Tag Archives: artist

women we should know – Becca Cala : singer, song writer, dancer, musician ,script writer, actress and all around cool person.

For me one of the coolest things about the social media age is all the new artists I get to know about which in the old days i never would have. Here is a most recent and most excellent example – Do yourself a favor and explore Becca Cala – and please feel free to share and support her work. cheers.

So, let me introduce you to Becca Cala, singer, song writer, dancer, musician , script writer, actress and all around cool person. You’ve probably never heard of her and neither did I until today when some one posted this video to me :


So I needed to hear her play, if you watch the above , while it is cool and a great intro to her – they don’t include an audio of her playing. On her own youtube channel i found some, eg:


But I must say one of my favorite discovers of Becca’s was this little film which she wrote and stared in. It has the ultimate best ending of any film i have ever seen! She is accompanied by some of her fellow students and teacher – together they make a charming piece of artwork.


you can read more about her here:


Snowing – From Salamanders, by pd Lyons


The black bird skims the tree the river the rocks and into sky is gone. It is snowing in May. The other day 80 degrees, now, since this morning a strange and beautiful sight, delicate greens of spring – lilacs in bloom, maples in red and the powdery puffs of sparkling white white snow so white. Among the deep rich earth colours of spring – a winter thief. Birds singing snow falling. Its snowing in May and we have to get down to the shop and buy a battery for the car so we can try and sell it. Snowing in May. The car that since we bought it months ago probably only ran right for a few days was fixed and still not right was fixed again and again so to sell it we have to get it jumped hopefully make it to the shop buy a new battery and get it running long enough to sell it so we can get some cash towards buying another with. The baby is sleeping. I wanted to paint today; so far nothing has come of that. I wanted to do a water-colour dancer wet down the paper let the colour mingle disperse, vanish and coagulate, to dance into a dancer. I did not expect snow in May in fact I expected it to be sunny that’s why I planned to paint I was not ready for this day and am in no mood to paint unless the sun comes out, especially with this car thing hanging. My wife tells me all I do is waste my time; all I do is write, paint, read, fish. What else is there to do? And oh yes always want to make love. My wife says all I do is a waste of time. Maybe if I worked fifty hours a week and spent the rest of my time watching TV she’d be happy? I don’t know though sometimes the girl strikes me as one who will never be happy. It’s snowing in May, my wife doesn’t talk she doesn’t know how. I ask her what she wants, she doesn’t know. I ask her why she’s unhappy and what we can do to fix it, nothing. She says she isn’t unhappy. When I ask her then why are you always mad and complaining she gets mad and complains that it’s just the way she is.

It’s snowing in May and I wish I wasn’t married to someone who doesn’t know what they want and I wish I could be gone even dead. I wish it wasn’t snowing and I didn’t have to live in constant tension. I wish I was free and in a new met lovers arms and I wish I had someone else to tell my dreams besides this machine of type. This type of machine that has heard more of my voice than any human ear. So does this machine make me one more victim of the modern age? If not for the invention of the cigarette and the typewriter, I would have no one to talk to!

It’s snowing in May and the machines are winning and the type of machine doesn’t matter only it’s a machine, the only dreams are told to a machine, my only intimate a machine, the only peace is the sound of machine pounding order, pounding everything into order, the order driving me insane is shorting my circuits, is making me die – I wouldn’t be surprised.

I am pouring cocaine into the nasal opening of this machine, cocaine the perfect lubricant making all run smooth smooth smooth no grinding smooth no squeaking smooth no pressure pounding, smooth cocaine cool soft so perfect lubricant. Not like the machine dehumanizer, cocaine the humaniser, cocaine the bringer of dreams, dreams no machine can dream.


It’s snowing in May and the baby is in his walker playing with a magazine while I am having black coffee. We take turns the child and I. He comes over to my work table, finds the basket of papers and water colours and is pulling on a picture that looks like an Indian Chief but at first was going to be a young woman, he chews it the background of ultramarine blue smears across his little face leaving his saliva splotches in the upper left hand corner makes it our painting. Now he is playing with my cigarette pack which he is always attracted to … so anyway that’s the story of how my son became an artist before even being able to walk, his very saliva worked into the painting.

It’s still snowing in May the whole world gone crazy, the flowers, the birds, my wife, the motorists in the highway, the whole river-fish-animal-plant-mineral thing is hay-wire and me and my son are having a ball making each other laugh painting writing laughing even at the snow, forgetting everything we ever learned I become the infant and he remains infinitely wise. We are having orgasmic experience here and now – being human, being working here and now we enjoy the good work of being alive. He with his water-colour blue beard, brave little fingers grabbing with delight the bells, the beads, the cigarette pack, and the paint tubes of the world. Me cigarette in mouth fingers cracking away grabbing too at my own life as he is as we are as the rest of the world isn’t quite as absurd anymore since it’s snowing in May – still.

