Category Archives: poetry project

did the Yankees still have a chance for the pennant by pd lyons


Today

at the counter

pastrami on rye

coffee black

just off the peripheral

this guy and woman at a table

he was going on & on

you know right away

a bunch of bullshit

rather loudly too

I had no interest in him

or what he was selling

but she had caught my eye

noticed her the minute i came in

by the time i finished my sandwich

she still hadn’t said a word

he of course hadn’t stopped

people just tried to piss him off

daughter 13 years old competing already

lack of parenting by all others

ad nauseam

I asked the waitress for a refill and the check

turned to get a better look at them

maybe she was speaking by just too soft for me to hear?

but no. she was just sitting there taking it all in.

no longer interested but rather sorry for her

turned to finish my coffee

wondered how long the rain would hold off

did the Yankees still have a chance for the pennant…

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and now a message from the author :


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PD Lyons

Born and raised in the USA. Travelling and living abroad since 1998. Now permanently residing in Ireland.

Received The Mattatuck College Award for Outstanding Achievement in Poetry.
Received Bachelor of Science with honours from Teikyo Post University Connecticut.

Two books of poetry Searches For Magic, and Caribu & Sister Stones: Selected Poems, have been published by Lapwing Press, Belfast. A third book, Myths Of Multiplicity, published by Erbacce press Liverpool as part of the 2014 Erbacce International Annual Prize was officially launched at the Westmeath County Library, Castlepollard Ireland on 9December 2014.

The work of PD Lyons has also appeared in many magazines and e-zine/blogs throughout the world. Including, The SHoP, Books Ireland, Irish American Post, Boyne Berries, Virtual Writer, Slipstream, West 47 Galway Arts. Recently selected to participate in Human Rights Consortium at the School of Advanced Study, University of London publication titled ‘In Protest: 150 Poems for Human Rights’.

Relevant websites:

‘In Protest: 150 Poems for Human Rights’.
In Protest: 150 Poems for Human Rights is an ambitious new publication aiming to bring together the fields of human rights research and literature in an innovative way. Selected from over 600 poems submitted by established and emerging poets, it provides a rare international insight into issues ranging from the trans-Atlantic slave trade, the Hola massacre and indigenous peoples’ rights to the current war in Syria.

http://www.sas.ac.uk/about-us/news/protest-new-poetry-anthology-explores-human-rights-and-social-justice

Myths of Multiplicity , all profits to benefit Erbacce writers co-op

http://www.erbacce-press.com/#/p-d-lyons/4586525519

Searches For Magic, and Caribu & Sister Stones,

http://www.freewebs.com/lapwingpoetry/

PD Lyons Blog : https://pdlyons.wordpress.com/

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Grandview Avenue *, by pd Lyons


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Grandview Avenue

We were walking
Hand in hand
Up the hill
In the rain

I had your bright red scarf
Wrapped around my head

Traffic swished by
Lights on
Wipers squelching

We didn’t know what the day would bring
But I turned my face up to the sky
Trusting my own two feet and you to guide me

(Waterbury Ct 2011)*

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* this is a slightly revised version as compared to that published in 2011 by Railroad Poetry Project.

For All The Sylvias , by pd lyons from Myths Of Multiplicity


from the recently published Myths Of Multiplicity. Erbacce-press, Liverpool UK. If you order from Erbacce then not only is postage free

but all profits will directly benefit Erbacce writing co -operative.

http://www.erbacce-press.com/#/sales/4528051110

 

 

For All The Sylvias

sometimes our Odysseus hearts
slip all those sailor knots

sometimes life, not appalling,
rather free – so free we can choose to fly

we have not always carried
flaming skulls of anger
sipped curdled clots of blood

we have not always harmonized
harsh heavy dogs of our dismay
gristled our own lovers

sometimes we have slipped clearly,
breathless and perfectly certain
beyond all mysterious constraint

sometimes we do not come back.

sapphiric no more
golden filigree no more
sun dress polka dots
tall G&T’s
heart shape sunglasses

our children pail and shovel the beach
their laughter, their chatter
muted by waves
grown more distant,
ever more distant
.

