Category Archives: ghost poems

Found Those Places Left Behind A Kiss ~ by pd lyons


I found those places

Left behind

Ghost crumb tailings

Shadow sounds soft upon a poplar breeze

Freshwater landmarks unnoticed by untrained eyes

Feral flailing Exuberant heart

Unbridled moon lighting our delinquent ways

What would we ask each other

What would we tell

Or would we, beyond all good fortune

give up these years of fumbling words

Find the only thing our mouths were ever good for

.

birthday note on turning 60 by pd lyons (and now I’m 67 and feeling pretty much the same. How cool is that?) with photos


1974 crosby

1974

the old fellow near the sea

the old fellow near the sea

today ends my fifth decade. to morrow i will be 60.

the sixth decade begins at 5:54 am

bringer of the new dawn

 ever aging scorpion.

sometimes i think it has not happened

sometimes when i think of that certain little boy

i still get tears.

sometimes when i think back,

teenage, marriages, children, lovers, others –

reminding myself  of the good and of the not so very good –

reminding myself that I really  did the best I could.

but you know i am the luckiest man i know.

i have ended up in a country foreign to my birth

with a family of my own…

i  think i am in the best health ever.

no smoking for over 15 years

steady yoga meditation

and always did and still do love to walk –

there are miles of my life upon

mountains, shores, countries, continents

and  along those meandering pathways between the worlds.

and while i know all things come to an end –

as of right now i have not!

how cool is that?

cheers

.

DSC_4250

cover photo

photographer unknown

photographer unknown

How Like Dreams Now the Days Too Fade, by pd Lyons. Re: Ethel Pollard Lyons Thanks to Donna J Snyder for telling me


Last night I had a dream about you.

Nothing major.

We just met face to face.

You were telling me about my grandmother.

We were outside in the sand.

I was surprised you knew her.

I  never knew she went to Mexico.

It was hot.

We sat down at a rough grey whiskery  table.

Yes, you said and she rode very well.

A bright grey horse among the caballeros.
“And tequila ?” I leaned towards you tete-a-tete  ” What about  the tequila…?”

But the scraping sound of speeding traffic brought me into this morning.

And I wondered Why Mexico?

I was always a bit afraid of Mexico –

Suddenly Last Summer

We don’t need no stinking badges,

Maryse Holder Give Sorrow words,

Comacheros,

Decapitations decorating the highways…

But when I was a kid –

Zorro.

Bands of silver trumpeters.

Hat dancing.

Cielito Lindo.

raw silver jewellery, grumpy looking straw cowboys, hand bags made of alligator,

those souvenirs sent to my mother from her favorite uncle, 

United States Army Air Forces navigator.

And why you?

I had called you Jan.

You had written to me about my own work.

I had admired yours, especially the Creation Myths,

Hoped someday you’d do an audio version.

How like dreams now,
the days too
fade.

 

Re: Ethel Pollard Lyons Thanks to Donna J Snyder for telling me

 

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How The Green Witch Loved The Winter Man by pd lyons


How The Green Witch Loved The Winter Man

When the green Witch met the Winter Man he was obsessed with another woman. He said to her, “This is the way. All I ever love retreats from me. Trees drop their leaves, water shrinks dares not move. The earth herself covers and hides. In all my travels all my searching all I’ve found was this woman of the wind. She stirs me, promises she will someday stand still in my embrace, then she flies… But, tell me about you. Who are you that comes to meet the Winter Man?”

With this invitation the Green Witch stretched out her arms so he could see and said, “I am keeper and protector of all that grows – herb and flower, fruit and tree, bringer of peace and healing. I am of the magic of each seedling poking through the soil and too the mighty dragon tree which yields not to raging wind nor sharpened steel. I am of the sparkling dew suspended on a spiders web and too the raging river which cuts earth to the bone. I am of the glowing flames nourishing those dancers calling down the goddess and the god, as well as those ancient fires melting mountains into new land…”

“I know these things of which you speak. Bent my finger to assist your sprouting seed only it did not grow but rather withered, covered your dragon tree to protect it but only did its branches crack. From black fingered shadows I have watched dancers of your fire and caught up in their excitement sought to join but with my approach they slunk away until even the fires glow had gone to grey. And yes I have heard of such things as these spiders webs… But I am the Deep Winter Man! I am no where near autumn nor almost spring. There is nothing green can stand with me! And that is why I can only pursue this woman of the wind and there are times she is so… I’m sure she must be all there is.”

Then the Green Witch said, “What if I could give you this? A gift of green, something green to stand with you, even let your arms around, never shrink from your embrace?”

