Tag Archives: horses

sometimes I miss the horse days & someplace, by pd lyons


occasional it happens

 stray song over the kitchen radio

 old photo tucked into a book that for no reason i just picked up to thumb through

i hardly let it pause me

i usually just keep going

occasional it happens

 my old bones do an old ache

  glimpse that crooked clavicle in the bathroom mirror

 hardly let it pause me

 usually just keep going

occasional it happens

strong scent of well oiled leather maybe someones coat

packed tight on the morning train

mists trough the damp windows

shadows moving up the hills

hardly let it pause me

 usually just keep going

occasional it happens

but you know sometimes when it does

i just don’t feel like moving

stay right there  face the tears

yeah sometimes i miss the horse days

sometimes i just fucking do

Someplace

Down on the avenue
Work ’til the day is through
I just want to get away
But you know I never do.
And when the sun goes down
I’ll be sitting all alone
Watch them old cowboy shows
On some second hand video.

Wishing I was someplace
Where grass just grows n rain is clean
Where horses run and black birds sing
Someplace where the sky is big n the only cry
From an eagle on the wing.

But I’m city bound by plastic chains
Robbed to death by men with ball point pens.
My hopes gone up in Marlboro smoke
N ghosts of what used to be my dreams
Haunt me with wondering if I’ll live long enough to ever be

Someplace where grass just grows n rain is clean
Where horses run n black birds sing
Someplace where the sky is big and the only cry
From an eagle on the wing.

Someplace where I can ride for days
N never see another human being

pdlyonsphoto

pdlyonsphoto

pdlyonsphoto

WHEN I’M GONE, WORDS & PHOTOS BY PD LYONS


 

When I’m gone

Who will know the feel of wooden handles held in bare hands

Measure the post hole deep enough below the frost line

Enjoy the scent of sweaty horses

The rain of walking home in the dark

Night rainbows

TV static

Driving 13 hours due west

Soft pack Marlboros   Full moon rearview   One van Morrison cassette

T’il dawn

Just to meet someone hardly known for breakfast

 

 

BISCUTS & GRAVY ~ 2.25

What’s grits?  a quarter

Cuppa Coffee?  a dollar

Cuirt Annual 21 2006 International Festival of Literature Ireland. PD Lyons reading his work from it.


The Cuirt International Festival of Literature is Ireland’s leading festival. In 2006 it’s 21st year the editors Alan Hayes & Maura Kennedy selected one of my poems to appear in the anthology along side such artist as Seamus Heany, Edna O’Brien, Nikki Giovanni, Eoin Colfer and many fine others. So very grateful to have been there. Thank you for watching & reading.

Waltzing Miss Jeanie

The sky barely visible

Gunmetal cold keeps each bit of snow completely separate.

Sounds, most into silence or muffled by a swish and swirl

As my horse moves through.

Imagine sand against a giant hourglass,

Wicked witch of the west,

There’s no place like home…

Nothing else moves,

Rock walls mostly covered

Drainage ditches camouflaged

Snow drifts level the landscape almost beyond illusion.

By memory only we keep to the road.

Imagine being the first to cross this land in winter

And if it were a time before horses…?

Off the open ridge we cut down to where the pine woods

Shelter enough so we can pick up the pace.

Occasionally over burdened snow spills,

Sometimes peeling bits of green, chunks of old ice, thuds magnified by the quiet.

Perhaps an excuse to break monotony

Or some primal memory aroused –

She spooks.

Imagine double barrel blast, a restless dragon, a living legend…

So I talk her through; my voice being a calm place for her to focus.

So I sing, putting the name she knows into the song,

My fathers’ curious choice for a lullaby he used to sing to me.

Imagine not yet five years old, frightened from things that you don’t even have words for.

Things that move only in those darker places in your room,

And then his heavy footsteps,

the weight of his body as he sits on the edge the bed,

his strong steady hands sometimes rubbing sometimes patting

while always singing over and over until finally asleep you couldn’t ask him to again…

We make our way like that now,

Dealing with imagined as well as real risks –

Patches of ice beneath this rising snow upon this rising, winding road

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

versions of this were published by Hotmetal Press and West47 Galway arts, Inquietudes Literary Journal & erbacce press.