 

from the recently published Myths Of Multiplicity. Erbacce-press, Liverpool UK. If you order from Erbacce then not only is postage free

but all profits will directly benefit Erbacce writing co -operative. http://www.erbacce-press.com/#/sales/4528051110

 

 

LyonsCover01fin)http://www.erbacce-press.com/#/sales/4528051110

Obsession, by pd lyons


Obsession

in places he can’t get out of well
the woman leaves him
she doesn’t mean it to be that way
but neither does she concern herself about it
there was never any talk of her being kind to him.

 

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Post Scripts (xxx ooo) by pd lyons as published by The Legendary


photographer unknown

photographer unknown

 

Post Scripts (xxx ooo)

After a year and a day of Pearl Harbour
Your eyes would be this blue….

~

Should I sit here on the street?
Haven’t I had enough of streets?
All my life, hasn’t that been enough?
Inside, the safety of the cafe is
Like a tomb, full of concrete and steel.
So I sit on the street side, eat from un- labelled tins,
Tired of everything.
What pearls?
Only swine.
What tombs?
Only wet cardboard bodies.
Sucked into the current.

~

Paradise is not so very far from this.

~

Remember, she sat on the White Stone Bridge
Talking about how she and another woman,
Both singing, both draped in doves, stood above Mount Fuji.
Appropriately deified
By waiting photographers,
Black and white
Smudged
Yet attempting to fly.

~

Remember, you losing your way
In Frisco over some slick little penis,
Piercing your armour with its determined
Burrowing motion only to slip out with a whimper,
Leaving you to know – you should have known better.
Later, out on the veranda, squatting over
An enamelled basin, your hands a smear full of pleasure
Needing nothing then from any man.

~

After a year and a day,
My thoughts snake until broken
Stream along that gentle surf
Deserted now except by occasional reptiles
Come to feed on whatever it is they find attractive
Here in the harbour of lost cities –
I walk alone accidentally remembering
What lovers?
What ambitions?
What crimes?
Against what humanity?
These haunt my waking hours
Run rampant through my sleep.
Although these days it’s difficult to tell the difference,
Like yesterday or what may have been a yesterday,
Was that really someone on the beach? Someone running?
My pursuit sucked away by sand until I’m spinning.

~

So what happens?
After a year and a day of pearl Harbour
How can I tell?
The days
The sleep
Waking
Walking
Standing
Talking
All
Dreaming.

~

Sometimes I make believe your pastel messages from Europe, still come.
I spend hours writing back
Drop you a line
Confetti
Over the Arizona.

~

Once I hid your letters all over the place
So after forgetting where they were I’d accidentally find them
Sometimes I still do – find them.
They are the real ghosts here.

~

Run rope against my skin. Stick myself with things.
Lay in the sun until reassured by burns.
It got that difficult to tell –
Alive or dead? Asleep, awake?
For a while these things mattered
But now, no longer into pain
I mostly keep to the shade.
So sometimes are those sails on the horizon?
Trails of smoke as if from ship?
I don’t know. Maybe I am just dreaming,
Just waiting for news from the mainland,
Just waiting for the phone to wake me up.
After a year and a day of Pearl Harbour,
You know, I really don’t give a fuck
Either way there’s 9,227 cigarettes to go.

                 z z z
                 e e e
                 r r r
PPS xxx- ooo

 

 

 

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http://www.downdirtyword.com/authors/pdlyons.html#ps

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Published by The Legendary (May 20, 2010. Issue 17.)  This was written probably on the mid eighties during my New Haven days. They are still in existence and are open as of this writing for poetry and fiction submissions :

For general inquiries send email to katie@downdirtyword.com.

We publish established writers as well as the new and nervous. We would love to be your very first publication if you rock our socks off. *”

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PPPS : The little ~ ‘s have nothing to do with the original work, its just that sometimes word press chooses to disregard my spacing from draft to publication. so.

