what if i could tell you, by pd lyons

What if i could tell you about the day?  first real snow? Crows huddled in the grey fingers of that tree, watching as if waiting for  for something I didn’t have to give

 

What if I could tell you, that poem you wrote? I’ve hung copies of it up on the bedroom wall, the back door, the horses’ stalls, and along the straight wire fluttering like little white flags between the paddocks and the pasture.

If you were here? Oh I know what you would say, you never liked it anyway, kept it only out of loyalty. That poem you tried to write for me

now like some accidental prophecy  no longer needing to be read

 

mix media by morgan lyons

 

only august, by pd lyons

ONLY AUGUST

crows

almost quiet

only feather sounds

rising

almost still

only slow

steady beating

as if horses

finally

taught themselves

to march in order

across the field

almost green

only smoky

spiral dust

descending

mirage

as if insects

finally

taught themselves

to sing

like falling rain

across the mid day

almost yawning

only August

A Country Dance by PD Lyons

 

 

A Country Dance by PD Lyons

 

I am a feeder of crows

My distant neighbour, a farmer

None too pleased

 

I feed them

He shoots them

A thing we do out here

 

Sometimes when I drive by his gates

I see the carcases

black birds hung on a barbed wire

 

Often, I wonder if he’d like my heart to hang

But then I’m sure like me he knows

Takes two to tango

.

mix media by Morgan Lyons

Crows by Morgan Lyons

A Country Dance by PD Lyons

 

 

A Country Dance by PD Lyons

 

I am a feeder of crows

My distant neighbour, a farmer

None too pleased

 

I feed them

He shoots them

A thing we do out here

 

Sometimes when I drive by his gates

I see the carcases

black birds hung on a barbed wire

 

Often, I wonder if he’d like my heart to hang

But then I’m sure like me he knows

Takes two to tango

.

mix media by Morgan Lyons

Crows by Morgan Lyons

what if i could tell you, by pd lyons

What if i could tell you about the day?  first real snow? Crows huddled in the grey fingers of that tree, watching as if waiting for  for something I didn’t have to give

 

What if I could tell you, that poem you wrote? I’ve hung copies of it up on the bedroom wall, the back door, the horses’ stalls, and along the straight wire fluttering like little white flags between the paddocks and the pasture.

If you were here? Oh I know what you would say, you never liked it anyway, kept it only out of loyalty. That poem you tried to write for me

now like some accidental prophecy  no longer needing to be read

 

mix media by morgan lyons

 

A Mandala of Dinosaurs, A Message of Lovers, A Mostly of Crows by pd lyons

A mandala of dinosaurs   A pestilence of motorcyclists.

A red sky of warnings   A coyote of marzipan.

A zygote of intelligence   Crystal of Elan-ists.

Soda of psychopaths   Preponderance of dictators

Herald of crows   Kansas of superpowers

An eclipse of educators   Blessing of coffees

An autumn of smudges   A winter of geese

A summer of topiaries   A spring of dreams

Empire of penises   A squander of vaginas

A catapult of efforts   A plethora of crows

An envy of ravens   A parcel of pachyderms

A coagulant of desires   A   Mercury of fish

Kick-start of starlings   Meandering of serpents

Bucket of worms   Sack of cats

A giggle of girls    Shyness of boys.

A Saladin of wisdoms    A crisis of faiths

A plague of religions    Carpet of bread crumbs

Sanctity of prisoners    A rats-ass of carers

Trombone of sex    Conglomerate of crows

A pudding of infants     A declaration of sea shells

A tumble of puppies      A cartoon of kittens

Meander of mysteries   A half league of words

A complaint of crows      A severance of hopes

An ignorance of drivers    A Shenandoah of daughters

A crux of sons     A crossing of souls

A delightful of crows     A smatter of kisses

A moonbeam of tongues   A secretion of secrets

A message of lovers.

 

 

Siane Part 2 , by pd lyons

Siane. Part 2

 

PART II

 

When I was born I saw the world through the eyes of a crow. For at least three maybe four days. On the day the crow returned my soul to my body I was able to see again through my own eyes. The first person I saw through such eyes was she who was my nurse. When I was older she told me of this event. Explained how I was special because usually crows do not return such a lost or stolen soul. That children’s souls are so sweet they are usually eaten right away. But she had this feeling about me and stayed by me constantly during those days so that my worried parents might try to get some rest. I asked her if it was because my soul was not sweet that it wasn’t eaten. She laughed and told me that even the most wicked person was born with a sweet soul.

