Category Archives: ruff

Such Have I Heard, (first draft) by pd lyons


 

Such have I heard ~

soft moss mornings a mist unsolvable.

harsh sheets stones on a frozen ground each bouncing echoing.

wounded banshee whiplash dark empty fingers naked  trees.

smooth smothering heat

days wrapped in wet cottons left out between a desert of noon

myriad  deep yielding into deeper nights

 

Such have I heard ~

alone  only my slender secret self

.  how to bring any comfort to what has gone beyond?

 would they surrender such treasure willingly?

could it happen even so?

 

the dead

 who better else to weep

who better else between the worlds?

a sea of tears,

a sailing of  ghosts

such have I heard

such have I known

.

Vieux Farka Toure – “All the Same” feat. Dave Matthews ~ words for today


All the Same
Look at them
They are all the same (all the same)
They see you and flatter you and pretend to love you
Oh when you look at them they’re all the same
Smiles and promises, smiles and promises
Cry real tears til you believe
But they don’t want you
They want what youve got
And it may taste sweet, but love it’s not
Oh it may taste sweet but love it’s not
Look at them
They are all the same (all the same)
Oh look at me cause I believed
Ive prayed in their temples down on my knees
I turned my back, felt the knife sink deep
Look at them they’re all the same
Take everything, it’s a crying shame
And it might take sweet but it’s a wicked game
They jump and cry, pretend to love you
They see you and go visit you in your family and leave your house midday.
Might taste sweet…oets

 

Provided to YouTube by The Orchard Enterprises All the Same · Vieux Farka Touré · Dave Matthews The Secret ℗ 2011 Six Degrees Records Released on: 2011-05-24

All the Same
Look at them
They are all the same (all the same)
They see you and flatter you and pretend to love you
Oh when you look at them they’re all the same
Smiles and promises, smiles and promises
Cry real tears til you believe
But they don’t want you
They want what youve got
And it may taste sweet, but love it’s not
Oh it may taste sweet but love it’s not
Look at them
They are all the same (all the same)
Oh look at me cause I believed
Ive prayed in their temples down on my knees
I turned my back, felt the knife sink deep
Look at them they’re all the same
Take everything, it’s a crying shame
And it might take sweet but it’s a wicked game
They jump and cry, pretend to love you
They see you and go visit you in your family and leave your house midday.
Might taste sweet…

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

Waltzing the Night from As If he Rain Fell In Ordinary Time 2019 erbacce-press prize for poetry


Waltzing the Night read by the poet.

When I was 18yrs old I left home and moved into my first apartment. It was a first floor traditional Victorian type three family house still typical in big towns america. This poem is based on some of those days on Cook St Waterbury Ct.

Thank you for watching!

Here’s what erbacce press had to say about my work –

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! … 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)

 

 

 

Through the generosity of Westmeath County Arts Council a special signed edition limited to 50 numbered copies is being offered for 20.00 euros. Regular postage included world wide.

Contact via comments or email  pdlyonspoet@yahoo.co.uk for availability and further details.

Thank you for watching and reading!

Best Wishes & Good Luck – Bye.

 

 

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


DSC_0347

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.

 

DSC_0346

 

 

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

 

DSC_9146

 

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

IMG_1263

 

IMG_1267

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.”

IMG_1268
IMG_1269
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.

Two poems and three songs for my Father Donald R Lyons Nov 21. 1925 – Jan 26, 2003.


DAD

The swans out in the field

Their secrets not revealed

Passing into silent flight are they

Perhaps their subtle sigh

Stifles some deeper cry

As they know you’ll be leaving much too soon

 

Walking down the lane

The filly foals refrain

Their running is the sound of falling rain

Are they restless from the summer?

Or somehow do they know

You’ll not stay to seen them fully grown

 

By the fairy mounds of old

The pock marked GPO

Cross the Boyne to bang your head on spiral stone

See the wonders down at Fore

And the ancient seat of kings on Tara hill

 

Now sitting by the fire, music’s playing’ low

Guess I’ll raise a glass or two before I go

Though it’s to an empty chair not your smiling face I stare

(Yet) whenever that door slams I still hope to see you there.

 

And sitting here I wonder

All those stories finally told

Revealed how in our youth

We were so very much the same

Was it drink that made us bold?

Or did we speak so true

Because somehow, we knew

You’d not be coming back this way again?

 

Somewhere Still

Somewhere there is still a place, you sitting in the sun, concrete porch paving slabs, Cape Cod Grey picnic table, small summer savages running jumping clinging – immune bare feet impervious to sun. Skin frosted with salt, lotions, cake icing.

Somewhere children still take your hand, invite you to cross the street walk with them down to the beach, taking them sometimes instead to lunch…

Long-time companions, comforts of old age, afternoon naps, books, TV, mail order catalogues, big band music and too those ever-dangerous memories –  love, marriage, a hole never in twenty-three years has time healed.

