Category Archives: pdlyons photography

boomerz by pd lyons


Boomerz

I live only in memory
The day to day does not inspire me
I only want to sit here think about what used to be.

Here only in my own home.
Locked doors, paid taxes, insurance policies, protect me.
TV,  petrol chemicals, nourish me.

People not like me outrage me.

In My Country, by Pd Lyons Poetry


 

In My Country

 

Women walk on eggshells

The way they dress  a rapist’s defense strategy

Their silence confers consent

Their bodies always up for grabs

In every way

There is no privacy especially of the womb

They may be legally and religiously sacrificed on the altar of boys-will-be-boys

They may be murdered at will

But have dubious right to self defense

They are not heard

They are not believed

They are not counted

Their labour not valued

That they are

Our mothers

Our sisters

Our daughters

Our beloved

May be conveniently ignored

Easier then to believe,

They are property

of the male

of the party

the state

words and photographs by pd lyons


 

Roses swollen with rain

 

full breasts dreaming for the hungry mouths of bees

soft in a gold of sunshine sung by small birds invisible

day dream ripples dull grey puddle answers spilling over the edge

storm gutters blocked by neglect

and wishes would ride the open mouth kisses of our own

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Wishing You the Constant Joy of Your Own Song ~ by PD Lyons


 

 

Wishing You the Constant Joy of Your Own Song

The artist whose voice

still goes right through me

most exquisite of them all

I know exact and precise

As if I really knew you ~

to be forever in that moment

to be forever that creation

Where always was your joy

That is exactly where

you should always be.

 

First time  you  were 21 years old

Toads Bar in New Haven

Flew straight through

First album

One gig

No banter

No break

Your voice went right through me.

Person I was with, rest of the place,  all  disappeared.

And I knew the only joy you’d ever know

Would be the art of your own creation.

Now decades come and go

Albums now CD’s

Politics a torture

religion and Family

curses and blessings

And me someone you’ll never know

What would I wish for you if I knew that wish would come true?

 

Fuckin Bukowski, by pd lyons – with regards to the day that’s in it.


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i never knew  Bukowski. i hadn’t even heard of him for most of my life. i think i was 52 when i first read anything by him – despite work of mine appearing in print with his back in the early 80’s . i knew little about his real life but what came from the poetry (never read a novel by him) – i don’t remember his words but i still remember the rush of honest poetry i discovered there – how beauty cannot be subdued by drink drugs abuse of any kind. how the humanity of the human spirit will not be denied – even if the only place it can manifest is in the fact of not killing the cat who pisses all over you while you’re sleeping one off in bed.

the following poem was published by Caliope Nerve in October 2009, http://calliopenerve.blogspot.ie/search/label/PD%20Lyons  it was probably written in 06-07 :

 

Fuckin Bukowski

Idiot me picks now

6000 miles away at 52

To discover him

Still glad I didn’t stay in Waterbury

Find him sooner

Probably still be pukeing

Out in the after last call

Parking lot of now what am I gonna do

Or else back in jail

Or else still with one of the xes

Or else not even alive

~

Tonight just had a chicken and ham sandwich on rye

And its sometime after midnight

And I’ll probably still be up @ 6 maybe half 6

Do some yoga make coffee for the wife

Bring it to her in bed

Get some pancakes going for the kid

And be happy to do so

~

No not envious

Not regretful

Rather peaceful

Glad to be out of it

That’s the kind of poet I’m happy to live with

Now.

 

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What Better Places To Go Be Spiritual? by pd lyons


sometimes we forget to go

sometimes we forget the land needs healing

the dead cannot be denied, nor should they

 

sometimes we believe by hating we will heal

sometimes we believe by fear we will over come

 

I cannot do this

I refuse to do this

I will go to every Auschwitz, every slave pit, every Hiroshima, Guantanamo, wounded knee, Normandy,

every Nanking every Tibet every Gaza strip

every lepers broken heart

I will not turn away

not for all the political correctness in the western world

 

and to all those who ask

all those who demand

all those who threaten

 

I’ve nothing to say –

‘cept fuck you and your cowardly way

 

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True Democracy & Boomerz by pd lyons


See I was taught that democracy takes courage. The courage to allow the rights of the other. Not only their right to exist but their rights of life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness. That it takes democratic courage to allow the other a voice, a choice, a privacy, an equality.