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The Night Mares, by pd lyons


 

 

THE NIGHT MARES

Restless

In a still night

No moon softening

Sharp stars

No cloud drapery.

Against this midnight

The night mares move

Sharing colour with the darkness.

What cannot find them is found by them,

There are no ways secret:

Spiraling stars leave every sky familiar,

Foraging herds by trails of green weeds

Breach every underwater sanctuary.

The night mares

Sleep standing up;

Contain any stallion,

Give birth in the middle of any weather,

Can knock bones, eyes, or internal organs out of any creature.

Simply by their passing

Men have been sucked breathless.

The night mares

Know where dragons come from,

And who, mothered by seas and singing desert sands,

The twin birthed are.

In languages that the thunder knows,

They answer one another.

Navigating easily unbridled,

No boundary deludes them.

Yielding, the only response they know.

 

 

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this first appeared in print in Searches For Magic by pd lyons, published by Lapwing, Belfast 2001. ISBN 1 898472 59 9

http://www.freewebs.com/lapwingpoetry/

Lapwing Publications is a publisher based in Belfast specialising in poetry. It was founded in 1988 by Dennis and Rene Greig. Since then it has published over a hundred and fifty poetry collections.

The Watcher, by pd lyons


Beryl Markham by unknown

Beryl Markham by unknown

 

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The Watcher

~

bright morning

sun magnified by ice and snow

stood at the sink

about to fill the coffee pot

look through the window

there through an even brighter space

where the curtains do not meet

in the distance something

a movement

almost tallest pine

deep against a pure dimensional sky

“What a beautiful bird”

after a brief pause said again out loud

“Because I know it is a bird and to me all birds are beautiful”

as if that part of himself was ever satisfied with any answer,

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

From the amazing Canadian maritime winter days – when even coffee making was an adventure. written around 2003-04 from the self published Not Quite Thomas – new poems by p d lyons, lulu.com 2008. the photos are of Beryl Markham, the photographer is unknown by me. She is one of my heroes.  If interested you can goggle her and find out why she is and why she is part of this blog post.

 

beryl markham, by unknown

beryl markham, by unknown

I will whisper my heart by pd lyons


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i will whisper my heart

like music

over the secrets of your skin

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April 14-15-16 part 3, Cape Cod, by pd lyons (how big is the heart of a child…)


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April 14-15-16 part 3 2012

 
Muffins and earl grey at Beth’s Special Teas. Cape Cod sunny Sunday wind pure fresh walk the little strip East Sandwich shops, still missing the Herb Shop but our gratitude is high for the tea Shop haven from all manner of Dunkin Dodo swill. Hot chocolate for the child. What to do with the last few hours before the drive back to Connecticut? Paradise Liquor for a 1.75 litre bottle of Bombay for 31.00. Joe’s fish shop on the canal bag of shelled scallops large as your tongue. My eleven year old daughter fascinated by the lobster tank. Can we get one dad? Can we? No. Why not? Cause I don’t want to kill one do you? No. Well then what’s the point of getting one? We could let him go. Now my daughter wants to do a Buddha thing and save this creatures life and I’m not sure what to say. I don’t want to talk her out of this do I? She gives me that look, the crux look, the scan of a child reading every inch of my body, verbal and invisible language, searching for the parental cue. Is this an acceptable idea, is it not? Remember whatever you do will affect me for the rest of my life. I stall and say well you’ll have to use your own money. She says OK but its in the car. And I must  surrender with, that’s alright give it to me when we get back. So she picks out Lucky the Lobster. Out to the Jeep fish out a pair of work gloves from the back, use the Gerber to cut the bands from his claws and we all three walk over to the edge and I toss him into the canal. She can see him swimming – he’s OK! Just before we drive off seat belts belted everyone ready small fist full of single dollar bills reaches over the seat – here dad. And I think how big is the heart of a child. And I take the bills stuff them into my shirt pocket and say thank you.

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