With Alessandra by pd lyons

With Alessandra

          ~

time travels softly

across the river

sun pours

volcanoes of night

suck away the day

ghosts rise hungry

clean olive scented bones

in another sleepless night

                                                                                 along this land of green dreams

 

 

 

With Alessandra

With Alessandra

          ~

time travels softly

across the river

sun pours

volcanoes of night

suck away the day

ghosts rise hungry

clean olive scented bones

in another sleepless night

                                                                                 along this land of green dreams

 

 

 

With Alessandra

With Alessandra

          ~

time travels softly

across the river

sun pours

volcanoes of night

suck away the day

ghosts rise hungry

clean olive scented bones

in another sleepless night

                                                                                 along this land of green dreams

 

 

 

With Alessandra

With Alessandra

          ~

time travels softly

across the river

sun pours

volcanoes of night

suck away the day

ghosts rise hungry

clean olive scented bones

in another sleepless night

                                                                                 along this land of green dreams

 

 

 

Now Safe in Snug Harbour, (sometimes in this writing life part 12) by pd lyons

 

Think there is nothing left because

Things are not they way they were?

I have shouted at the city-blocked midnight

Danced fence post crooked side walked racially slurred neighbourhoods

Found my way past numerous boot strap bras soft slung underwear

Love named and nameless

roof tops-vestibules – pinewood -parked cars – basements – garages – around the corner from some bar

All long railroads of dreams no longer gleaming dull rust misuse

 

Waiting supplicant for the dew that would soon cover us

 Cold reservoir air upon one another

 Our mouths an open universe.

 

 

And days or nights never mattered

Hit by shrapnel amphetamine opiate subduction 

Elegantly by psychedelics led,

What is behind whatever it is that things have become?

Oh these  were meat for you

All this was blessed for words by you

And I needed to know was nothing because all newness was all sacred.

 

Tears of lovers in the dark

Knowing soon that we would part

No longer see another day

The way we were

 Now so far away

 

All my instruments pointed

All my solitude true

It was not to other lovers

No mortal could compare

No substance base, mercurial,

will ever compare  with you. 

~

I could not understand factories of men and beer 

The Ways of Sitting, by pd lyons

The Ways of Sitting

A mans hands ~

on a woman’s thighs

One on each rolls them out

A better view of what he’s dreamt for so long.

Muscular even in yielding

She allows her deep breath body freely.

 

Outside women ~

talk how the year slips

School days into holidays beginning school again.

 

A woman in love writes her name ~

Moon soft ivory

Pale sky

By the Buddha

By the open window

Major piano chords

A simple charm

Like where in dreams we can’t be hurt.

 

A man begrudging poetry ~

Leaves out such things as joy

Hopes a mirage of his own making

Hides in clothes made from mistaken identities

Secrets like superman behind caped crusades

Although blurred some character always lurks

Despite the roles he thinks he should,

He thinks they want, he thinks he must.

A series of figures exchanged through out his life

Even the god he picks a model of dysfunction.

With Alessandra

With Alessandra

          ~

time travels softly

across the river

sun pours

volcanoes of night

suck away the day

ghosts rise hungry

clean olive scented bones

in another sleepless night

                                                                                 along this land of green dreams

 

 

 

liberation from suffering is a DIY situation

suffering comes from the erroneous belief in what is not true and striving to maintain that as truth. suffering is a delusion but like a dream it can still cause fear which in turn causes more delusion more suffering. dealing with fear the antidote of which is awareness of the truth, that’s the process of becoming free from suffering. what is true?

for starters how about this – everyone who has ever lived has or will die. this includes everyone you  know including yourself. that is truth. that’s the beginning of liberation – sitting with that for a while. seeing if that causes you more or less suffering than not contemplating it. See if there is a way to sit with that truth without it being a cause of suffering? can you? does it?

give yourself no preconceived notion. give yourself the space and time to sit with the truth, your truth and see what its like for you.

as the saying goes – Food off another’s  spoon will not nourish your wisdom.

In other-words accept no spoon fed answers. challenge all belief assessing their truth through your own self. liberation from suffering is a DIY situation.

 

 

thanks for the inspiration sorry about the preach. cheers.

 

remembered a dream i had last night by pd lyons

 

someone i didn’t know had come to the front door

 told me you were looking for me

on horses we used to own

i couldn’t believe my luck

went to meet you

took those trails we used to take

certain that’s the way you’d come

raced the river

edged the narrow ridge

ducked low hung branches

even found

the old red barn

the wild turkey barn

the shelter from the rain barn

surprised  after all these years-

it hadn’t changed at all

 

 

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.