ghost of the nun who kissed me by pd lyons

new haven ct artist not remembered by photographer pdlyons

down the hallway

all asleep

whispering

into the library

out over the city

windowed clear stars

on a moonless night

me

too

unwilling

to let go

 

The Green Tea & I by pd lyons

The Green Tea & I

ghost  birds around the feeder

not yet knowing they

do not need to anymore

greet the morning

Morning Coffee Notes by pd lyons w/thanks to Shot Glass Journal

on todays tray ~ ghosts, summer, shot glass & of course coffee 

 

Ghosts of My Summers

Ghosts of my summers walk by
Long pink skirts trail

Roads of my youth
Still there yet some what changed

As if each and every memory plays out again
This time

A different boy
Meets a different girl

Once you
Once me

Still June.

https://www.musepiepress.com/shotglass/pd_lyons1.html 

Bio

---

Born and raised in the USA. Traveling and living abroad since 1998. Now permanently residing in Ireland.Received The Mattatuck College Award for Outstanding Achievement in Poetry.Received Bachelor of Science with honours from Teikyo Post University Connecticut.Two books of poetry Searches For Magic, and Caribu & Sister Stones: Selected Poems, have been published by Lapwing Press, Belfast. A third book, Myths Of Multiplicity, published by Erbacce press Liverpool as part of the 2014 Erbacce International Annual Prize .The work of PD Lyons has also appeared in many magazines and e-zine/blogs throughout the world. Including, The SHoP, Books Ireland, Irish American Post, Boyne Berries, Virtual Writer, Slipstream, West 47 Galway Arts. Recently selected to participate in Human Rights Consortium at the School of Advanced Study, University of London publication titled ‘In Protest: 150 Poems for Human Rights’.

promise, from : ceremonies of the horsemen, by pd lyons

indian pipe @ sleeping giant

prisoners of ghosts haunt the hallways of my own memories
past lives
opportunities regretted
twists and turns
I don’t want to leave only dried hollow husks
blown by my own reluctance to participate in my own and only treasure.

we lived in a time
when women sat beside us whispering on back porch landing’s
interrupted by the neighbors
running down the stairs
hands wet beneath Danskin purple skirts she spoke of how in past or future
it didn’t matter which but another life
I was her child she the mother
knowing I would go on to crucifixion
suckled me with salt water tears
glistening breasts mingling milk
into my hungry hot house mouth.

were there ever other places
other days,
freedom
confidence
a mouth full of meat
a belief in anything was possible.

I stood with someone once at midnight, the midnight
not just a time form but place
a place where midnight
born and lives out its days in each of us.
The place of my mid night sometime in October
out there by the water
breath rising in smoke
dew soaked shivering pirate breath kisses

I called you cypress by moon light,
buccaneer beauty I chose
there in the place of my own midnight
you but not you
rather the you of what you were.

I called you Guinevere by moonlight
lay down with you there
in the pace of my own midnight
among cold Halloween golf course grass
surrounded by stolen beer bottles
by a dwindling hedge barely separated from the street.

The only promise I ever kept –
never a mathematician or carpenters wife.
I have not even now more years than miles can tell – broken that promise.
Sometimes I forget I made it,
sometimes I forget to congratulate myself for not breaking it,
sometimes I try to barter it, threaten to turn my back if somebody doesn’t pretty soon pay me for it.

But I am not the famous rebel,
I am not the muse’s figure head –
quietly steadily I am only the keeper of my own promise
born from misguided Madonnas
introduced by pale white women the place of my own midnight

I have never stopped,
I have never turned back
that’s all I have ever really done
with all that treasure which was my life,
no big deal but still something real, no surrender, no slipping ,
no disparity of one who broke the only promise ever truly made.

the ghost mother by pd lyons

the ghost mother

disappeared

as if each son

spontaneous

generated

upon this dominated land

 

sticks of war

lures of porno

century

after century

 

yet still there are some

knowing they are the mothers sons

dare to say –

i love you

artist unknown/pdlyons photo

 

paris 2016/ pdlyons photo

 

 

And I would know the winter, by pd lyons

and would I know

the winter

and would I know

the winter

still sliding down

silvering the window

soft whispers

smoke secrets

between

the kitchen fire

and all those winter fires gone before

 

each ghost upon the gale

welcomed here beside the hearth

each breath of my own

rare and gifted by such drifters

visible only in the smoke

audible only in the flame

I am never alone in winter

 

I am sending my own messages

tobaccos scented

whiskey scented

seemingly pleasing

soon like crows

I will go

 

#Big Lorraine, by PD Lyons – a ghost poem

 

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

 

 

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

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 .

 

promise, from : ceremonies of the horsemen, by pd lyons

indian pipe @ sleeping giant

prisoners of ghosts haunt the hallways of my own memories
past lives
opportunities regretted
twists and turns
I don’t want to leave only dried hollow husks
blown by my own reluctance to participate in my own and only treasure.

we lived in a time
when women sat beside us whispering on back porch landing’s
interrupted by the neighbors
running down the stairs
hands wet beneath Danskin purple skirts she spoke of how in past or future
it didn’t matter which but another life
I was her child she the mother
knowing I would go on to crucifixion
suckled me with salt water tears
glistening breasts mingling milk
into my hungry hot house mouth.

were there ever other places
other days,
freedom
confidence
a mouth full of meat
a belief in anything was possible.

I stood with someone once at midnight, the midnight
not just a time form but place
a place where midnight
born and lives out its days in each of us.
The place of my mid night sometime in October
out there by the water
breath rising in smoke
dew soaked shivering pirate breath kisses

I called you cypress by moon light,
buccaneer beauty I chose
there in the place of my own midnight
you but not you
rather the you of what you were.

I called you Guinevere by moonlight
lay down with you there
in the pace of my own midnight
among cold Halloween golf course grass
surrounded by stolen beer bottles
by a dwindling hedge barely separated from the street.

The only promise I ever kept –
never a mathematician or carpenters wife.
I have not even now more years than miles can tell – broken that promise.
Sometimes I forget I made it,
sometimes I forget to congratulate myself for not breaking it,
sometimes I try to barter it, threaten to turn my back if somebody doesn’t pretty soon pay me for it.

But I am not the famous rebel,
I am not the muse’s figure head –
quietly steadily I am only the keeper of my own promise
born from misguided Madonnas
introduced by pale white women the place of my own midnight

I have never stopped,
I have never turned back
that’s all I have ever really done
with all that treasure which was my life,
no big deal but still something real, no surrender, no slipping ,
no disparity of one who broke the only promise ever truly made.

wordless wednesday 28.10.20. happy halloween video

Hope you all have a happy healthy safe and FUN holiday! cheers!

Thank You For Watching!

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