Category Archives: Uncategorized

It Must Be 11 O’clock Somewhere In This Writing Life


Pdlyons's Explorations

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coffee from Java, blue willow from Japan, black currant jam from aunt Tessa, morning from Ireland

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Busy Work – Geshe Kelsang Gyatso


Pdlyons's Explorations

barna galway barna galway

Busy Work

Some people think that they will practice the dharma once they have
finished with their worldly business. This is a mistaken attitude
because our work in the world never finishes. Work is like a ripple of
water continually moving on the surface of the ocean. It is very
difficult to break free from our occupations in order to practice
dharma. The busy work with which we fill our lives is only completed
at the time of our death.

– Geshe Kelsang Gyatso, Meaningful to Behold

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Food porn #ww470 #30days


afro-futurism scholar

Phorzhicoa is a dangerous, (and outlawed) underground collective dedicated to Hoomudl, God of the Watchers.

I am addicted to watching people eat.

My name is Sara to those who still know me outside of the collective. My Watcher siblings have yet to name me, for I am still young as a feeder, and my talents have yet to emerge beyond mere gazing. I work among normal people, dress and talk like them, and even work like them. It just so happens I tend bar at a restaurant in a quiet residential area at the edge of the city near a small college. Most of the customers believe me to be a student earning money for books and rent, so my tips help to keep me afloat in the outside world. But it is here where I find myself drifting into a moist cloud desire as my watcher eyes peek out…

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Today A Day For Mothers, Rightfully So,pd lyons


Pdlyons's Explorations

Today A Day For Mothers, Rightfully So

but I want to tell about those other days
like every time I see my daughter
especially how she has those
dark brown eyes

Days when I whistle or sing
though my own voice so much harsher
still my love of music comes from having heard you

And now these days of early spring
when each flower I can name
I learned their name from you

The birds I feed,
mornings in the garden
even blue jays, even crows –
joy of which I learned by watching you

and how many other everyday things?
so many more, so very many more…

so sure, you’re not “here” today
at this restaurant
clinking glasses sparkling wine
but inwardly I take my own inventory
grateful for this life
how all the days of it
truly are my mother’s days.

for Flora

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Imagine relaxing so completely that even your imagination is still


Pdlyons's Explorations

Don’t dream it, be it.

DSC_5298 Imagine relaxing so completely that even your imagination is still

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Who is the non-symbolic me?


Pdlyons's Explorations

My concern is that Jung’s approach is an indulgence in ones own or his own personal mythology. Concepts that put a further layer of fantasy between person and what is. Granted it is wonderful to have all these deep and wonderful images with which to identify aspects of oneself, the world, the universe. I myself loved it, the adventure of anima, animus,shadow, hero. But aren’t we just playing at stories and fantasy then calling it truth. A certain element of applied fallacy, agreed falsehoods dressing the psyche in elegant emperor clothing? Would it be better to develop courage to sit our selves and our patients down without grandiose or compartmentalizing the experience of self? To say this it it. This is the simplicity of what is going on. To lead on to the authentic experience in direct fashion, no need for fantastical symbols. If we have a non-symbolic relationship to…

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God Lights a Cigarette, by pdlyons


Pdlyons's Explorations

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God Lights a Cigarette

On the wood, shadows. Down the
windows, hazy through the drapes
spills the rain. The night,
curving rolling with motion still
whispers with winters needley lips
everything is passing through me.

There is you with your joy – me,
I’m trying to find depressions,
though I’m not sure what I feel.
You are magic mingling essences –
I am day dreaming on physical matters…
my lamp flickers with distress,
it moves the room with my voice:
help me
I’m drowning,
suffocating,
breathless…

*
To be born of your music,
in your magic my life blooms,
my thoughts, words – dissolve into
rich emotions tuned to immortality.

Lost in the lighting of a match,
in between the space and flame –
I become the sparkle in your eyes,
then I return…
Slowly I am returned,
I am the gold ring in your ear –
the unnoticed sensation.

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just back from the walk poem, first draft by pd lyons


Pdlyons's Explorations

a painted picture

left out before the snow

the wind blows through it

an old sheet of organic plastic

caught on

torn on

hard   wire

a post of whiskers greyer than the stone which holds it

loos ends going no where on each side

cattle long ago

bones softened

no memory even earths recalls them now

hard ground

brown ground

no trail to keep you from getting lost

no place really left to get lost

incline

something shadowy even though its sunlight

fingering illuminating

another afternoon

good fortune

among the winter

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last october note


Pdlyons's Explorations

Last day before the school break. Morgan gets her week off from school again for Halloween, her birthday. Dress up for the last friday, no uniform today! We walk to school by the sea shore as usual, up the stone road to the main road and school. She runs off to play in the school yard. All the children dressed up, skeletons and witches classics still win out but plenty of cats, ghosts, and un-deads – but not a single Frankenstein. We sit on the bench, Michelle and i, waiting for the bus into Galway City. Its the first frosty morning. Its the pale pinks and greys breaking up over a restless bay. Its the season. Remembering.

dont make me cast a spell on you! dont make me cast a spell on you!

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may all who journey


Pdlyons's Explorations

The gravest sorrow comes from closing our minds to the suffering of others and feeling justified in doing so.

Pema Chodron

Where loves rules there is no will to power; and where power predominates, there love is lacking. The one is the shadow of the other.

Carl Jung

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