Pdlyons's Explorations
Together we sleep in one another’s arms.
As if that safety protects us from the world.
Between our breathing and our heart beats
all the brutality of the day
each night melts away.
And should the world find us so vulnerable?
Our accord is this;
always our side arm within reach.
Our promise,
to deliver each other into the protection of death
freed forever then from harm.
This is how we live
Now
This is how we love.
I am blue skies
trailed with perfect black birds
over an autumnal tree line
I am an ocean so blue
it makes everything else seem white,
A forest of shadows so deep any midnight would be envious
I have been the heat from which the iron of this planet ran .
I have been an ice so deep that for a thousand years the sun stood in retreat.
And you with self shackled minds,
dreams tinier than any, ever- living thing ?
what you do you think pursuers of poisons?
are there any poisons that are not mine?
what do you think deniers of your own senses?
where do you think the chemicals for those thoughts come from?
I have seen stars begin and watched them dwindle.
I have seen every living thing that has ever done so,
and will see every one that ever will be, born and die.
Do you think I who hold on to nothing care about what you do?
“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
spring
prisoners haunt the hallways
opportunities regretted
twists turns past lives
I didn’t want to leave
only dry hollow husks
blown reluctant to participate in my one and only treasure.
I lived in a time
when women sat beside me whispering on back porch landing’s
interrupted by neighbours running down the stairs
hands wet beneath Danskin purple skirts
she spoke of how in past or future it didn’t matter which
I was her child she the mother
knowing I would go on to crucifixion
suckled me with saltwater glistening breasts mingling milk
into my hungry hot house mouth.
were there ever other places other days,
freedom? confidence?
a mouth full of meat?
a belief anything was possible?
I stood with someone once at midnight
not just a time but the place
a place where midnight born and lives out in each of us.
The place of my mid night?
sometime in October out there by the water
breath rising in smoke, dew soaked shivering pirate breath kisses
I called you cypress by moon light,
buccaneer beauty I chose
there in the place of my own midnight
you but not you rather the you of what you ever were.
I called you Guinevere by moonlight
lay down with you there
in the place of our own midnight
among cold Halloween coarse grass
surrounded by stolen beer bottles
a dwindling hedge barely separated from the street.
The only promise I ever kept?
never a mathematician or carpenters’ wife.
I have not even now more years than miles can tell – broken that promise.
Sometimes I forget I made it,
sometimes I forget to congratulate myself for not breaking it,
sometimes I try to barter it, threaten to turn my back if somebody doesn’t pretty soon pay me for it.
But I am not the famous rebel, not the muse’s figure head –
quietly steadily I am only the keeper of my own promise
born from misguided Madonna’s introduced by white women to the place of my own midnight
I have never stopped; I have never turned back.
That’s all I have ever really done with all that treasure which was my life.
no big deal but still, something real. no surrender, no slipping,
no disparity of one who broke the only promise ever truly made.
Yes, still writing. Yes, still the poet.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
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.
.
Mr. Tambourine Man. B. Dylan, Bob Dylan Live 1975. Play it while I die if I die quietly or lingering otherwise at my funeral.
the song of my own pilgrim soul
blessed alone in night
occasioned by mystic lovers
daring mortal life against all comers
Yes, Really
Practice can be stated very simply. It is moving from a life of hurting myself and others to a life of not hurting myself and others. That seems so simple–except when we substitute for real practice some idea that we should be different or better than we are, or that our lives should be different from the way they are. When we substitute our ideas about what should be (such notions as “I should not be angry or confused or unwilling”) for our life as it truly is, then we’re off base and our practice is barren.
— Charlotte Joko Beck, in Everyday Zen
“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
spring
An unexamined life is schizophrenic
( dellusionary, illusionary, suffering, ignorance)
the symptom of which is ego 
 | pdlyons on Mira Gut, by pd lyons |
 | Edward-David Ruiz on Mira Gut, by pd lyons |
| Edward-David Ruiz on Anorexia Nervosa poem and phot… |
| pdlyons on 7.3.23. Morning Coffee No… |
| edward-david e. ruiz on 7.3.23. Morning Coffee No… |
