to leave

only dry hollow husks

blown reluctant to participate in my one and only treasure.

 

 I lived in a time

when women sat beside me whispering on back porch landing’s

 interrupted by neighbours running down the stairs

 hands wet beneath Danskin purple skirts

she spoke of how in past or future it didn’t matter which

I was her child she the mother

 knowing I would go on to crucifixion

suckled me with saltwater glistening breasts mingling milk

into my hungry hot house mouth.

 

were there ever other places other days,

freedom? confidence?

 a mouth full of meat?

a belief anything was possible?

 

 

 

I stood with someone once at midnight

 not just a time but the place

 a place where midnight born and lives out in each of us.

The place of my mid night?

 sometime in October out there by the water

breath rising in smoke, dew soaked shivering pirate breath kisses

 

 I called you cypress by moon light,

 buccaneer beauty I chose

 there in the place of my own midnight

 you but not you rather the you of what you ever were.

 

 I called you Guinevere by moonlight

 lay down with you there

 in the place of our own midnight

 among cold Halloween coarse grass

surrounded by stolen beer bottles

 a dwindling hedge barely separated from the street.

 

The only promise I ever kept?

 never a mathematician or carpenters’ wife.

I have not even now more years than miles can tell – broken that promise.

 

Sometimes I forget I made it,

sometimes I forget to congratulate myself for not breaking it,

sometimes I try to barter it, threaten to turn my back if somebody doesn’t pretty soon pay me for it.

 

 But I am not the famous rebel, not the muse’s figure head –

quietly steadily I am only the keeper of my own promise

born from misguided Madonna’s introduced by white women to the place of my own midnight

 

I have never stopped; I have never turned back.

 That’s all I have ever really done with all that treasure which was my life.

 no big deal but still, something real. no surrender, no slipping,

no disparity of one who broke the only promise ever truly made.

 

Yes, still writing. Yes, still the poet.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

there will be a time when I walk alone no possibility of interruption, no sense of anything but wonder. ready to go anywhere – I will alone step upon a beach of star dust, a twilight evening morning without distractions of any sun rise. Body resembling translucent moons encircled with rings like Jupiter silver oh you know what I mean.

 to walk alone totally alone; the great adventure that. every step a holy ground, every step unknown places beckoning without distraction. the only one around, me walking without reluctance across the universe. And when like some great invisible hand reaches out  cupping me as if my whole body but a sweet lovers cheek, the last eyes I see before I know of eyes no longer? my own reflected back across an endless sky as if in kissing my own self one brief momentary glimpse of the Krishna that is and always has been me.

No longer afraid, narcissism the enduring aspect of the world in the jingle jangle mornings I have followed and loved only you.

 

.

 

 

Mr. Tambourine Man. B. Dylan, Bob Dylan Live 1975. Play it while I die if I die quietly or lingering otherwise at my funeral.

 

Old freighters ruff, words and photography by pd lyons


Old freighters splocked red with rust

Holds haunted

cagros exotic, mundane, contraband 

list easily into slumber

yet unable to refuse

invincible the call

return once more

unable to refuse relentless the shipping lanes

sometime when i cry, words by pd lyons, photograph by morgan lyons, music by Raveonettes


 

 

Sometime  I will surrender all the hard heart life

Sometime I will understand courage has nothing to do with anger

I will remember your face and smile

I will remember your touch and smile

Allowing just the experience of happiness

Allowing just that experience

Surrendering the need to go further

Staying just for the brief soft moment of love

Not needing the hard heat strength to go beyond

 

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