Tag Archives: coffee

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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good morning


If morning a sea of possibility

Then life boat is the coffee

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25.3.11 ruff by pd lyons


25.3.11

 

 

today out on the veranda of all gone away youth whiskered timber dreams woke another coffee

 

1

you wouldn’t have to wait for anything to boot up

turn on or upload you could just sit down

bang away royal keys upon a cotton rag of water marked paper

 

you wouldn’t have to settle for crap wine, Bordeaux châteaux

would be easily accessible even to a low level pot dealer

 

you could get a soft pack of Marlboro that tasted good – better than the hard pack in the days before anyone even thought of lights

 the rent was 180 for five big rooms a laundry room full bath including heat and utilities

 

 you could sit on the second floor back porch blow a joint in broad daylight watch some old ginger tom prowl around some inner city orange rose bush while the most beautiful girl you thought you’d ever know sat on your lap  your hands finding ways to make her melt underneath her long gypsy soul skirt.

 

2.

 

 

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

 

3.

 

don’t know what the reasons for the way we are is

don’t know how we got to be so far away from where we were

but there’s a time a  place for everything

there’s a never ending ever changing way of everything

so they say and who are they for us to disbelieve when we can see it in our selves
we cross the street together out of step we walk up stairs without noticing our own eyes

we can’t get on because all we want is something we remember way back there

 

 

4.

 

so much can happen when we live long enough

so many things we thought were no possible could have come to pass

but not believing in the future

did we not live grandly in the past?

 

my mother wanted things for me I did not believe in

my father wanted me to somehow not be a worry

my regret is only that being so inarticulate I could not explain

how I could love them but not want to ever become them

 

5.

cannot manage this consistency too well

I know your chimes of freedom flashing

I am the outlaw child of all these blue collar working class heroes

I am not them but am eternally grateful to them

all they gave of their own unrequited youth so that I could be the rebel born

and I will not forget you and I will not neglect you

and I will raise your soft n hidden heart to my own pure unbridled lips

my kisses unconcerned with the blood of my mother and my father

I will cherish your suffering transformation into peace.

 

6.

whatever went winkingly down the stairs clinkily

open and wondering wounded and proud

never more thinkingly would she be drinkingly

 out on the balcony summers no more

 

 

7.

how many times have I thought to see you there?

after all these years – damn near 40

don’t I still imagine; come down the wooded path way bend

  by that pond you’re somehow  there

 

ghosts haunt the places that the living know

it has nothing to do with where they died

ghosts haunt this place where I grew up

where I first saw you naked

 and you broke my heart open before I even knew I’d love you

 

I know I won’t ever see you now

but if promises can be made to ghosts

then someday soon I’ll meet you here again

golden apples silver apples

pine needles on a summer day patch of grass back by the old turtle pond

 

8.

 

today I do not want backward

I know there is no such thing as then or later

 and now’s so fleeting it hardly exists

 

I know the moon

calls me on the road of no stone no sand no steps

 

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mix medi m&p lyons a

 

 

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mix media collage with crayon m&p lyons

 

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mix media collage with carpet m&p lyons

This A.M.,by pd lyons


This A.M.

How does the sun shine through the window?
How does the barking dog enter?
How does the tips of our fingers touch?

When there are kings of demons and not demons
When there are mortals and not mortals
When there are thoughts and not thoughts

How can I make pancakes without coffee?

 

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Sometimes in This Coffee Shoppe Life


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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 make her cum, too busy trying to sell her something that she won’t ever need remember on her death bed.

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Leaving This House, by pd lyons


Leaving This House

Through leopard clouds the day’s sunlit fingers open,
soft afternoon, occasional whispers between finches
knowing my need for such kindness
even crows come quietly…

What is it of memory and seasons?
What does this shift to autumn bring me?
Why remember what I do? Forget what I forget?

A bed of rolled up cotton,
sun dried white sheets against pale skin,
wishing it was some hangover
so wind chimes could sound beautiful again,
sunlight be inviting and coffee all the medicine you’d need.

I know of this other time when drowsy dancing on sweet wine
we sank beneath that wind chime tree
surrendered on the beating earth
something more than blood and bones,
a tender lightening wove between us
our own muscles able to change the world.

Now such things can not be spoke of.
Distorted by sick eyes they’d only deepen your
regrets, as if what was could ever not be.

If you responded to preaching I’d simply preach.
Instead I must lure you by disguise –

Coffee from thin sharp equatorial mountains,
audibly stirred blue stone mug.
Herbs infused with full ripe summers.
Small secret woodland tinctures.
Ointments rich in years of flowers.
Oils soaked in sunlight, stored in our own damp cellar
warmed as needed over an open flame.

Somewhere past all anger, melted only by tears, yield the ways of memory.

 

 

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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

Big Lorraine, by PD Lyons – a ghost poem


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Big Lorraine

 

 

I dreamed my love had found me
my children gathered too
put down all their weapons
eased their hearts cried their fill
then they began to play
like they did when they were young
and when I woke I’d forgotten
all my dreaming days were done.

I went down to make the coffee
sat by the open window
ran my fingers through my hair
thought I heard somebody talkin’
voices carry on the air
birds out over the ocean
rising silver like a prayer

 

 

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Big Lorraine is in Cape Breton Nova Scotia, Canada. In one of those vast woodland logics of Cape Breton, Big Lorraine is much smaller a town than Little Lorraine is. In fact I don’t think there’s more than a house or two visible from the highway.  Maybe it was different back in the day? Anyway Cape Breton is one of the most beautiful places I’ve ever lived in.  There are many ghosts along the rugged coast and through out the highlands where sometimes they don’t even get a town left standing for them. So this is a ghost poem and it is obviously for Big Lorraine.

I’d say this was written in 2003 or maybe 4. A version appears in Caribu & Sister Stones : Selected Poems by PD Lyons, selected by Deirdre Kearney, Published by Lapwing, Belfast, 2009. ISBN 978-1-905425-90-7 .

 

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


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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.

 

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Anarchist by pd lyons


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Anarchist

black beret
rich with pleats n buttons
green down to the floor coat
wait in line for the coffee machine
young women at the nearest table
quartet study group
ponder the ability of children
to reach the alphabet
good crows of the Spanish arch
some crumbs left for the sparrows
through 100% UV protection
waves the open ocean
new world
across the bay
somehow the difference now has come
without effort
and all those stories never told
up in tobacco
cross the causeway
reach out into the disappeared
and all those stories never told
up in tobacco
cross the causeway
reach out into the disappeared

 

as published in The Galway Review : http://thegalwayreview.com/

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