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rockledge drive a snippet by pd lyons ~

Nothing kept us in not even really bad weather and hardly dinnertime and not without an argument.

TV was too new. The only a night time thing was Mickey Mouse but Saturdays were mornings of cartoons and Wonderama, Sandy Becker, Little Rascals, Chuck McCann.

 Most days were almost always outside in the street. Kick the can, stickball, kick ball, Wiffle-Ball, handball even football in the street. Hide and seek and playing’ army through back yards and up-the-bank. Getting my first kiss from an army nurse who was wearing a WW2 helmet  borrowed from my best friend who got it from his army captain father and lent it to the girl he liked the best, the one who kissed me instead and I didn’t even know what for.

In those days Saturdays were a real luxury and summer really meant something  – spent fully spreely as if we knew there was an endless supply.

Days like a never dropping pinball all flash & bang buzz & ring -yellow jacket eat a melon no school holler out the screen door slam summers.

Snow up to your face steel runner sleds stand up backwards down the steepest golf course hill.

Autumn crunch warm sweet smell leaves up to our knees dreaming of Halloween the minute school started in September.

I was a cowboy; got six shooters and a Rifleman riffle from my aunt who never knew how much I loved that gun because it broke on the first time out as if I wasn’t careful.

My father hosed the snow fort so it was hard as a stone the next day and we could slide down it as well as sit in it and it didn’t melt  ‘til May.

There was a patch of woods down the street if you walked far enough you’d come to a sand pit where three kids got buried to death once, if you went the other way you’d come to green waters like some soup my mother tried to get us to eat once. But the great thing about the woods was the rock fort, a maze of glacier heaved black rocks left in retreat I guess, we didn’t know. You could squeeze between the crevices, follow the snaky cracks a perfect place to learn how to smoke cigarettes stole from someone else’s parents.

But always the best was the street even football touch football using telephone poles for goal posts of course we couldn’t do field goals and cars would beep and some would be assholes but these were days before we even used such words so we’d just do raspberries, make faces, or act as if we could reach that passing car with a well-placed kick.

On My Mother’s Side, poetry by pd lyons

riverside waterbury ct

riverside waterbury ct

On My Mother’s Side

My mother never told me
The one thing I’d ‘a listened to most.
Diagnosed with cancer (7 years before it killed her.)
Deciding to keep it to herself,
She did exactly what it wanted –
Believing it was for her children’s benefit, how would she refuse?

Besides my mother came from a family of secrets
Dark Sicilian secrets emanated from
Every Sunday dinner table that ever was
Ebb   Flow   Echo   Repeat
Dance through generations none of us immune

~ free from all the ancient stories we
could have held the woman who gave us birth
cried any tears together
faced fear until it became compassion
looked into her eyes knowing it was goodbye
and that there would never be another word between us ~


“On My Mother’s Side” by PD Lyons read by Author
From “Caribu and Sister Stones” published by Belfast Lapwing 2009
ISBN 978-1-905425-90-7

How Like Dreams Now the Days Too Fade, by pd Lyons. Re: Ethel Pollard Lyons Thanks to Donna J Snyder for telling me

Last night I had a dream about you. Nothing major. We just met face to face. You were telling me about my grandmother. We were outside in the sand. I was surprised you knew her. I  never knew she went to Mexico. It was hot. We sat down at a rough grey whiskery  table.

Yes, you said and she rode very well.  A bright grey horse among the caballeros. “And tequila ?” I leaned towards you tete-a-tete  ” What about  the tequila…?” But the scraping sound of speeding traffic brought me into this morning. And I wondered Why Mexico?


I was always a bit afraid of Mexico –

Suddenly Last Summer, We don’t need no stinking badges, Maryse Holder Give Sorrow words, Comancheros, Decapitations decorating the highways…


But when I was a kid –

Zorro. Bands of silver trumpeters. Hat dancing. Cielito Lindo. Raw silver jewellery, grumpy looking straw cowboys, hand bags made of alligator. Souvenirs sent to my mother from her favorite uncle,  United States Army Air Forces navigator.


And why you? I had called you Jan. You had written to me about my own work. I had admired yours, especially the Creation Myths, Hoped someday you’d do an audio version. How like dreams now, the days too fade.


Re: Ethel Pollard Lyons Thanks to Donna J Snyder for telling me


Picture 011

sometimes in this writing life w/ pd lyons and Orbis Journal

~ So it’s always a joy when an editor (s) selects your work to be published. I’m happy as if this were 2023 but its from back in 2008 from Orbis Quarterly International Literary Journal, Still so very grateful to Carole Baldock. Thanks for supporting my work! Maiden Lane (from ny NYC days,) and From the House of Starlings (from my River Glenn Connecticut Days.) Thank you for reading! ~

Thank you for reading! Good luck bye ~

on raglan road again by pd lyons

For P.K.