“You are the Green Witch, of this I do agree but either you mock me or do not understand! I am the Winter Man. With me even the sun unwillingly treads preferring not to come at all. Creatures of the earth can lose their lives to me with but a single breath. All that lives in my presence does so because of my restraint, because I resist my desire. But there are times when I give in and touch and for a few moments feel.
Even you. how long would you, even with all your power stay green in my embrace?”

Then the little woman turned to him, eyes not flinching from his own and answered with but one word, “Ever”.

1990’s

more snow by morgan lyons

Dead Can Dance Yoga, music by dead can dance, poem by pd lyons


galway

dead can dance – How Fortunate the Man with None:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KlNi4dhKTGo
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
 
 
 
Dead Can Dance Yoga

 

sometimes when quiet winter
bright enough  silver
opened windows
  incense shadows
a way of moving
without effort
a way of breath
without effort
a way without ache
karma non-existent
freely offered
 equally without effort

 
a time of true light
a time of true nature
where now the thousand years of darkness?

 

 
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
 
dead can dance – Severance:

Twilight Zone Episode Love Story by PD Lyons ~ read by the author


a girl, a bar, a friend, a gin, a city ~

a bit of memory lane

from the book ~ As If the Rain Fell in Ordinary Time, by PD Lyons, 2019

 

that afternoon she came into the bar

told me she had something to tell me

could I please come outside?

Please.

Sure I said.

I remember a light spring day

maybe even summer

we stood together on the little concrete steps

front door of the bar

I was probably leaning against the railing

most defiantly smoking

she stepped down on the side walk

looking up she said

listen,  I just have to tell you…

some other guy she met, really thought he was the one.

 

I’m so sorry she said but I had to tell you.

I offered to buy her a drink – for old times’ sake

No she said

I’m sorry I made you sad

 I’m sure you’ll find someone too.

Good bye

she paused

thanks for being so understanding.

 you really are a good man you know.

 

and left.

 

 I went back in joined my buddy at the bar

I lit a smoke ordered us a round

in those days

we were drinking gin on the rocks with a twist

we were smoking Phillip Morris like the attorney general was a loony tunes

we were betting on the NFL like it owed us a pay check

 

Anyway before she came in

I had been telling him how I was in a bit of a jam with this young girl

she was so into me

didn’t have the guts to break her heart

 

and then she comes along and dumps me

Jesus, he said after I told him, that was like some twilight zone episode love story

 

Thank you to the judges and to Erbacce Crew. I am humbled and honored by this. Cheers Alan!

 P D Lyons Winner of the 2019 erbacce-prize for poetry

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: 112pages)

Through the generous support of  Westmeath County Council a limited edition of 50 numbered and signed copies are available to purchase direct from the poet at €20.00 to include standard postage world wide. I still have a few left contact via comment or pdlyonspoet’yahoo.co.uk

The Ghost of My Mother’s Lover, by pd lyons as published by Gone Lawn


The Ghost of My Mother’s Lover by PD Lyons

Sometimes I would find the things he left, loose change under the cushions, a little red box of wood matches (that my mother took away), black liquorice candies wrapped in stripped silver foil
And once a big silver skeleton key – that he really left for me.

One night I woke up, hearing his voice, his voice form my mother’s room, his voice talking and talking. I went up to the door which was not quite closed – they were in bed together. He was sitting up and mother lay with her arms around him, head on his bare chest. He wasn’t just talking
he was reading, so I sat down there in the hallway and listened about Morgana the sister of a king.
I guess he didn’t notice my mother was asleep because he kept on reading and whenever he turned the page I thought he would look right at me and smile.

I listened as Morgana looked into the water for pictures of the future and how some of the knights did not like her but there was one, one with dragons on his arms who loved her very much, how it was Morgana who taught the little girls of Avalon to serve the Goddess…And I thought I have to ask him, who is this Goddess?

I must have fallen asleep there on the floor by the door of my mother’s room because the next thing I remember I am being carried and in his arms! My face against pictures of blue stars and a black winged horse on his shoulder. His smell a little like the ocean mixed with something from
my mother’s kitchen. His muscles so great that with one arm he held me while with the other pulled back the blankets, swung me down into my bed so fast I almost laughed out loud then tucked me in.

Through my half closed eyes I could see his face coming closer and closer, then his lips touched my forehead – but soft like mother’s kiss even though his breath of smoke and prickly chin were not at all like mother. As he pulled away he said so that I could hardly hear, “Sleep well. Sleep well little Morgana.”

Then I remembered I wanted to ask him… I sat up and said “Tell me -” But he was gone
and already the light in my mother’s room put out.

