Category Archives: irish american poetry

in those open spaces of the heart, by pd lyons


 

Where can i always meet you?

where can we always be alone?

 

those open spaces

shadow lives

summers linger

all  ghosts laugh

 

weeping is for beauty

sweet and savory.

all pain, in remedy

honey tipped restored.

 

where i always meet you

in those open spaces of the heart

 

 

 

 

poems and photos by pd lyons published by clockwise cat issue 36 “Skullwise Cat”


https://www.yumpu.com/en/document/view/56836339/skullwise-cat

 

scorpion night

THE NIGHT MARES

Restless

In a still night

No moon softening

Sharp stars

No cloud drapery.

Against this midnight

The night mares move

Sharing colour with the darkness.

What cannot find them is found by them,

There are no ways secret:

Spiraling stars leave every sky familiar,

Foraging herds by trails of green weeds

Breach every underwater sanctuary.

The night mares

Sleep standing up;

Contain any stallion,

Give birth in the middle of any weather,

Can knock bones, eyes, or internal organs out of any creature.

Simply by their passing

Men have been sucked breathless.

The night mares

Know where dragons come from,

And who, mothered by seas and singing desert sands,

The twin birthed are.

In languages that the thunder knows,

They answer one another.

Navigating easily unbridled,

No boundary deludes them.

Yielding, the only response they know.

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

this first appeared in print in Searches For Magic Lapwing Press Belfast

 

 

 

How Long My Unfitting Skin, The Night

 

she had come down from Gunnison

it had been a hard ride

thin air refusing to support her

old shoes needing to be thrown away as soon as possible

~

met for drinks at The Last Chance

she told me brief stories 

life in the wilderness

ways of ghosts and proud flesh

we booked a room from the man who wore a star

~

make believe log cabin

steel spring mattress

Jim Beam on the bed side

we smoked silent shapes up at an invisible ceiling in the dark

I was happy to be there 

thought she was too

~

but somewhere after moon light

she had gotten up

kneeling by the drifty window

to whatever she prayed

all i could make out was –

 

How long my own unfitting skin the night?

 

 

thank you clockwise cat!

Only August as published by Fourth & Sycamore


A literary journal of the Greenville Public Library

 

https://fourthandsycamore.com/about-fourth-sycamore/

only august: A poem by PD Lyons

By PD Lyons

 

only august

crows
almost quiet
only feather sounds
rising
almost still
only slow
steady beating
as if horses
finally
taught themselves
to march in order
across the fields
almost green
only smoky
spiral dust
almost damp descending
mirage
as if insects
finally taught themselves
to sing
like falling rain
across midday
almost yawning
only august


PD Lyons

Born and raised in the USA. Traveling and living abroad since 1998. Now residing in Ireland.

Received The Mattatuck College Award for Outstanding Achievement in Poetry.

Received Bachelor of Science with honours from Teikyo Post University Connecticut.

Two books of poetry Searches For Magic, and Caribu & Sister Stones: Selected Poems, have been published by Lapwing Press, Belfast. A third book, Myths Of Multiplicity, published by Erbacce press Liverpool as part of the 2014 Erbacce International Annual Prize.

The work of PD Lyons has also appeared in many magazines and e-zine/blogs throughout the world. Including, The SHoP, Books Ireland, Irish American Post, Boyne Berries, Virtual Writer, Slipstream, West 47 Galway Arts. Recently selected to participate in Human Rights Consortium at the School of Advanced Study, University of London publication titled ‘In Protest: 150 Poems for Human Rights’.

  https://pdlyons.wordpress.com/ 

 

In My Own Mother’s Tongue by pd lyons


For those who seek refuge

 

DSC_1171

I shall sing you in my own mother’s tongue

The way she sang to me

Old sweet flowers be the rhyme

Before the sorrow time

When all the world so kinder

Even winter held forth joy

When all the dreams of childhood

Free of blood and pain

I shall sing you in my own mothers tongue

The way she sang to me

Hush little darling

Hush a bye and sleep

Soft is the bed where you lay your head

Sweet is the land of sleep

DSC_5985

Full Moon Not Since Ohio by pd Lyons as published in Boyne Berries #20


Thursday night I was at the Castle Arch Hotel in Trim. It was my honour to be included with over 30 poets, writers, artists in Boyne Writers Group twentieth issue. After listening to almost everyone else read I got up to deliver in my typical shaky fashion my  own piece. Thank you to Orla Fay editor and to the Boyne Writers Group for supporting my work by including it along side their own really cool stuff. Anyway here’s the piece and why not check them out on Facebook , in person or in print?