The belief that majority rules is erroneous with regards  to true democracy. Otherwise everything depends on the personal belief of the many. This is only might makes right, this is not democracy. Democracy is the courage of all to allow the human and civil rights of all.

The question we should be asking people is – do you really want to live in a country where the your rights and the rights of others may justifiably be revoked every time the majority demographic shifts?

Today when I look at my country that’s what I  see. Rather than the nurturing of courage, it seems to perpetuate the right to bully, the right to instill fear, the right to make money at all costs, the right of might – with no regard for the amount of misery, tragedy, or  instability it causes  its own citizens or the rest of world.

It has always taken extreme courage to be democratic. It still does.

 

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Boomerz

I live only in memory
The day to day does not inspire me
I only want to sit here think about what used to be.

Here only in my own home.
Locked doors, paid taxes, insurance policies, protect me.
TV,  petrol chemicals, nourish me.

People not like me outrage me.

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Boomerz – from  Caribu & Sister Stones

ISBN:     9781905425907

Published by Lapwing Belfast

Off The Bookshelf – Brave Boat Harbor & The Vinland Map and the Tartar Relation


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This is one I have had for ages. Snagged from my dads bookshelf when he was selling out of print items. It was published by Yale University Press. This copy is fifth edition C1967. As you can see it came from the library of Calvin Hosmer JR. In my opinion Calvin lived, and indeed may still be living, in a town with one of the coolest place names ever – Brave Boat Harbor! I think it is one of the main reasons I have not been able to part with it for over thirty years.

 

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It is inscribed by C.HJ. with the note:

“This Vinland map

was found to be

a fake  but the

book is still

good reading

CHJ”

Personally I would disagree. Once I read the inscription I was disinclined to enjoy the fore mentioned good read. Can’t help but wonder how the recipient felt getting a gift of a used book the subject of which was proved fake?  Perhaps there is a clue in that my Dad picked it up at a rummage sale for .50 ? Anyway for some reason I still keep it. Well, it was from Brave Boat Harbor, that’s just irresistible isn’t it?

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Off The Book Shelf/ Poets We Should Know


IMG_1262So the other day I picked this little gem off the shelf and discovered Robert Louis Stevenson – the poet. I have had this book for a while now maybe 10 – 15 years bought it some where in America for .25 cents. It has only two poems by RLS; Requiem and The Vagabond. I think they both show just how ballsy a poet he was. Today as I was putting this blog together Shelly  posted on my face Book page about Tom Crean the Irish Sailor & Antarctic explorer. The inscription on Toms grave – Home is the sailor, home from sea. You can still drink at Toms Crean’s Pub ( he opened a pub once he retired from the sea) The last time I was there they pulled a very fine pint.

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Robert_Louis_Stevenson

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Tom_Crean_%28explorer%29 

 

THE GOLDEN TREASURY

of

Songs and Lyrics

selected from the best songs and lyrical

poems in the English language

and arranged with notes by

FRANCIS T PALGRAVE

London

MACMILLAN 7 CO LTD

new York St martin’s Press

1959

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Requiem

Under the wide and starry sky
Dig the grave and let me lie.
Glad did I live and gladly die,
And I laid me down with a will.

This be the verse you grave for me;
“Here he lies where he longed to be,
Home is the sailor, home from sea,
And the hunter home from the hill.”

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The Vagabond
Give to me the life I love,
Let the lave go by me,
Give the jolly heaven above
And the byway nigh me.
Bed in the bush with stars to see,
Bread I dip in the river –
There’s the life for a man like me,
There’s the life for ever.Let the blow fall soon or late,
Let what will be o’er me;
Give the face of earth around
And the road before me.
Wealth I seek not, hope nor love,
Nor a friend to know me;
All I seek, the heaven above
And the road below me.

Or let autumn fall on me
Where afield I linger,
Silencing the bird on tree,
Biting the blue finger.
White as meal the frosty field –
Warm the fireside haven –
Not to autumn will I yield,
Not to winter even

Let the blow fall soon or late,
Let what will be o’er me;
Give the face of earth around,
And the road before me.
Wealth I ask not, hope nor love,
Nor a friend to know me;
All I ask, the heaven above
And the road below me.

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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