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This piece appeared in Gone Lawn #2, winter 2010   http://journal.gonelawn.net/issue2/Lyons.php

wrote this in the  mid 90’s i’d say.

was living with the Mists of Avalon by Marion Zimmer  http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Mists_of_Avalonand Starhawk’s  The Spriral dance http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Spiral_Dance .being very influential in those days

. Gone Lawn are, as of this writing actually still publishing  – http://journal.gonelawn.net/glj_about.php

as published by gone lawn

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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

Xunantunich, by pd lyons – from Myths of Multiplicity


In 1990 I was lucky enough to travel to Belize. For half the trip we were doing a horse trekking in the highlands. We stayed at a former orange plantation – i remember most vividly the flocks  of free flying parrots. They were elegant airborne acrobats so unlike those domesticated souls back in the states. We wold ride through the jungle for hours sometimes lunching by water falls, or swimming into limestone caves. we each were issued a machete to lop off the foliage as we rode. It was deemed poor etiquette to not do your fair share of keeping the trails clear. occasionally we’d pass trees of ripe citrus – reach up from horse back and pick one. Our guide had worked with Harrison Ford on a film based in Belize. He told us he really liked Harrison and became friendly with him. So much so that Harrison promised to take him back to America where he could work for him. But this never happened and now he didn’t like Mr. Harrison Ford too much no more.

Xunantunich is a Mayan  site. It had been excavated years ago, a pyramid complex. The steps of which were terrifyingly steep and slippery with wet limestone. All too quickly we would be done with our days of 4-6 hour rides and return to Belize City our only solace being to go on and spend a week on Ambergris Caye discovering the sea.

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Xunantunich

The silent policeman
Lay himself down
Across the great western highway
Tired from watching everyone
He wants a return to dreaming
A return to those days of the high bush
Those days of the interior.

Swimming into limestone caves
Box of toucan matches
Lighted lantern
Floats on a little block of wood
While on a smoke of kerosene
Coming back to him now, the words of his fathers:
“So now you know. Everything is alive.”

The silent policeman
Lay himself down
Across the great western highway
Tired of growing heavy with the world
He wants a way
To avoid
End of Paradise Hotels
ESSO drums
Coca-Cola CESSNAS
To return
To those days of the interior.

Behind his eyes bare foot women light the lamps
Honey shadows seep up into a palm thatch
While owls make questions of constellations
And rolling in from across the valley
A hush answers “From the pale eye of the hunter
A single tear drop fell arching over an unseen face
It touched Earth and disappeared.”

Ring tail ghosts come by
Soft grey kisses through white jungle nets of night
Beyond an ancient plaza
Immersed in some whisper of wings
Jealous eyes of jaguar
Two great gold pearls on the edge of rain.

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

DSC_8247http://www.metbelize.com/lodging.html

(unfortunately I did not get custody of the photos so none from Belize)

2015 NOTE – in setting up this blog post i search for some info re Xunantunich and found this piece of info kind of interesting, keep in mind i wrote the piece on my flight home in 1990 –  from Wikipedia listing –

Xunantunich’s name means “Stone Woman” in the Maya language (Mopan and Yucatec combination name), and, like many names given to Maya archaeological sites, is a modern name; the ancient name is currently unknown. The “Stone Woman” refers to the ghost of a woman claimed by several people to inhabit the site, beginning in 1892. She is dressed completely in white, and has fire-red glowing eyes. She generally appears in front of “El Castillo”, ascends the stone stairs, and disappears into a stone wall.[citation needed]

Xunantunich – Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia

en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Xunantunich

LyonsCover01fin)

myths of multiplicity by pd lyons 2014 runner up erbacce poetry prize

promise, from : ceremonies of the horsemen, by pd lyons


indian pipe @ sleeping giant

indian pipe @ sleeping giant

prisoners of ghosts haunt the hallways of my own memories
past lives
opportunities regretted
twists and turns
I don’t want to leave only dried hollow husks
blown by my own reluctance to participate in my own and only treasure.

we lived in a time
when women sat beside us whispering on back porch landing’s
interrupted by the neighbors
running down the stairs
hands wet beneath Danskin purple skirts she spoke of how in past or future
it didn’t matter which but another life
I was her child she the mother
knowing I would go on to crucifixion
suckled me with salt water tears
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 in anything was possible.

I stood with someone once at midnight, the midnight
not just a time form but place
a place where midnight
born and lives out its days 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 were.

I called you Guinevere by moonlight
lay down with you there
in the pace of my own midnight
among cold Halloween golf course grass
surrounded by stolen beer bottles
by 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,
I am not the muse’s figure head –
quietly steadily I am only the keeper of my own promise
born from misguided Madonnas
introduced by pale white women 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.

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