excerpts from Salamanders by PD Lyons

Today refused

Today refused. the sink full. refused the audible complaints. crows impatient for scraps and fat as if they knew soft Cabernet rib eye steaks ten p.m. alone with sci-fi DVD’s. X-file memory lingered now angularly my pre-coffee kitchen receipt as if the same sun graced us together amazing our way through un-pathed reservoir tall red pines every inch a carpet worth laying down on. What if you were here now? What if just like I remembered you were here now. But no, not this now, this now I am afraid of, rather our now or our own now of then; smoking popping dropping snorting drinking now both hands full both high school bodies, twenty, twenty one year old bodies wild full dancing midnight at the park and swallowed whole each other’s dark. .so found our way and sandy sheltered on the shore when pale into orange wore purple phantom clouds gone into a pale yellow walk me home alone dawn. Across the other kitchen table of my mother’s somehow even I explained in some way that all she did was make me tea and told me take it with me up to bed.

Sunday, February 19, 2012

Long slender

Long slender limbs  her idle eyes, words becoming fact, dozing across duvet white sunlight curtain-less and strong fingers still and holding to dreams as if tiny birds hatched still needing heat but gently now. What secrets ceilings hold. How many mysteries mere fact and how often do I stare contemplation of such fates and figures as if study would inspire Rosetta cracked and peeling tiles, egg shell spidered nicotine tinge smoke detector plain brass empty fixtures of sometimes light translations plain revealed. Now though stretch deep breath toss and turn our own movements added to mute hieroglyphs we make our way inevitably towards check out time. Our words the language of coffee pleasant in botanical porcelain. Our contact smooth occasional sweet and creamy sign, an easy jumble warm linen bedding healed from room service interrupt-us our coffee mouths roll sure certain syllables across around, up and down knowing days like this like any other made and mandated to be spent. How nice to do so thoughtless. Some rooms though, I will not surrender  keys to easily.

Monday, February 20, 2012

seeing is not being

Mary Hotchkiss excerpt from Salamanders by PD Lyons (wip)

Mary Hotchkiss is a road. It’s a road you take when you need a short cut to somewhere, it really doesn’t matter where though just as long as you need a short cut. I used to walk down Mary Hotchkiss road, sing songs to her as she wound slowly down by the early morning wood. Mary used to live on Captain Neville drive in a house that was made for stain glass windows just as staining glass became expensive. There was a small school down the road; she went to it when there was no such thing as smoking in the young ladies room or any other such things either. I remember Mary when there was summer heavy all around the grass would sweat the air parting like drapes, especially in her house. She would show me pictures, photographs of a beautiful girl whose name was also Mary Hotchkiss but who had lived long ago when there was a small school at the end of the road where girls never smoked in the  young ladies room. I remember sipping tea with her in the parlour room when a knock was at the door. I got up to answer not so much out of politeness but rather necessity for contrary to the belief of teenage lovers Mary’s legs were not immortal. I opened the door and there was a door to door salesman he was selling New World Almanacs. I told him no. He looked at me and said aren’t you interested in the future of the world? I told him no. Not even for a dollar? I told him no. Good-bye. I went back into the parlour. Mary was sitting in her velvety arm chair and her eyes were closed. I sat down to finish my tea.

Who was that? At the door.

A man selling New World Almanacs.

How much?

A dollar.

How many did you get?

None.

Good…  You know I had this dream once. I’m not sure how old I was when I had it I was just a girl in it. But I was old enough of a girl in it because I had just been in the woods with this boy. Can’t remember who he was I think the brother of someone from school. Anyway, I had just been with him then left him I just got up and left. I didn’t know where I was, but I knew where I was going and somehow, how to get there. I walked down a road and came to a shop and went inside. Here she paused took some tea closed her eyes and sat back into her chair before continuing. I went in the shop; it didn’t have a name on it. I went in and looked around; there was a lot of stuff in that shop though I couldn’t see most of it and by now forgotten most of what I could see. But there was this ivy plant, a green and white ivy. I asked the man how much it was, and he told me. I pulled out all I had and put it on the counter. There were four buttons a dime and a jingle bell.  I looked at him and said please, I want to give it to my mother. He looked at me and said in a voice louder than anything I ever heard before in this life – Get out of here you little bitch! So, I ran out quick as I could. I ran down the street quite a-ways even though I was pretty sure he hadn’t followed me. When I stopped running I saw a small building with big stain glass windows and a white wood fence around its little yard. Right above the iron stair was a sign that said – Afternoon Shop.

