Tag Archives: Jameson’s

Happy Anniversary 18 years! (part 2) bravest of the brave,


love of my life

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Jameson-18-Year-old-Whiskey

 

 

“Fisherman’s Blues”

I wish I was a fisherman
Tumblin’ on the seas
Far away from dry land
And its bitter memories
Casting out my sweet line
With abandonment and love
No ceiling bearin’ down on me
Save the starry sky above
With light in my head
You in my arms
Woo!I wish I was the brakeman
On a hurtlin’ fevered train
Crashing a-headlong into the heartland
Like a cannon in the rain
With the beating of the sleepers
And the burnin’ of the coal
Counting the towns flashing by
In a night that’s full of soul
With light in my head
You in my arms
Woo!Tomorrow I will be loosened
From bonds that hold me fast
That the chains all hung around me
Will fall away at last
And on that fine and fateful day
I will take thee in my hands
I will ride on the train
I will be the fisherman
With light in my head
You in my armsLight in my head
You in my armshttp://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_VKouBHarIo

 

 

Some years later, Mrs. Ansonia Feathers made the arduous journey to Hodgeman County to visit the last resting place of her only daughter. William Munny had long since disappeared with the children… some said to San Francisco where it was rumored he prospered in dry goods. And there was nothing on the marker to explain to Mrs. Feathers why her only daughter had married a known thief and murderer, a man of notoriously vicious and intemperate disposition.

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Is there ever enough time to be home?, by pd lyons


Re Joyce 2

So tea almost done. Sun has come to mid-day.  Grey the rain or snow of this evening prepares itself. He’s thinking about his once walking Eccles Street, Dublin on his own.  Now here so far away in so many ways he is able to read Ulysses because like Joyce , he too knew Dublin in the minute little ways of endless walking, sometimes to work, sometimes look for work, sometimes for the pure joy of nowhere to go-  a smoke along the Liffey, a lunch of the best Irish stew in Ireland, a mad rummage among the old books and even though centuries separate their Dublin’s neither would not at all recognize the other’s.

Upstairs in the land of opportunity  the New England traffic make its way.  Still several feet of snow banked around the green. Tea almost gone. Another yoga stretch…

The times he’d gladly walk the hills for miles just to get to the village pub roll a smoke while Ita  pours a proper pint and maybe a wee Jameson for warmth to ease the wait.

Is there ever enough time to be home?

 

collage by pdl

collage by pdl

“Tattoo on Leaving Gettysburg” —P.D. Lyons The Ides Of March Journal Version


may all who journey remember

may all who journey remember

“Tattoo on Leaving Gettysburg”
—P.D. Lyons

For Stacy

The dead of Gettysburg reach out, soak us with desire.
Teaching us its tears that shape their ghosts.

Even down at the Blue Parrot,
Drinking Pennsylvania Porter and Jameson’s
We find ourselves with them,

And at the motel
Phone ringing with 2am complaints,
Does not stop us the living from honouring the dead.

In the morning Stacy’s Chrome Garden
Soft hum needles lullaby beneath my skin,

Winged horses form a few more drops of blood for Gettysburg
While you, holding my hand as if in hospital
Think of ways to further delay our leaving

Because like me you crave the company of ghosts
And too you know the need the dead have for healing.

**

 

from the Ides of March Journal Vol 1, issue 3. september 2011

http://theidesofmarchjournal.blogspot.ie/2011/09/volume-1-issue-3.html

st. john

st. john

 

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