Tag Archives: death

Entering Us through Breath poetry and photography by pd lyons

Entering Us through Breath

I couldn’t tell you which was man or which was woman
Or how they met their end.
I couldn’t see where one began, another ended
Or begin to guess how many.
But I can tell you this for sure:
They had never taken to the ground,
No matter how much heaped upon them,
They are always now, creatures of the air.





In Death if Dreams Be loved

he had stayed away before

afraid of his own dreams

now 5:30 in the a.m.

she had come to him

so real he cursed god


wept into the kitchen

cursing god again

once more when sleep had took him

with out words she came

sat with him on deep scorch-less grass

head to head

dark her eyes kept him breathless

until once more was gone

the body has its own karma –


paris by pd lyons

The Great God Pan Is Dead by pd lyons


photographer unknown


Within the pages of illusion,

Before the glass of no reflection,

The sensuous form of her adoration,

(White on blonde)

Rises to the occasion of the

Mysterious relation between,

The pale worship of a

Vanishing god and the blue

Whispers of her blood.

As fevered as silk in cedar,

Fanatical as dew dipped spider webs;

She’s come and gone.

Her absence heavy in the spicy

Dust of death, where her foot steps

Spell out the haunting word




I am dead already by pd lyons

red glass bowl w/ holland tomatoes on a black slate

red glass bowl w/ Holland tomatoes on a black slate on a green table

I am dead already

~ So

there is nothing really to worry about

~ Although sometimes i still forget

think of myself as living

things to do

places to go

achievement’s to achieve

people to please and all

eventually i come around

focus by saying

” you don’t have to”

usually that’s enough to brig me back to what is

~ Other times,

especially if i have forgotten for maybe days,

years, occasionally decades

it takes stuff a little stronger not much though, you know

just say out loud to my so called self;

“you are already dead “

 helps me relax

brigs me round to that expansive place of what is

a pleasant space of truth

red bowl glass

red bowl glass

freedom meditation / happy new year


Contemplate this,

We are all going to die.

Every one we know or who has known us

Will die.

I will die.


Then think on,

What is worth doing with every minute that is my life time?



Act accordingly.


Repeat as needed.


We Made our Way from Bella & Shirley by PD Lyons



We Made our Way

deliberately slow through the wood towards the road

– ping ping ping

the noise paused us

– what is that?

– shh

then men, laughter spitting gutter sounds.

then we saw them.

– pig ping ping

then we saw her.

– ping ping

naked bloodied the woman held the steel lamp pole

slamming her forehead into it

– ping

– ping

– ping

I raised my weapon.

lightly Shirley lays her hand on it, a sign for quiet.


in various sates the men

fixing their clothes

gathering their weapons

kicking away empty bottles

arguing over those not yet empty.

eventually ambling away

paid no heed to the woman

spilled too,

a heap of silence at the base of a metal pole.


Once the men move on , out of sight, and sound

I look to Shirley

– “She is better off now. Come. Let’s go.”

so I follow

we angle off to the edge of the road

where we briefly wait

then cross.


the woman was indeed dead

it is hard, to see such things.

But we look.

We always look.

We were witness.

We were the last human contact.

I squat touched her naked still warm shoulder then stand

while Shirley rolls the body over making sure the eyes are closed.

Touches lips to the palm of her hand

to lay her kiss on the woman’s forehead .

– “No time for more.” She stands. Looks down the road – “We’ll follow.”

So we did.

Maybe if he cried, begged on his mother’s life, even just shut up. from Bella and Shirley by pd lyons


Pigs. Whores. Fucking pigs…

Maybe if he cried, begged on his mother’s life, even just shut up. But he stood there with his arms pinned behind him pants down around his ankles while the woman he had beaten; senseless on the floor and he called us pigs? Whores?


I pushed the knife up under the ribs like I was taught.

Some other half formed word of his contorted with a scream.

I was amazed how easily it wet in


I was amazed

How clear it all was

Notice so many small things

His teeth had color

His filthy khaki shirt stained in the shape of a flying bird

Thrashing hard against the ropes he brings me to. His contortions must have set him free.

But no.

Now, he whispers.

Now, he pleads.

Now, he prays –

to me.


But its Shirley I hear yelling – Pick it up! You missed. You fucking missed!

Then seriously quiet she says, -Do what I taught you. Remember.

And I did – Observe, Relax, Act.


So I pick up the knife

Observe every inch of him

Wet brown eyes

Buckling hairless knees

Shriveled genitals


This time,  slowly steadily with the knife search

Until a soft pop inside

A dwindling ah from his never to be heard again mouth

The last heat from his breath against my face

and then

the smell


pdlyonsphoto 2016

pdlyonsphoto 2016

What I wrote this morning

I woke up to the endless tragedy of your death.

Sat there

The word, endless like a metal ball

Caught warm and pulsing in my own throat


I reached,

My fingers elongate

As if inverse,

A mother bird removing substance from her young.


The metal ball

Clotted blood warm in my open hand

Viscous, spreading

A tacky web of darkness

Not of my own

Not of my own


I got up

Followed its single red thread,

Coiled into my own shaky hands

As I walk


Through the empty door

Through the empty hall

Into another room,

Familiar except for now,

Your little bed

Your little empty bed


I wake up to the tragedy of your death



if there was only one song this would be it



the song of my own pilgrim soul

 blessed alone in night

occasioned by mystic lovers

daring  mortal life against all comers

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