~ some of the most rare and wonderful moments of my life were brought to me by horses ( lovers and acid). i have actually been out in blizzard conditions on horse back albeit in Connecticut and only a few miles to go. Jeanie was a hot little chestnut Morgan mare, she taught me much, broke my heart and a few bones in the process. I am very grateful for having known her.

good luck bye! ~

The Missing Mare by PD Lyons


 

 

I went

rain splattering

glad for good boots

 a proper brimmed hat

I went

grass mud

wire fence

wooden gates

strained for sign or sound

missing mare heavy with foal

urging me on

 

 

(found this ruff in an note book from back in the horse days long long ago in the dream time hope its not too bad for you all)

Slips ~25.1.21 #2 words and photos by pd lyons


 

I have lived

Long enough

To come back

Back To everything I knew When I was fifteen

Only now Certain of its richness.

 

How wonderful sixty-five is.

 

 

 

Cuirt Annual 21 2006 International Festival of Literature Ireland. PD Lyons reading his work from it.


The Cuirt International Festival of Literature is Ireland’s leading festival. In 2006 it’s 21st year the editors Alan Hayes & Maura Kennedy selected one of my poems to appear in the anthology along side such artist as Seamus Heany, Edna O’Brien, Nikki Giovanni, Eoin Colfer and many fine others. So very grateful to have been there. Thank you for watching & reading.

Waltzing Miss Jeanie

The sky barely visible

Gunmetal cold keeps each bit of snow completely separate.

Sounds, most into silence or muffled by a swish and swirl

As my horse moves through.

Imagine sand against a giant hourglass,

Wicked witch of the west,

There’s no place like home…

Nothing else moves,

Rock walls mostly covered

Drainage ditches camouflaged

Snow drifts level the landscape almost beyond illusion.

By memory only we keep to the road.

Imagine being the first to cross this land in winter

And if it were a time before horses…?

Off the open ridge we cut down to where the pine woods

Shelter enough so we can pick up the pace.

Occasionally over burdened snow spills,

Sometimes peeling bits of green, chunks of old ice, thuds magnified by the quiet.

Perhaps an excuse to break monotony

Or some primal memory aroused –

She spooks.

Imagine double barrel blast, a restless dragon, a living legend…

So I talk her through; my voice being a calm place for her to focus.

So I sing, putting the name she knows into the song,

My fathers’ curious choice for a lullaby he used to sing to me.

Imagine not yet five years old, frightened from things that you don’t even have words for.

Things that move only in those darker places in your room,

And then his heavy footsteps,

the weight of his body as he sits on the edge the bed,

his strong steady hands sometimes rubbing sometimes patting

while always singing over and over until finally asleep you couldn’t ask him to again…

We make our way like that now,

Dealing with imagined as well as real risks –

Patches of ice beneath this rising snow upon this rising, winding road

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

versions of this were published by Hotmetal Press and West47 Galway arts, Inquietudes Literary Journal & erbacce press.

~ some of the most rare and wonderful moments of my life were brought to me by horses ( lovers and acid). i have actually been out in blizzard conditions on horse back albeit in Connecticut and only a few miles to go. Jeanie was a hot little chestnut Morgan mare, she taught me much, broke my heart and a few bones in the process. I am very grateful for having known her.

good luck bye! ~

sometimes I miss the horse days & someplace, by pd lyons


occasional it happens

 stray song over the kitchen radio

 old photo tucked into a book that for no reason i just picked up to thumb through

i hardly let it pause me

i usually just keep going

occasional it happens

 my old bones do an old ache

  glimpse that crooked clavicle in the bathroom mirror

 hardly let it pause me

 usually just keep going

occasional it happens

strong scent of well oiled leather maybe someones coat

packed tight on the morning train

mists trough the damp windows

shadows moving up the hills

hardly let it pause me

 usually just keep going

occasional it happens

but you know sometimes when it does

i just don’t feel like moving

stay right there  face the tears

yeah sometimes i miss the horse days

sometimes i just fucking do

Someplace

Down on the avenue
Work ’til the day is through
I just want to get away
But you know I never do.
And when the sun goes down
I’ll be sitting all alone
Watch them old cowboy shows
On some second hand video.