 

 

 

So what did I see when I saw through the eyes of a crow? Well one day as I was still child enough that all chairs were big enough for me to curl up in, I did so in the kitchen. Staring into the fire I heard the voice of my nurse, softly, tenderly she spoke and quietly falling asleep still hearing her voice I began to dream. And she, from whom I have never had reason to doubt and from whom I have only known loyalty and love, this is what I told her from my dream state about those days when I saw through the eyes of a crow:

 

 

A great grey sky almost to rain. Leaves gone to colour muted by soft and steamy morning. While Below, arched like great green cat backs, farming lands bordered by trees rowed up like man soldiers behind walls of stone which long ago toilers of these fields had so piled. Then as if in memory I saw them, those man-things building walls. Stones like teeth, roots like tendons pulled from a dark open earth. Then as if in further memory I saw those same lands in a time before the man-things, a time when all was tall forest, hard wise wood forests before the man-things came….

 

 

But now its only overgrowth, sapling and briar borders along these scrubby pastures where I must keep my attention. Now my vision follows the lay of the land, rolling down to a small valley curling with a silver stream then over again until directly below me a field just before the water slips into the woods. It is a field now for the dead of men. Vivid in an otherwise dull landscape their blood pulls at me. A rare moment – Not only much flesh but none among them upright, none to bury these fallen in the ground as if some seed to sprout anew. Now they are still, delicate, exposed, but I cannot let my vision linger long. There are my comrades feeding, they will leave aside some favourite scrap for me. But I cannot let my vision linger long. I the watch must keep… Until, finally my turn. I hear the call “Come. Come. Come.”. My legs tense with a will of their own, push off. The earth happy to see me rushes up in greeting and with a jolt I’m standing wide awake before the kitchen fire.

 

working on shadows stuff – ruff

mix media by morgan lyons

shadow of crows
flying from the tree
disappearing behind me to the sky

she had crystals hanging in nearly every window of the house
purified energy – coming in, going out

Mystic Connecticut, the town not the sea port
she bought me one for my car
that little shop just by the draw bridge

had it for years, hung from the rear view mirror one car to another to another

I’ve no idea where it is now though
or how I came to part with it
disappeared maybe it’s with that lock of her hair she gave me?
actually a braid cut from her first hair cut
when she was… maybe late twenty’s
Called me a stupid jerk when she found out I’d lost it

Another shadow; like crows, like Connecticut, like herself
disappearing behind me to the sky

 

Abbot

A Mandala of Dinosaurs, A Message of Lovers, A Mostly of Crows, by pd lyons

A Mandala of Dinosaurs, A Message of Lovers, A Mostly of Crows

 

 

A mandala of dinosaurs      A pestilence of motorcyclists

 

 
A red sky of warnings      A coyote of marzipan

 

 
A zygote of intelligence      Crystal of Elan-ists

 

 
Soda of psychopaths      Preponderance of dictators

 

 
Herald of crows      Kansas of superpowers

 

 
An eclipse of educators      Blessing of coffees

 

 
An autumn of smudges      A winter of geese

 

 
A summer of topiaries      A spring of dreams

 

 
Empire of penises      A squander of vaginas

 

 
A catapult of efforts      A plethora of crows

 

 
An envy of ravens      A parcel of pachyderms

 

 
A coagulant of desires     A Mercury of fish

 

 
Kick-start of starlings     Meandering of serpents

 

 
Bucket of worms      Sack of cats

 

 
A giggle of girls      Shyness of boys

 

 
A Saladin of wisdoms      A crisis of faiths

 

 
A plague of religions      Carpet of bread crumbs

 

 
Sanctity of prisoners     A rats-ass of carers

 

 
Trombone of sex      Conglomerate of crows

 

 
A pudding of infants      A declaration of sea shells

 

 
A tumble of puppies       A cartoon of kittens

 

 
Meander of mysteries     A half league of words

 

 
A complaint of crows      A severance of hopes

 

 
An ignorance of drivers       A Shenandoah of daughters

 

 
A crux of sons       A crossing of souls

 

 
A delightful of crows       A smatter of kisses

 

 
A moonbeam of tongues       A secretion of secrets

 

 
A message of lovers.

 

 

 

 

 

every place is a small town needing to be left, by pdlyons

you think you know where you want to go,
unable to know where you are?
small spaces hold a universe of ache.
leaving is all I’ve ever known,
all I am ever able to truly do.

when you are walking down streets
and I no longer do so,
does it mean you are any more there than I am?
does it mean that you’re leaving and mine
some how differ?

we can not fit any more into any space than the universe,
and that too leaves its own ache down it s own street.
all there is, no guide to us
or any one else for that matter.

like some

Micky Corbo hair do

angel wings

tribal dowries

cool tree in yellow back from the end of the year

crows like days between the worlds

all lemoning and impossible to capture.