Tag Archives: irish

Fore Abbey by Pd Lyons



Fore Abbey

Whiskered wooden posts
Decorated by bits of rusted star crossed metal
Silhouettes upon the hillsides
Random marks above the weeds
As if graves of unknown beings

Silent but for crows
Tied like rags upon an invisible thread
Suspended ever changing from an ever changing sky
More shades of grey than words I know

And when the sun
Ignites as far as I can see
A brief and brilliant green such as emeralds could only dream
Sure as this November morning makes each breath a smoky prayer
I know this rolling valley is the wherever I should exactly be

Cut stones shifted by anonymous hands
Nameless legacy bequeathed from each to each
Now held by my own
What lingers here for however long

Richer than any fame
Black earth by sparkling pebble beds
Fed by springs that have no end
Remembered by some other unknown soul

All who left their mark upon this land.


where i work

where i worked




the hill

the hill




so i decide to write again.


Monday, February 11, 2013

so i decide to write again.

10 Feb 2013

2 coffee morning. Yesterday lost the wallet. Somewhere between here and Navan Town. Feel real stupid. Its a rather large hold a check book size. Fortunately no cash, no credit or bank cards, no bank info at all… but my passport,US drivers license and Irish drivers license and also the little booklet from the Buddhists recording the date and my Tibetan refuge name. Anyway am amazed at having lost it. Thinking, thinking where, how, when could it have happened, lost nicked. Today I’ll have to retrace the day going to shops, garda station, parking garage security. Pulled the car apart, looked all over the house, checked every possible jacket pocket you know until realizing i must depend on the kindness of strangers, i must accept the fact that I’ve lost my identity. There’s no phone number in the wallet, the address on my Irish license is from three years ago, and i cant even comfort myself that maybe someone finds it and wants to get it back to me. Anyway its the feeling of stupidity, the feeling of why me, the sense of helplessness and the temptation to berate myself for this act of senility. So 2 coffee morning. All over the world it would be a 2 coffee morning or it would be if every one had that option. All over the world people are losing things more painful than my loss of an identity of a person who doesn’t even exist anyway.


why we like bone orchard poetry!!!!!!!!!!!! and its not just their very cool name


PD Lyons


No One Knows The Secrets Of Our Lives
Random moment somewhere ago
Summer tip-toe naked peers
Over our sweating shoulders
Amazed by shapes of all that is
Between us
Blood beating hearts
Shadowed stains gold
Heavy trees humidity
Curls smoky sea of stars
Spread wet across fantastic thighs
Beneath all the eyes of everything
Invisible mother of lost compassions
…and if every dance again could be of honest flesh
and every god be born again of woman?
Anorexia Nervosa
she has been
to me
and in serving
i make an art,
of that which
have been forbidden
i express
on my tight
a tale
everyone wants
to interpret
i cling to it
like a charm
she has been
to me
with secret dark
eyes closed
a sea
of objects
so safe
she does not
move me
but rather
causes me
to linger
tip toe
from eternity
she has been
to me
this ornamental flesh
a power
always yearned for
and i would
cut myself
for her
but this she
does not
ask for
Youth, Yoga, And Reincarnation/ for Diane
I am the darker mother
Walking away
The time is noon
The world in flames
We talk
You listen
But tears cannot bring us together
Our flesh not bound
By such things
I am the darker mother
Walking away
We shall not meet again


final edit


newest manuscript final. 186 pages of poetry, retrospective of work from 70’s to last month.  still not sure of title. now to choose a publisher. who will the lucky one be?

Michael Mc Aloran new from Lapwing





Michael Mc Aloran new from Lapwing


back to work on new book chipping away re edit bluez


“He repeated until his dying day that there was no one with more common sense, no stone cutter more obstinate, no manager more lucid or dangerous, than a poet.”
Gabriel Garcí­a Márquez



20th July decided to move to back ireland.

after a mad month of packing storing giving tons to the salvation army shop, giving tons to friends family, sorting out landlords and a million etc’s arrived in Dublin yesterday at 6pm.

had a few lovely pints and a drop of real Irish whiskey and a fantastic pub meal with family then a hot black tea with a slice of lemon cloves and a drop or two of real Irish whiskey to bed a slept with out a toss.

today woke up to one of the finest gems in the universe – a clear cool sunny Irish morning –

whirl wind reaped.

don’t cry for me Argentina.

In my dream/salamander yellow pad

In my dream

In my dream we’re in the car. I’m driving but we’re going so fast over the roller-coaster bump that we end up airborne. I call feel it in my stomach when we stop from rising and start to fall and the car flips over. I remember thinking – I hope we turn over one more time before we land. Isn’t that often the way it is. hope for a thing to happen a certain way even though theres no reason for it to. Hope none the less because after all it might. Yesterday walked in a “new” cemetery. Did my half hour among revolutionary soldiers, immigrants Polish Italian Irish veterans revolutionary,civil war,WWI, WWII Korea, Vietnam, Iraq, Afghanistan, believers in peace, pursuers of peace, may they all be rested in peace. There were Pollard’s and McGarr’s, names form my fathers mother. There were stone wall still puzzled neatly together and leafless trees, borders of deep New England open fields and a February sun so bright could not help envy this place of rest. If only we could alive have such space and simply still, soak up this whole moment with every sense with nothing concepted, expected or even reflected. I sat with a nine year old child – 1920 – 1929 Kathyrn M. Sherman. White stone octagon on edge. Place a tiny sea shell and a stone of sugar golden mica for her. Sat on the ground back against an old maple watching chipmunks fearless keepers of her company flit and flitter around us sometimes stopping mere inches from where I sat. I will never know how she died, how close she was to being nine or what the M. stood for. But I told her story about the wave and the ocean. You know how the wave that thinks it is only a wave and fears the breaking shore yet the ocean that the wave truly is never breaks. That while the ocean is sometimes the wave, the wave is always the ocean, it is ocean that is the true nature of the wave; except when I told her it was more like ocean spoke than wave wrote.



excellent quality magazine well worth the read



thank you ides of march journal

Got this today:

Congratulations! Your poems “Tattoo on Leaving Gettysburg” and “King Loaghaire” have been published in the September issue.

Thanks again for your contribution.

Samuel T. Franklin
Editor, The Ides of March Journal


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