 

Full Moon Not Since Ohio

hey I know you.

how longs it been?

94-95 wasn’t it?

interstates all the way to morning

bright in my rear-view.

now all these years later

all these extra miles

not even the same continent

here you are again

exactly the same

not so about myself but

still driving

still late night

now all of a sudden you.

do you want something?

do you have something?

to tell me?

to ask me?

or like before

just hitching a ride for the fun of it

enjoying the miles

silent but for a smooth gasoline engine

not even the radio on

pdlphoto

pdlphoto

 

The Boyne Writers Group publish ‘Boyne Berries’, a journal of poetry and prose, twice a year in March and September. The group meet twice monthly in the Castle Arch Hotel in Trim, Co. Meath. The group was founded in 2006

https://www.facebook.com/Boyne-Writers-1606560752955790/

http://boyneberries.blogspot.ie/

Paris Pour Shelly, poem & photography by pd Lyons


Shelly Paris 2016

Shelly Paris 2016

Paris pour Shelly

he

would not

would not

would not

could not

without her

no way

no reason

no point

.

Paris 2016

Paris 2016

 

only august by pd lyons


i love rock and/or roll

i love rock and / or roll

 

 

~

only august

crows

almost quiet

only feather sounds

rising

almost still

only slow

steady beating

as if horses

finally

taught themselves

to march in order

across the fields

almost green

only smoky

spiral dust

almost damp descending

mirage

as if insects

finally taught themselves

to sing

like falling rain

across midday

almost yawning

only august

 

Queens 1985, by pd lyons


 

 

she dreams her grandfather tries to kill her with a knife

her grandfather killing a girl very bloody with a knife

hitting the walls until her hands bleed

it doesn’t matter

let them bleed

let me die

bacon I believe

bacon I believe

A Mandala of Dinosaurs, A Message of Lovers, A Mostly of Crows by pd lyons


DSC_2753

A mandala of dinosaurs   A pestilence of motorcyclists.

A red sky of warnings   A coyote of marzipan.

A zygote of intelligence   Crystal of Elan-ists.

Soda of psychopaths   Preponderance of dictators

Herald of crows   Kansas of superpowers

An eclipse of educators   Blessing of coffees

An autumn of smudges   A winter of geese

A summer of topiaries   A spring of dreams

Empire of penises   A squander of vaginas

A catapult of efforts   A plethora of crows

An envy of ravens   A parcel of pachyderms

A coagulant of desires   A   Mercury of fish

Kick-start of starlings   Meandering of serpents

Bucket of worms   Sack of cats

A giggle of girls    Shyness of boys.

A Saladin of wisdoms    A crisis of faiths

A plague of religions    Carpet of bread crumbs

Sanctity of prisoners    A rats-ass of carers

Trombone of sex    Conglomerate of crows

A pudding of infants     A declaration of sea shells

A tumble of puppies      A cartoon of kittens

Meander of mysteries   A half league of words

A complaint of crows      A severance of hopes

An ignorance of drivers    A Shenandoah of daughters

A crux of sons     A crossing of souls

A delightful of crows     A smatter of kisses

A moonbeam of tongues   A secretion of secrets

A message of lovers.

 DSC_2751

 


 

 

Afternoon At The Flathouse

by

pd lyons

~

Open air

Cobble street,

Church bell rhapsody

 ~

Well worn doors

Rough stone walls

Into secret corners

Undisturbed as dust

 

In the Company of Woodbines

Waiting the slow pour

Of a pint

 

 

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