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

ruff fragment from : ceremonies of the horsemen, by pd lyons


 

“I support the whole universe with a single fragment of myself” – Bhagavad Gita

there will be a time when I walk alone no possibility of interruption, no sense of anything but wonder. ready to go anywhere – I will alone step upon a beach of star dust, a twilight evening morning without distractions of any sun rise. Body resembling translucent moons encircled with rings like Jupiter silver oh you know what I mean.

to walk alone totally alone; the great adventure that. every step a holy ground, every step unknown places beckoning without distraction. the only one around, me walking without reluctance across the universe. And when like some great invisible hand reaches out cupping me as if my whole body but a sweet lovers cheek, the last eyes I see before I know of eyes no longer? my own reflected back across an endless sky as if in kissing my own self one brief momentary glimpse of the Krishna that is and always has been me.

No longer afraid, narcissism the enduring aspect of the world in the jingle jangle mornings I have followed and loved only you.

scorpion night 1

scorpion night 1

only august by pd lyons


i love rock and/or roll

i love rock and / or roll

 

 

~

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

 

Siane part 3, real magic, by pd lyons


 

Real magic has the quality of knowing. By paying attention you get to know things and when they will happen. With this knowledge you can create the illusion that you cause the inevitable to happen. Real power is when you have people convinced that they can’t get along without you. But there are other things, things beyond people. Once I convinced the wind that it couldn’t get along without me.

 

I’d go out to the top field where the horses ran free. Where they worried themselves only with petty grievances, grazed as they wished regardless of day or night and sometimes lulled by whatever dreams it is that horses dream. lay like dead things strewn.

On a grey out crop of lichenined stone I’d stand, turn my face to the sky and say:

 

“If I could be anything in the world

I would be the wind.

To kiss the sea.

Embrace the sky

Caress the earth.

Come wind I call you

Bring the rain, bring the storm,

The lightning and the thunders roar.

Come wind I love you!”

 

I tried this several times and sometimes the wind would come up strong while other times calm and quiet. In other words, I made no impact what so ever. But I did not give up. By now the horses took notice of my antics and drew around as if seeking inspiration from my sermon on the mount. Perhaps they found some but the wind did not. Once I got so angry this is what I said:

“If I could be anything in the world

It would never be the wind,

Insignificant bastard of the heavens

Ignorant victim of a manipulative earth,

Carrier of piss spit bird droppings

Owner of dust and ashes….”

 

At this did the wind hesitate even for a moment before it went back to ignoring me?

 

Eventually the horses too lost interest in my daily ritual. After all I brought no carrot or apple, I didn’t respond to their sparing for attention and I was as bored as they with their rearing, bucking, bluffs.

 

Finally, I decided to give up. I decided that if I couldn’t be master then I would surrender. So when the wind was quiet, I’d say,

“As the wind is quiet and still, so am I.”

And too if the wind moved from the East I’d say,

“As the wind I too move from the east.”

 

So it was with every direction and with every temperament. As gentle breeze or herald of the storm and too through the seasons such as that of summers comfort or raging winter’s howl. For a whole year this was my daily practise. There were times when I thought I ‘d be carried away, dragged along the ground or else motionless so long I ‘d drop from fatigue. this did not happen. But I did begin to really know the wind, a scent on the air, look of the sky, temperature from yesterday compared with today, slight almost invisible trembling of leaves – all were signs. So closely did I follow that I became as if a shadow to the wind.

 

In time my movements became just slightly ahead until it was I who cast a shadow called the wind. Until once more late autumn and, I could say “Follow my hands as I have led you this way forever.” And the wind, having no memory of forever, believed that this was so and therefore had always been so. How could it doubt I was who I claimed to be? After all, had we not moved together and had it not now been reminded that this had always been?

So once again I spoke, my purpose being to keep my image in its fragile memory,

“I have known you with whisper, shout and breath,

Shared with you submission and mastery,

Shared with you the gift of motion and stillness

Now  remember me!”

 

And the wind enveloped me and inhaled and from the breath of my voice to the scent carried on every hair of my body – I was known!