Would I were on raglan road

When days still soft like rain drops fell

Unnoticed smokes occasioned by good porter

And I wanderer of no particular destination

Knew by heart each foot fall path I’d take

To find my self back home again

Fiction By PDLyons

Pdlyons's Explorations

salamanders green – a fiction

a coming of age drama of the 70’s & 80’s. trials and emotional trauma of teenage artist/writer in small town new england.

Contains adult themes of sexual and terrible words of English language as well as swear words and a possibility of lions and tigers and bears – oh my!And if that were not enough then beware of cigarette smoking and the taking of substances for the mere sake of pleasure and fun.

Not Fit For Puritan Ethic Award

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salamanders green/ Part One /page 1


in 1974 I started work on a biographical/fiction. incorporating bits of journal, drugs sex and drama from the point of view of a 18 – 20 something male living in an old factory town New England as he discovers drinks weed cocaine love sex marriage divorce fatherhood etc. it began by the river it hasn’t ended yet but here’s the first part – for what its worth, still ruff n ready I suppose

photo by pdlyons

photo by pdlyons


Part One: Do you really want to go here?


Afternoon late spring clean water rivering golden sunlight drifts slowly graces full breezy trees, sub down silver gold sparks white water green water brass between rock and crumbling pylons water. Trout water clean fast life death water sparkle moments cascade flash blood scent spotted sating skin shudder pulse lightning trout flesh steel clean pain death dream river of sun of steel of rock pumping blood cold icy blood silt shadow lightning green brass white sun down water river.

Suli has freckles all over her body, freckles well not exactly covering but her face looks like a strawberry especially when she’s sunburn, her lips chap Vaselined strawberry fresh fruity taste other glistening lips that never kiss yet smile a river of holy water down upon tonguing boys. Lips of swallowed strawberry fruits of other faces, lips of holy juices tonguing boys strawberry licking body down, sun down, tongue down, body down holy lips fruity inside with a taste with a scent with rivers and rivers of sweet flowing pouring into a sea of tonguing boys. River of blood life death ecstasy the Suli woman rolling roiling river queen all tongued down into pools holy water spilt down pale wall thighs tongue down boy watching windows reflect a sun down silky skin Suli silky silky run it through your fingers skin.
Anxiety who wants to give up the trees, the river, for the city again? Who wants to break open the money bags piss away good cold hard almost legal cash – paying to return to the city. Cold cash for to see the cold city, cold people, hot people, hot/cold never cool or warm only angry suns sons and daughters. My dream does not see me there. I have no place to go there. Here is life and death, clean pure immediate; each being accepts their own responsibilities, each and every form of life raw open being face to face. Here is not the city, here is not the hiding masked man who can never claim himself, the concrete never stops the flood, the narcotic blood can never give the thrill of pure wild savage unadulterated blood as it gushes through the world, not the world of the city but the world of experience, the world of life of pure unadulterated orgasmic thrill. The icy thrill of a morning that does not begin with angry swollen suns sons and daughters.

I live by the river. I live with the river. I am the weeds by the side of the river. Fly as well as trout of the river. I paint in with the river. I write to with in the river. I make love to strawberry women in with by on the river. Animal amphibian fish reptilian whore-master whore Merlin Morgana of the river. My blood white water silt cans bottles logs sparkled stone bits unidentifiable biological material fish egg strider spider; all living, all dead, all treasure of the river are me and I them. All that is river is me. Dreams words skin sex stock barrel – we are river, we the living, we the dead. All flesh, no flesh; we the river. No river of life no river of death no river of things no river but the river. All that is all that isn’t, that is the river.

The river is dreaming me here with radio and cigarette. I am a river dream watching the river sink into a liquid sky a million times reflected upon a sleeping river-dream. All things come from come, all things come, all things the dream of liquid sleep the river dreams. All things a myriad of simultaneous dreams, none greater or smaller only different all sourced from the river. The same river that feeds trout flows through all veins, the same river pours from Suli’s cunt pours out of tonguing boys pours from swollen penises pours out the swollen sun, pours out the violent city pours out the whores the saints trees wind grass stone fingers singers words all as all as all is the one water one dream split countless facets gleaming countless suns sons and daughters of the same sleeping river.