Did you go in?

No. I woke up.

Oh. I was wondering if the man in there would have sold you the ivy.

Sometimes I like to think he would but sometimes I don’t think he had any ivy to sell at least not green and white.

Wouldn’t just plain green have done??

Maybe – But I don’t think so. If just plain green would have been right then there wouldn’t have been any dream. I really did want to buy it for my mother though.

Did you?  I know you didn’t in the dream but later on did you?

No. How could I? If you can’t do something in your dreams how can you ever do it?

Yeah… Was there ever a place called the Afternoon Shop?

Not around here. Not sure if there ever was one or not somewhere else. I thought I’d open a shop myself and call it that. But I didn’t.

We sat for a while sipping tea. Then she asked me to go down and get the Victrola.

Oh, Kay I said. I opened the trap door and went down into the cellar to get the Victrola and a few records. There were lots of things in her cellar, old trumpets and drums, books and wooden chest of drawers filled with tiny, strange steel tools, but mostly there were 78 records stacks and stacks of 78 records. Whenever we would have tea eventually we’d get around to having me go down to get the Victrola and a few records. There were lots of things in that cellar, old trumpets, drums, a tuba, flags, and banners mirrors with golden letters flags from countries I didn’t know an old wooden drawer full of tiny steel tools but mostly there were 78 records stacks and stacks and more 78 records. Whenever we’d have tea we’d get around to having me go down and bring up the Victrola and a few 78’s. I put it on the little tea table in the parlour. Set it up and then play the records. We never bothered to look at the titles; we agreed that if we knew the name it would take away from the enjoyment. Sometimes it would be some kind of opera or just about anything else from Beethoven to Stars And Stripes Forever. There were some records in the deeper part of the cellar that were recorded on only one side by Caruso and beyond those some I think Beethoven might have autographed and beyond that? Things we didn’t even know what they were for. I brought everything up and set the Victrola up on the table beside us. She looked at me and said let’s wait a while.

Oh Kay.

After a while she said for me to go out to the pantry. So, I did, bringing back wine, cheese, a tin of salty crackers and a plate of small thin brown square of bread with seeds in them. I got glasses and two little silver knives and two little white China plates from the China cabinet. We sat together now side by side on her velvety sofa. I had put the music on while she poured the wine. We didn’t know what kind of wine it was. She told me that a friend of hers had made a whole lot for her a long time ago. There wasn’t much left now. She liked it, the wine, it went well with 78 records and Cedar Farm cheese. It was some sort of symphony music or a march of sorts.

I used to play the trumpet. I told her.

Do you still?

No. I only played for five weeks eight years ago.

A friend of mine played tuba in the Marine Band.

He was a Marine?

Yes. He was a strange person. But I loved him.

The first record ended. She poured more wine. I took off the one record and put on another one. Marching Songs Of The U.S. Army. Sometimes I couldn’t help but notice the title. I liked the other one better. Somehow the Army just didn’t sing good songs to drink wine to. So, I pulled up the needle and took off the one and put on the other. It was some church organ music. It was pretty weird. We both smiled. As I fell back into the velvety sofa I caught something very strange in the eyes of Mary Hotchkiss. Something very old and beautiful.

It had started to rain and soon the road was more river than a road. Inside the music played, beauty grew from voice to body, from eye to eye and contrary to popular belief immortality is never lost…

Long were the hours spent in that house, deep the magic found there. I always sing when I walk down Mary Hotchkiss Road.  I sing because magic loves music and I smile because of Mary Hotchkiss.

3.29.73.

acrylic on paper pdlyons

Fuckin Bukowski, by pd lyons – with regards to the day that’s in it.

i never knew  Bukowski. i hadn’t even heard of him for most of my life. i think i was 52 when i first read anything by him – despite work of mine appearing in print with his back in the early 80’s . i knew little about his real life but what came from the poetry (never read a novel by him) – i don’t remember his words but i still remember the rush of honest poetry i discovered there – how beauty cannot be subdued by drink drugs abuse of any kind. how the humanity of the human spirit will not be denied – even if the only place it can manifest is in the fact of not killing the cat who pisses all over you while you’re sleeping one off in bed.

the following poem was published by Caliope Nerve in October 2009, http://calliopenerve.blogspot.ie/search/label/PD%20Lyons  it was probably written in 06-07 :