 Quiet then rocked with shivers head cradled between my knees, my own steamy urine pooling around my toes before trickling down to where a bald faced chestnut mare stood watching like a ghost…

 

 

Siane, by pd lyons


 

Siane
 
Part One
 
He truly loved the land more than anyone ever did, as if this loving could make the land forget how he had come, as one adopted through the wedding chamber. With skepticism and disdain the land responded, for this sentimental tender love – this was not enough!
And the horses? Well they adored him.Their noses quivered at his presence,they raced, stood up on their hind legs, sang for him even took bites out of each other to draw his attention. But they would not let him ride. For they were brothers and sisters with him, beloved companion, never to be considered master. And he? He admired the land for its strength, how it showed to him its true face and for that he said “What great spirit, a terrible beauty. How fortunate I am to be chosen to see the true face of the land.”
Towards the horses he was also grateful and for that he said “What noble blood, what rare beauty. I am so fortunate to be allowed to know their secrets.”
While both the land and the horses  looked to one another and said “Well what can you do with a man like that?”
   
Now she, who had taken the man to her wedding bed, she held the land tight with her own hands and so marked it with her own blood. That was how the land was won. Her own flesh protecting and defending and willing to do so over and over – That was how the land was kept. It was she who led the horses to shelter when the sky burst at midnight, kept them from prairie fires, dipped her hands into their mothers at the time of their birth and with a voice of smooth leather and singing bees subdued even the most bold among them. To the land she was forgiving. Admiring its resilience she would say “So beautiful yet so obstinate – you are the breaker of my heart but I will never leave you.” To the horses she was wise and often amused would say “You make me laugh when you try your tricks on me but I won’t let you forget our bargain.”
While both the land and the horses  had long ago looked to one another and said “Well what can you do with a woman like that?”
The man of course could not understand all the ways of his wife. In his opinion her discipline kept her from appreciating the beauty that surrounded her. But he would also say, as was his nature “I admire her strength and abilities. Truly this is a magnificent woman. If she were not my wife and therefore part of me I should envy her these things.”
The woman at first was quite perplexed regarding her husband. She suspected perhaps some flaw in a man who would refuse to master such things in a way similar to her own. On this she pondered for some time before concluding that because of his way, surely he had never known loneliness. So then she did say “My husband has this nature which I cannot my self afford to indulge in. Yet it is also true that being joined to me he can do this for us and we will both benefit from the balance.”
So their wisdom of what marriage truly is prevailed and luckily for me because that is what I was born into. My parents of course taught me their ways.With the horses my mother taught me how to ride, my father, how to share their secrets. She, how to hold the land,he, that I could love it more than anyone who ever saw it. And I, being a true issue of their wedding bed, understood both and formed a way of blending each, a way of my own

 

 

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who is she? with video this time


horses are the heart

of the planet

we

the blood – pdl

 

 

my favorite music video … well, of all. Horses are The Heart Beat Of The Planet


 

“My horses, prancing they are coming.

My horses, neighing they are coming;

Prancing. they are coming.

All over the universe they come.

They will dance; may you behold them.

A horse nation, they will dance.

May you behold them.

In a sacred manner you shall walk!”  – Black Elk

 

 

i have no idea who this woman is any info appreciated- thanks pd

horses are the heart

of the planet

we

the blood – pdl

Had A Dream About Clint Eastwood, by pd lyons


we were doing something with horses

not riding or roping

just putting our hands on them

feeling the sunlight through them

and smiling

 

Picture 011

  • as published in Fresh Ink Literary Magazine 2013

The Kid By Ai


I came across this poem years ago in an anthology called;  The Outlaw Bible of American Poetry edited by Alan Kaufman and published by Thunder’s Mouth Press NY. The book by no means the be all end all , nor does it claim to be but what it is, is  a treasure trove of true Americana. Below is Ai’s poem with links to info regarding her. Here is a link regarding The Outlaw Bible – https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Outlaw_Bible_of_American_Poetry

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The Kid

By Ai

My sister rubs the doll’s face in mud,   
then climbs through the truck window.   
She ignores me as I walk around it,   
hitting the flat tires with an iron rod.
The old man yells for me to help hitch the team,
but I keep walking around the truck, hitting harder,   
until my mother calls.
I pick up a rock and throw it at the kitchen window,   
but it falls short.
The old man’s voice bounces off the air like a ball
I can’t lift my leg over.
I stand beside him, waiting, but he doesn’t look up
and I squeeze the rod, raise it, his skull splits open.   
Mother runs toward us. I stand still,
get her across the spine as she bends over him.
I drop the rod and take the rifle from the house.   
Roses are red, violets are blue,
one bullet for the black horse, two for the brown.  
They’re down quick. I spit, my tongue’s bloody;   
I’ve bitten it. I laugh, remember the one out back.   
I catch her climbing from the truck, shoot.   
The doll lands on the ground with her.
I pick it up, rock it in my arms.
Yeah. I’m Jack, Hogarth’s son.
I’m nimble, I’m quick.
In the house, I put on the old man’s best suit
and his patent leather shoes.
I pack my mother’s satin nightgown
and my sister’s doll in the suitcase.
Then I go outside and cross the fields to the highway.
I’m fourteen. I’m a wind from nowhere.   
I can break your heart.

