there are no flowers here but snow. the bay not yet free chunked with ice the white of which exists only against a distant liquid sea. at least the sun visits, comforting, illusion though it is, visions of thawing, melting down to something green.
in the long sleep of winter I have dreamed something Spanish that you said along a twilight turquoise something soft covering sun drenched shoulders silver threads an old man’s harp played for money by the moon.
Was lucky enough to live in Cape Breton for a while. The area Mira Gut was where the river Mira entered the Atlantic. We lived across the street from the ocean. Sometimes we’d walk down to the Mira bridge and fish for mackerel. Some of the most beautiful parts of being there were the winters. this was probably written on 2003.
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
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”.
The blonde in the bleachers
She flips her hair for you
Above the loudspeakers
You start to fall
She follows you home
But you miss living alone
You can still hear sweet mysteries
Calling you
The bands and the roadies
Lovin’ ’em and leavin’ ’em
It’s pleasure to try ’em
It’s trouble to keep ’em
‘Cause it seems like you’ve gotta give up
Such a piece of your soul
When you give up the chase
Feeling it hot and cold You’re in rock ‘n’ roll It’s the nature of the race It’s the unknown child So sweet and wild It’s youth It’s too good to waste
=I know this is from the beautiful poet Joni Mitchell but the song version i first heard was by Tom. I’ll include a version by her and one by Mary Black , another of my favorites. but first I Invite you
to read the poetry before you listen to the songs. today the sky is steel grey and the winter has found it’s way back into Spring time. Snow and the outside air hurts my fingers…
So give it a read and a listen yeah? Tell me he don’t make that guitar skate like sharp blades upon a black ice lake….
Lyrics
I awoke today and found the frost perched on the town It hovered in a frozen sky, then it gobbled summer down When the sun turns traitor cold And all trees are shivering in a naked row I get the urge for going but I never seem to go I get the urge for going When the meadow grass is turning brown
Summertime is falling down and winter is closing in I had me a man in summertime He had summer-colored skin And not another girl in town My darling’s heart could win But when the leaves fell on the ground And bully winds came around pushed them face down in the snow He got the urge for going and I had to let him go He got the urge for going When the meadow grass was turning brown
And summertime was falling down and winter was closing in Now the warriors of winter they gave a cold triumphant shout And all that stays is dying and all that lives is getting out See the geese in chevron flight flapping and racing on before the snow They’ve got the urge for going and they’ve got the wings so they can go They get the urge for going When the meadow grass is turning brown
Summertime is falling down and winter is closing in I’ll ply the fire with kindling and pull the blankets to my chin I’ll lock the vagrant winter out and I’ll bolt my wandering in I’d like to call back summertime and have her stay for just another month or so But she’s got the urge for going so I guess she’ll have to go She get the urge for going when the meadow grass is turning brown And all her empires are falling down And winter’s closing in And I get the urge for going when the meadow grass is turning brown And summertime is falling down