( 1977 )


something simple, by pd lyons ( once we knew the dark version)

Something Simple


The day.
Something simple not leaving the house
skimming papers     smoking hours      flipping books    peering between drawn drapes.
Nowadays don’t I take pleasure in being home?
Full belly    half asleep fire    watching my daughter dance in velvet Christmas glittering tree.
I’m not famous    an artist years ago     paintings thrown out by irate siblings     unpublished work     a lifetime boxed in someone else’s attic.
I have learned how to deal with dreams too late to ever come true
now quietly taking for granted those that did:
loyal loving partner      wonderful son     brilliant daughter
long meandering memories –
foreign travel     lingering lovers     illicit pleasures     destructive passions


Full out gallop mare
Along a razor ridge
United in a pure meditation of action
Free from imagination
Neither of us afraid

a litany of loss and of things waiting to be lost


communion with wise spirits of trees
clumsy conjurings of Beelzebub
child like hands held by Christ
 Mescaline white horse breathing desert visions
Gopi Krishna rapture
Goddess full moon dances
secret gold fish pools soft dark woodland sand against pale entwined bodies

If we just gave up,
which god would
save us?



sheltered by empty doorways

not wanting to miss one moment
rain whispered possibilities

in wonder two Christ’s on a jagged perch
before us spread like glory

a temptation to cling

seeking to destroy our souls




Woman Shapes, by pd lyons from once we knew the darkness

with wings

with wings



Woman Shapes

dapple grey
helixed tree
any shadow of the moon.



Because I Like You In Dresses, by pd lyons





Because I Like You In Dresses

you told me of friends and enemies

we talked about being sick asked everyone in the bar

if they thought seeing someone throw up was funny and

what was their favourite puke story

we smoked two packs of Marlboro

drank shin un rack brussians

and at two o’clock or sometime past last call

struggled for comfort in the car

and after we tried everything we knew

to get me over the gin –

you whispered a poem to me

and told me how you really did wear that dress for me

for Annie Kindness 1980



sometimes by pd lyons




sometimes all i own fit in an old ford pickup

no one for company

just a full moon filling my rear view

four apples 2 packs a marlboro in reach

and in the mountains first signs of winter crystallize  audible

above the heater







the poem by pd lyons



the poem is never finished its too alive and goes so much further than the poet or the printed page or even those that read or hear it. 

(you do know there is only one don’t you?)



April 14-15 2012 Part 2, by PD Lyons



April 14-15  2012 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 it’s 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 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 didn’t like he 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.

The Girl Next Door By PD Lyons/ Poetry breakfast version

i love rock n roll

i love rock n roll

The Girl Next Door 
By PD Lyons

When I remember
Third floor windows
Tall white lace sails
Summer all running in our veins
Her mother in the kitchen
Making cool aid and plate full of something
Cookie sweet to eat

She wanted me to stay
I was afraid, wanted to go home
But didn’t want her to know
Not wanting to be in this house of too many windows
Overlooking this mill town valley

But she wanted me to stay
Besides the rains begun
Going to be a real storm
Already rumblings from darkening horizon

And her mother agreed
I’ll call your parents. They won’t be worried.
You can stay for supper. You like hot dogs don’t you?

And that was how I learned not to be afraid of storms
Not to hide from thunder or lightning
Frances and her mother, exuberant
Ohs and ahs and joy over every
Menacing vibration sudden crash
Every flash veining skeletal zigzag

PD Lyons has been writing for a long time and hoes to continue to do so even longer. pd lyons work has appeared in mags and zines in North America and Europe and beyond. Two collections of poetry have been published by Lapwing Publishing Belfast. Please visit pdlyons blog for poetry publishing info and new releases:

As published on Poetry Breakfast 2012. They no longer take submissions but the blog exists as archive.  http://poetrybreakfast.wordpress.com/category/poets/pd-lyons/

This is a true story of my learning about thunder and lightening. when i was 4 or 5 years old. my best friends were Christopher and Frances. Frances and her family lived on the third floor of one of those purpose built three family houses you can still find in Waterbury and many other New England towns. I was very glad that Poetry Breakfast chose to publish a little snip of my childhood. The editor Isabel Sylvan Kestner, is now pursuing her own artistic endeavours and you can check out her work here:



here in the ivory lands, by pd lyons



here in the ivory lands
all artists are social redeemers
we are changing the world
with our six figure canvasses
we are enlightening millions
with our zenophbic obscurity poetry
and our novels
not just stories
but writers of all wrongs
justifiers of all justices
here in the ivory lands
even our clothes
works of art
changing seasonally
the betterment of all mankind




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