 

Ai, “The Kid” from Vice: New and Selected Poems. Copyright © 1999 by Ai. Reprinted with the permission of W. W. Norton & Company, Inc. This selection may not be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher. www.nortonpoets.com.

Source: Vice: New and Selected Poems (W. W. Norton and Company, Inc., 1999)

http://www.poetryfoundation.org/poem/171245

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“My writing of dramatic monologues was a happy accident, because I took so much to heart the opinion of my first poetry teacher, Richard Shelton, the fact that the first person voice was always the stronger voice to use when writing. What began as an experiment in that voice became the only voice in which I wrote for about twenty years. Lately, though, I’ve been writing poems and short stories using the second person, without, it seems to me, any diminution in the power of my work. Still, I feel that the dramatic monologue was the form in which I was born to write and I love it as passionately, or perhaps more passionately, than I have ever loved a man.”[8]

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ai_%28poet%29

PREPARING TO ACCEPT , from Lessons on Western Riding by pd lyons


PREPARING TO ACCEPT
(From: Lessons on Western Riding)

Crisp snow,
Sleeping village,
Almost daylight from the moon.
Thin smoke rising,
Unseen fires,
Some dogs
Heard the barn door slide.
Horses snort n nicker greetings
Inside a soft watt glow,
Seek out my bridle, saddle, and
That old Indian blanket from Mexico.

Shuddering saw dust she greets me
As if trying to erase that white blaze star n snip
From her otherwise pure liver-chestnut body.
As usual I give in, step back.
As usual I take a moment, rub her head n ears,
Lean my face against her, whisper terms of endearment
Breathe that deep sweet smotherly scent…

And find myself thinking of all the things we done together.
Not big things like times she’s broke my bones;
Waited out that all night colic;
Turned them panicked horses running away with that family from New York City, just before they made the highway.
But rather those un-thought little things,
Like how many times I groomed this horse,
Untangled mane and tail, picked feet, mixed feed,
Had her shod, filed her teeth,
Spent hours just watching her in the field,
And like I am right now, unable to sleep –
All these thoughtless motions of tacking up.

I warm the bit from my own breath
So the frozen metal won’t burn
This great beautiful creature of my heart,
Slightly she bends so I can slip the bridle on.

Down the aisle sounds, my boots heels
No match for borium studded shoes,
The click of her feet, stirs the last sleepy horses.
Each step increases their curiosity.
More whinny’s n snorts, some strike the stall doors some stomp the floor
And we both know that black gelding’s bass drum kick.

Each their own way of saying they want to go.
Each charging the air as if with electricity
As if you were watching wouldn’t you see steel blue sparks with every step crackling like spider webs? The mare and I, our connection wove with each step until muffled by snow in false dawn and moonlight, though every part is saying – go! She stands still for me.

And I swing up into that healing sensation of being whole again.
A moment to savour before she, as if in imitation of her birth, boldly yet some how gently arcs liquidly into motion.
This time we make for the west ridge,
Where for the past week, waking from a sound sleep,
A lone wolf I’ve seen from my window.
Sometimes just a glimpse. Sometimes lingering,
Head raised as if to test the air,
As if at any moment stillness shatters…
But there’s never been a sound
Only a drooping dark shape turning away.

And at the top foot prints? Signs? The creature, real or a dream…?
Sailing through winter swells we crest the ridge
Pause for a single rising sound, that for all its power
Refuses to become anything as trivial as an answer to such questions.

Steadily we zig zag down to the valley floor,
Search a spot of running water, drink.
Share the last two good apples of the year.
In the stillness I roll the first cigarette of the day,
Smoke doubled in the cold, drifts across like dancing spirits shrinking from the sun where just before the rising timber line the frozen river spreads its dare.

 

 

For: Katie, Jeanie, Mara, Jenny, Phyllis, The Bay, The Roan, Ali, Lance all my own true hearts.

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a ruff bit from my ruff youth –

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