 

Fuckin Bukowski

Idiot me picks now

6000 miles away at 52

To discover him

Still glad I didn’t stay in Waterbury

Find him sooner

Probably still be pukeing

Out in the after last call

Parking lot of now what am I gonna do

Or else back in jail

Or else still with one of the xes

Or else not even alive

~

Tonight just had a chicken and ham sandwich on rye

And its sometime after midnight

And I’ll probably still be up @ 6 maybe half 6

Do some yoga make coffee for the wife

Bring it to her in bed

Get some pancakes going for the kid

And be happy to do so

~

No not envious

Not regretful

Rather peaceful

Glad to be out of it

That’s the kind of poet I’m happy to live with

Now.

 

 

 

The Watcher, by pd lyons

Beryl Markham by unknown

 

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

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

April 14-15-16 part 3 How Big is the Heart of a Child ~ ~

 

April 14-15-16 part 3

 

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. Sam’s fish shop on the canal bag of shelled scallops, each one 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.

 

today’s morning coffee notes ~

 

on todays soapbox ~ truth, fear, abstract, peace, freedom and of course coffee

 

If you’re not here {in the Moment} then everything that happens

HERE

 distracts you

 

 

here and now {is the teaching}

no matter how determined, how angry, how focused,

no matter what you try do or respond with –

here and now

will always distract you from your deluding

We fight for what we think because we think that will make us solid, powerful, proving our strength

but 

like all thoughts these only cause suffering/delusion

Truth is peaceful because it isn’t hard ridged , has nothing to prove no fear to avoid

with nothing to prove truth is easily peaceful

come out of the abstract

live freely fully in this life  

 

 

 

coffee collage photos

the poet PD Lyons Reading from As If The Rain Fell In Ordinary Time ~ part 3, w/text

~todays menu~

Pensioners Remiss

Knowing Now the Healing Ways

Atlantic Luncheonette 

~

themes: growing old, 1970’s, love, city

 

PD Lyons Reading from As If The Rain Fell In Ordinary Time erbacce~prize for poetry 2019 erbacce~press Liverpool UK

Pensioners Remiss – incorporates a variety of scenes from my home town Waterbury Ct. St Johns Church for example is still there on the green.

Knowing Now the healing Ways – again influenced by my hometown and my first apartment back in the 70’s. 

Atlantic Luncheonette – one of those classic coffee shops in America long before Starbucks or cappuccinos. On the corner opposite the exquisite white marble Waterbury Post Office. Many a skipped school day involved the Atlantic – strategically placed half a block from the library. How ironic, skipped school to hang out in the library. They even let you smoke in there back then but that’s another poem or two…

Thanks for spending time . 

cheers.

good luck

bye

!

 

• Pensioners Remiss

When I wanted to see you,

Young and available

Dresses out amidst a blue jean wasteland

Stoned as laughter smoky charms

Dancing any moment unannounced

On the steps of Spanish little Harlem

Turquoise as your eyes church doors

Sacramental wine just opened

A spiral of possibilities each as believable as the past.

When I wanted to see you,

Roads wide open looking to ride

Strong summer muscles

 Love like horses into sunset.

 Diamonds across that midnight sky

 Alive only in your love me eyes.

Breathless barefoot pirouette

 Limitless kitchens, dull Frigidaire light.

 Icy India Pale Ale fast as you can drink.

 Third floor back porch dawn

Aegean blue amongst a city of fearlessness.

When I wanted to see you,

Saint John’s Chapel Christmas

 Balsam crushed blood velvet

Crystal choir angel

Mysterious as snow.

The mouth you used an accent of hypnosis

Lead like sorrow obsessed with green

 As if summer returned between live pines

 My hands held by your own to cup each one instead.

When I wanted to see you,

So much more so than wherever you were

Sharper than anything ever dreamed

So much sooner than now.

• Knowing Now the Healing Ways

I could touch you then. I knew you, just around the corner you. Halfway Up the stairs, you. A single rose growing between back yard rubble, you. Travelled by Grey Hound, cross the country, park bench dreamer, double dancer Zelda, you –

A tide of whirlpools. An antebellum majorette beauty queen. You were the most beautiful woman in the world. You were me as a woman. Wanting to be the first one to make love in a whole summer of dry attics never believing for one minute we could end up on the street by Christmas in Connecticut.