Somewhere she still takes you by the hand. Ohs your name laughs into the open window, Fifty-five Chevy, summer bright chrome. So close to flying great American V8 highways up through the Canadian border dwindling into heavy Nova Scotia sands.

There has never been an ocean too cold for her to swim in. Long after your retreat to safety – Flamingo towels, Knickerbocker beer, USMC Zippo, Old Gold cigarette spiral prayers. Gratitude at last. Unable to fathom any reason to feel bad about surviving.

Deep breath wonderful (not a god damn palm tree in sight). Watch that woman of the sea; only wish there would never have to be a time to leave.

Later she gets tipsy; acquiescing when the waiter offers to sweeten her drink no knowing here to sweeten means more liquor. Out on the dance floor, hold each other tight as you want because she’s your wife now and you always liked the Mills Brothers.

Sometime after midnight, small cedar room, Stuart tartan blankets, crisp white sheets. Strange night sounds traipsing gingham curtains. As if tiny fingers, she ohs your name. Answer back with words you never knew before.

This spring by the sea your little house will not find you. Gone now perhaps to wander just like W.B. said –

 Glimmering girl once more beside you and pluck

 Till time and times are done

The silver apples of the moon,

The golden apples of the sun.

(For: D.R.L. –  with regards to W.B. Yeats, his favourite poet.)

 

Donald Raymond Lyons

Donald Raymond Lyons, 77, of North Shore Blvd., East Sandwich, MA, formerly of Rockledge Dr., Waterbury, passed away peacefully on Sunday, (January 26, 2003) with his family by his side at the Mary F. McCarthy House in Sandwich. He was the husband of the late Flora (Rosano) Lyons. Mr. Lyons was born Nov. 21, 1925 in the Waterville section of Waterbury, son of the late Raymond and Ethel (Pollard) Lyons of Waterville. He graduated from Crosby High School in 1947 and served in the U.S. Marine Corps from 1943 to 1945 during World War II. Mr. Lyons joined the Waterbury Police force in 1953. He was promoted to police sergeant in 1965 and to lieutenant in 1973, retiring in 1984. He loved family gatherings, his books, wine, dancing, lunch dates and his grandchildren. He was a member of B.P.O. Elks Lodge No. 265 and the VFW Mattatuck Post No. 8075. He leaves his devoted family of three sons, Peter D. Lyons of County Cavan, Ireland, Mark J. Lyons of Waterbury, and David M. Lyons of Sagamore, MA; two daughters, Pamela A. Beane of Sandwich, MA and Judy M. Donovan of Plymouth; a loving brother, Raymond “Buddy” Lyons of Waterbury; and 11 grandchildren that adored him. He was predeceased by a sister, Shirley Aparo. The funeral will be held Friday at 8:45 a.m. from the Mulville Funeral Home, 270 West Main St., to St. Francis Xavier Church for a Mass at 9:30 a.m. Burial will be in All Saints Cemetery. Friends may call at the funeral home Thursday from 4-8 p.m. Memorial contributions may be made to the Mary E. McCarthy House, 73 Service Rd., East Sandwich, MA 02537, or to a charity of the donor’s choice. The family wishes to express their sincere appreciation for the love and support given to their father by his longtime companion, Eleanore Bryan of Sandwich, MA.

Published in The Hartford Courant on Jan. 28, 2003

     ////

How the Green Witch Loved the Winter Man as read by the author


One for the winter days. Hope you all like it. Special thanks to Morgan for the video. From the collection of PD Lyons poetry, When You Worship Swans No Longer.

.

 

 

 

 

When You Worship Swans No Longer: Poetry by

by P D Lyons

Poetry inspired by the village of Fore County Westmeath and surrounding areas of Ireland, by an Irish American poet.

Special First Edition Limited to 150: each numbered and signed by the poet.

Price includes worldwide shipping by regular post in padded envelope.

20.00 dollars US/15 euros Ireland/20 euros rest of Europe/15. sterling

Items shipped upon receipt of order (purchase through Paypal)

Contact: pdlyonspoet@yahoo.co.uk

With your shipping information and any queries.

Additional inscription on request.

(Numbered books selected randomly)

,

Thank you in advance for supporting this project!

Waltzing Miss Jeanie from As if the rain Fell in Ordinary Time – read by the poet


Happy to share with you one of the poems appearing in As if the rain fell in Ordinary Time. A collection of my work published by erbacce-press . I was honored and humbled by their selecting me as the finalist of the erbacce prize for poetry 2019.  (Details to be found below.)

This is my first foray into the video recording world but not the last. Intending to do more with my own work and once we perfect the jitters and my delivery  a little more , the work of other artists.. 

Anyway thank you for reading and for listening. hope you enjoy it. This one is for all you horse lovers out there!

And a special thank you to Shelly who guided me through the high tech end and had the patience to go through more than a few bloopers 

Cheers!

 

 

 

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 

 

 

 

%d bloggers like this: