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…

pdlyonsphotography

pdlyonsphotography

Still Snow the Cemetery is April

Here hunger

Has been learned

Insatiable

Into a kinder

Peace

~

Vampiric

Living come

To feed off the dead

Hunger

Temporarily

Satiated

Only fleeting

Only the dead can be starved into peace

~

No matter how many

Flags

Medallions

Mementoes

Stones

Flowers

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

Know

pdlyons photo

pdlyons photo

 

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

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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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