Wishing I was someplace
Where grass just grows n rain is clean
Where horses run and black birds sing
Someplace where the sky is big n the only cry
From an eagle on the wing.

But I’m city bound by plastic chains
Robbed to death by men with ball point pens.
My hopes gone up in Marlboro smoke
N ghosts of what used to be my dreams
Haunt me with wondering if I’ll live long enough to ever be

Someplace where grass just grows n rain is clean
Where horses run n black birds sing
Someplace where the sky is big and the only cry
From an eagle on the wing.

Someplace where I can ride for days
N never see another human being

pdlyonsphoto

pdlyonsphoto

pdlyonsphoto

Only August by pd lyons (Worship Swans Version)


 

 

 

Only August

crows

almost quiet

only feather sounds

rising

almost still

only slow

steady beating

as if horses

finally

taught themselves

to march in order

across the fields

almost green

only smoky

spiral dust

almost damp descending

mirage

as if insects

finally taught themselves

to sing like falling rain

across midday

almost yawning

only august

 

First Kiss by PD Lyons from As if the Rain Fell in Ordinary Time


I remember the music

When you were 16

Pretending to dance

So, I could feel you close

 Whenever I did, you’d laugh

It was slow 2, 3, slow 2, 3,

 We swayed we leaned

Found out what we smelled like behind each other’s ears

But we didn’t care much because we didn’t let go.

    Your hands all polished white, fingers stronger than any small thing

I remember the music

When you were 16

Soft sweet

A slow mystery

Moving together

Surprised by ourselves

 Moonless summer night

Even in shadow closed our eyes,

 Bumped our noses …

 I remember the music,

   But lately can’t seem to picture your face

      That’s how it is these days,

Memories unhurried slip

 Like horses,

       To other greener places, sometimes though returning on their own…  

Cuirt Annual 21 2006 International Festival of Literature Ireland PD Lyons reading his work from it.


The Cuirt International Festival of Literature is Ireland’s leading festival. In 2006 it’s 21st year the editors Alan Hayes & Maura Kennedy selected one of my poems to appear in the anthology along side such artist as Seamus Heany, Edna O’Brien, Nikki Giovanni, Eoin Colfer and many fine others. So very grateful to have been there. Thank you for watching & reading.

Waltzing Miss Jeanie

The sky barely visible

Gunmetal cold keeps each bit of snow completely separate.

Sounds, most into silence or muffled by a swish and swirl

As my horse moves through.

Imagine sand against a giant hourglass,

Wicked witch of the west,

There’s no place like home…

Nothing else moves,

Rock walls mostly covered

Drainage ditches camouflaged

Snow drifts level the landscape almost beyond illusion.

By memory only we keep to the road.

Imagine being the first to cross this land in winter

And if it were a time before horses…?

Off the open ridge we cut down to where the pine woods

Shelter enough so we can pick up the pace.

Occasionally over burdened snow spills,

Sometimes peeling bits of green, chunks of old ice, thuds magnified by the quiet.

Perhaps an excuse to break monotony

Or some primal memory aroused –

She spooks.

Imagine double barrel blast, a restless dragon, a living legend…

So I talk her through; my voice being a calm place for her to focus.

So I sing, putting the name she knows into the song,

My fathers’ curious choice for a lullaby he used to sing to me.

Imagine not yet five years old, frightened from things that you don’t even have words for.

Things that move only in those darker places in your room,

And then his heavy footsteps,

the weight of his body as he sits on the edge the bed,

his strong steady hands sometimes rubbing sometimes patting

while always singing over and over until finally asleep you couldn’t ask him to again…

We make our way like that now,

Dealing with imagined as well as real risks –

Patches of ice beneath this rising snow upon this rising, winding road

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

versions of this were published by Hotmetal Press and West47 Galway arts, Inquietudes Literary Journal & erbacce press.

~ some of the most rare and wonderful moments of my life were brought to me by horses ( lovers and acid). i have actually been out in blizzard conditions on horse back albeit in Connecticut and only a few miles to go. Jeanie was a hot little chestnut Morgan mare, she taught me much, broke my heart and a few bones in the process. I am very grateful for having known her.

good luck bye! ~

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