Tag Archives: graveyard

Still Snow the Cemetery is April, by pd lyons

I have always had an affinity to graveyards. At least most of them, there have indeed been a few I’ve met which I didn’t like. A while back we were back in the states for about two years, in Litchfield ct. I got to renew my old acquaintances and discover some new ones. this piece is from then, about 2011. I got to thinking about who was benefiting from all the decorations in the cemetery, I got to thinking about how the dead while moving on might yet be feeling a bit sorry for those of us who not (in their opinion) as fortunate remained behind…



Still Snow the Cemetery is April

Here hunger

Has been learned


Into a kinder




Living come

To feed off the dead




Only fleeting

Only the dead can be starved into peace


No matter how many






The dead no longer can be known

Memories are not the same as knowledge

Unlike the living

The dead have moved on


Songs of birds

Sun on brown grass

Reluctant winter

In ways the living call regret

The dead with kinder knowledge


pdlyons photo

pdlyons photo


from Myths of Multiplicity by pd lyons. published by Erbacca-press.  £4.95 free shipping world-wide


From The Country Of Stones by PD Lyons








riverside  waterbury ct

riverside, Waterbury Ct.



From The Country Of Stones



me and the small talk angel


find no way to mark the years


not much at all worth mentioning



on corners of dull marble


we lean


without surprise


without concern


without big questions



just slight curiosities


bringing us together


in a penny tossing


park bench


kind of way



from the book Caribu Poetry by pd lyons


riverside waterbury ct

riverside, Waterbury Ct.



Re: poets



Those masterful images because complete
Grew in pure mind, but out of what began?
A mound of refuse or the sweepings of a street,
Old kettles, old bottles, and a broken can,
Old iron, old bones, old rags, that raving slut
Who keeps the till. Now that my ladder’s gone,
I must lie down where all the ladders start
In the foul rag and bone shop of the heart. —




from W. B.  Yeats :   The Circus Animals’ Desertion


DSC_5275 DSC_5279

may all who journey remember





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