morning by the river pdlyons pix

morning by the river pdlyons pix

April 14-15 Part 2 Cape Cod, Annie Wilder, Race Point by PD Lyons



April 14-15 Part 2

Today he drove only to Marconi beach. P-town would have been too far. At the entrance a park warden was stopping cars. Now what? But the officer was very friendly wanted only to advise them that yes the beach was open and there was a controlled burn going on and no need to be afraid or call the fire department. And are you here for the Titanic memorial Ceremony? If so its over there. Yes you can just  go to the beach. Its a beautiful day for it.
Their drive had been uneventful, stopped for petrol and bottles of water just the other side of “suicide alley”. Yesterday he joined the child in the water off Race Point. It was cold it was fun it was the big giant ocean! The wife had time to read and snap a few photos of them turning purple. Today cooler, windy-er but they made it down the wooden steps out to an almost deserted shore knowing that as soon as base camp was established they’d spend time trying to duplicate the day before.
The water was indeed freezing colder than that at Race Point yet they stayed in longer. Once she said to him “This is the most fun ever!” he knew he’d stay in with her until they froze to death or she gave in and wanted to get out. It was dark by the time they made it back to Sandwich.
He decided to take them to the canal see the water by starlight, maybe a ship or two lights drifting through the black. They got out of the Jeep just as a fishing boat put in. Lets go see what they got he said. The child agreed. So they walked over to the Annie Wilder. There were two men and a woman aboard. Hello. He explained how they wanted to know a little bit about fishing boats and how the nets worked. The younger of the two men explained a little. No it wasn’t a good day he said. Flounder he said. They showed them a tub full, neatly packed white belly up all looked the same size. There weren’t many tubs at all. Does she like fish he asked. Morgan never met a sea food she dint like she told them.  Just made some fillets. Would you like some? and he was away. I don’t have any cash he told the woman. Did you ask him to sell it to you? No. Wouldn’t have sold it to you even if you had he said. Here you go. Just wish us luck for tomorrow. There was about two pound of pure white medallions. The next morning the child made a picture on a black piece of paper, surrounded by silver ovals, silver flounders all around the Annie Wilder. 

n 1974 I started work on a biographical/fiction. ( originally titled salamanders) incorporating bits of journal, drugs sex and drama from the point of view of a 18 – 20 something male living in an old factory town New England as he discovers drinks weed cocaine love sex marriage divorce fatherhood etc. it began by the river it hasn’t ended yet. here’s another excerpt – for what its worth. still ruff n ready I suppose

sal manders a wilkes barre excerpt by pd lyons

Wilkes Barre Pennsylvania
At the liquor store. Clos du val in tow. Automatic sliding glass door. Woman standing on the other side. Wants to get in. Waits for me to come out. They never work for me she says. What ? The doors. Oh, says I, maybe it just got stuck. No she says. automatic doors never work for me. Watch. I stood out side and the doors closed and she tried but couldn’t get back out. Wow I say amazed. So that’s your super power! Yeah, she laughed, but not very useful. She turned and went off to shop for alcohol. I went back to the hotel told Michelle all about it. No she didn’t think it would be a good project for research. But i kept thinking about that woman and what was in her body that could stun those automatic doors and how super powers weren’t always a good thing and how good this wine was gonna be…,_Pennsylvania

The day is nice, excerpt from Sal Manders by pd lyons (adult themes)

in 1974 I started work on a biographical/fiction. ( originally titled salamanders) incorporating bits of journal, drugs sex and drama from the point of view of a 18 – 20 something male living in an old factory town New England as he discovers drinks weed cocaine love sex marriage divorce fatherhood etc. it began by the river it hasn’t ended yet. here’s another excerpt – for what its worth. still ruff n ready I suppose

The day is nice,

today is a light cool mist over everything after weeks of ninety degrees. The coffee is good and strong. I’m sprawled out on the kitchen table with pen and paraphernalia. When I was first married my wife always made sure where ever we lived there was a room for my desk. It was great; a room, a desk, a typewriter and all my books. But as time went on and she and I got farther apart the desk seemed to get lost along the way as we moved and the place got smaller and smaller my room became less and less of a priority no longer, like myself, a necessity. However I did find a substitute for my desk, a most convenient and logical solution – a place to sprawl out and be close to the coffee pot a place generally as far as possible from sleeping children and angry women and even today when I have no typewriter, no home, no wife, I still have a little quiet and solitude here at this long inspiration of kitchen table.

It’s nice and cool but I would like some sunlight, sunshine like yesterday, the girl dancing and laughing and I rubbed her sore muscles putting her to sleep in the ragged summer grass there by the stream you can still drink from. Maureen, the way your hair shines golden, the way you wore that yellow tied at the waist shirt – I want to buy you a gold medallion of the sun, pretty girl I want to lay you out in ninety degrees of heat and fuck you till we melt. Maureen in the sun quiet, cynical, tired, your legs are strong I thought you were nervous but you fell asleep as I worked the tight muscles of your legs yielding up the cheeks of you ass, a long sleek back up around sore shoulders the white ivory neck kissed between the space of blonde laying in the grass my hands unable to stop…

Then there is Maureen in evening laughter,

Restless martial arts forms against the stars

Stoned as shit on some hashish she bought

To see her now, happy, care free, no self put downs,

Golden lady I like to be here…

Maureen your skin is magic,

The night has been beautiful for us

The moonless stars are animals I want to travel among

While your desire is to keep both feet on firm earth

Dancing in the dark I hate to leave you –

All night my fingers shake in their sleep as if I had ten penises each dreaming of your cunt all at once.


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