I was gonna. I was destined. I was the one. I was the chosen.  Could have been Jesus, preferred to be Krishna, hoped only to be Watermelon Sugar. A thing delectable to your lips, a thing you might someday remember without lying or regret.

You were anything possible,

Meeting again someday.

Around the corner, halfway up the stairs,

Eyes still same as my own,

Knowing now the healing ways,

Strong enough for love.

• Atlantic Luncheonette

     I walked out into a morning

 too bright against my shadows.

Three steps down I’m on the pavement

wondering just how able I am to get along –

Stable as loose change,

  balanced as a junkie on the prowl.

   Still can’t stop thinking about moving

 where it is, I’ll finally get to.

My boots are holes turning into blisters.

Cigarettes keep tempting me with immortality.

Girls across the street dare me to smile.

 I make up excuses to call what I’m eating food.

The waitress sings to the radio

 with commercial interruption asks how I am.

  My eggs keep running into hiding,

The coffee strives vainly to hiccup,

 I leave a quarter for the singer,

 a dollar for the poor.

 Ask the women on the corner, how much for conversation?

They say they don’t cater to perversions – try my luck next door.

  I bump into an old friend who asks about my wife,

I say I didn’t know I had one.

Then he’s handing me a ten spot

 says here go catch a cab.

I hand the driver a social security card

he says this ain’t worth noting unless your old.

I tell him my hearts just gone arthritic

He says here pal try a gun.

Sometimes in This Coffee Shoppe Life

girls go by, to boys that somehow remind you to your own former self, except instead of love they sell schemes and plans and how to maximize income and out-put and the most beautiful girl in the place gives her precious attention to someone who wont even care if she cums, too busy trying to sell her something that she won’t ever need remember on her death bed.

Morning Coffee Notes with PD Lyons

Here’s one I just came across –

on today’s tray – winter, tobacco, oak, brass, and coffee

When Winter Overstayed

She walked down the street. She wasn’t too sure what to do with herself. all She knew was it was too cold for her hands. The skin of her hands like rose petals left in a jar of oil but left perhaps too long or else not long enough either way not right because now they hurt.

She walked down the street. each step as if she meant it more than the previous

Anyone who saw her would have had not doubt thinking now there goes a woman with some place to go. And not to happy about it either. Which was exactly true. She was sick of it. She wanted to smack winter right across the face with a stick. Send the bastard running home with a broken nose both eyes soon to blacken full of tears. Really knock enough sense into him so he’d never over stay again.

She walked through the doorway. Oak and glass doors swung freely. Easily she pushed on the well polished despite the weather brass handles. She entered on the chime of invisible bells. Tiny silvery bells as the door opened and once again as it swung shut behind her. The aroma was wonderful – instinctively she took a deep breath exhaling an audible ahh. She knew she was in the right place. The air was a thing to be savoured, a rich mouth-watering sensation not stopping there but spread warm and tangible into finger tips, hairs on the back of her neck ending up with a gentle but distinct thump in her heart.

She stood at the glass counter. It too was oak trimmed with brass. It took only a moment for the tobacconist to turn and greet her. She had expected him to be older than he was. She also had expected him to be smiling, sparkling grey or maybe blue eyes dancing with fragments of reflected light behind the gold wire frame glasses – and he was. She thought he must be one of the last of his kind. Sadly, shops like this would soon be a thing of the past. But that was the way of it, all is transitory. She smiled back at him. Asked him for what she came for.

Cigarette tobacco. No particular brand but none of that light stuff. Something full strength. Something from Holland. For some reason, the Dutch always had a knack for good tobacco. Even these days when cigarettes were reduced to being the hot dog of the smoking world – basically whatever was swept up off the factory floor. It was only the stuff from the Dutch still had value. Since she was obviously going to have to use tobacco it might as well be the best. She was happy with the forty grams halfzware shag it really was a beautiful long rich blend. She was happy enough with the shop keeper and their little exchange of pleasantries. He had agreed with her completely and commiserated briefly with her concerning the demise of quality pre rolled cigarettes and the awful state of the weather He even had those thin rice papers. The kind you could almost se through. The kind of cigarette paper made for tobacco not for the appeasement those pot heads.

Overall, she was quite happy she came to this shop. No. Not happy she thought. Not happy at all. That bastard. That incompetent dilly dally winter bastard.. Oh, she was going to show him. She was going to fix him but good for driving her nuts.