Tag Archives: manhattan

I would abandon all other cities for this… poetry & photography by pd lyons


nyc pdlyons

 

I would abandon all other cities for this…

To wake from sleep with little angels

Cross weeping waters 

Opiate lilies

Rolled tobacco porcelain skin

We would talk

 I would give out money, paper money for free

 Answer, because you are sitting on the streets I was born into this world on.

 

I would pass from them like loose wrappers

cobbled stone behind lost mythologies, strangers foreign even to my self

But I could if I want sift sea salt stolen dreams

camera fantastic songs

 long meandering trails to and from the stars siren spiralling

 a better life only in theory because I would give up all other cities for this.

 

To wake from sleep with nameless angels

Cross weeping water smugglers

Beggar a hazy sun dry enough for a nod nod noddy nod.

Soft we would talk knowing no remedy for tomorrow only respite from the past.

rest your head on my shoulder,

safe from all  clatter drift,

from the hard shelters the rough searchers the mingling watery blood sucked ones.

 

I’d tell you stories of cities abandoned long ago

Where warmth was free

Where angels had names

Where heroes would rescue even you.

I would sleep without being asleep,

  your head on my shoulder

I would not move when disentangled from my arms

you pooch my pockets for something worth taking, cash

  let you have it going,

never to call you anything but by your long-ago name

 the one your mother whispered once all sea spray

 hidden away from anyone else but me.

 

sometimes I will find quiet even in the day light

sometimes I will find a way warm into the night

by myself again

there in only gentle ghosts I blend

 my new skin, my confident sway

a sweetness beyond graves

among stars.

 

nyc pdlyons

 

nyc

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I would abandon all other cities for this… poetry & photography by pd lyons


nyc pdlyons

 

I would abandon all other cities for this…

To wake from sleep with little angels

Cross weeping waters 

Opiate lilies

Rolled tobacco porcelain skin

We would talk

 I would give out money, paper money for free

 Answer, because you are sitting on the streets I was born into this world on.

 

I would pass from them like loose wrappers

cobbled stone behind lost mythologies, strangers foreign even to my self

But I could if I want sift sea salt stolen dreams

camera fantastic songs

 long meandering trails to and from the stars siren spiralling

 a better life only in theory because I would give up all other cities for this.

 

To wake from sleep with nameless angels

Cross weeping water smugglers

Beggar a hazy sun dry enough for a nod nod noddy nod.

Soft we would talk knowing no remedy for tomorrow only respite from the past.

rest your head on my shoulder,

safe from all  clatter drift,

from the hard shelters the rough searchers the mingling watery blood sucked ones.

 

I’d tell you stories of cities abandoned long ago

Where warmth was free

Where angels had names

Where heroes would rescue even you.

I would sleep without being asleep,

  your head on my shoulder

I would not move when disentangled from my arms

you pooch my pockets for something worth taking, cash

  let you have it going,

never to call you anything but by your long-ago name

 the one your mother whispered once all sea spray

 hidden away from anyone else but me.

 

sometimes I will find quiet even in the day light

sometimes I will find a way warm into the night

by myself again

there in only gentle ghosts I blend

 my new skin, my confident sway

a sweetness beyond graves

among stars.

 

nyc pdlyons

 

nyc

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Joel, by pd lyons ( floppy version)


 

JOEL / feb. 19.86. NYC

what is there to say
now that I’ll never see your face
in a subway crowd
in a dance club or
look up from the Sunday Times
as I walk into the Borgia.

what is there to say
now that your smile,
your ways, all the things that made you you
are gone?

I remember you
I loved you
I hated you.
you were my friend.
you broke my heart.

but I was there for you
with flowers and smuggling in your favourite
foods which you could hardly ever eat
but always seemed so grateful for.

you even spoke with me –
fears , regrets and hating
what you called
“that terrorist of love”

now, today I try to bargain,
saying “but I was there for you”
as if some magic incantation
as if death and all its wilderness
could be manipulated

and all that happens is
through the water of my eyes
a dry hot stone settles

 

DSC_5298

 

I was for a brief while living in Manhattan in the 80’s. There was something happening and it was not good. I went to an apartment gathering to hear a Doctor speak about this new virus – he was late because he had just gotten confirmation on his own diagnosis.

Joel was introduced to me by the person I was living with, they had been friends for years.  He was the first person I knew who died from AIDS. Not sure if  the poem works for the reader but it does for me.

May all be free from suffering

Jenny, by pd lyons as published by The Poetry Warrior 2009


artist unknown

artist unknown

Jenny

my fingers have touched

your face

your razor cut hair

rose bud lips

every square inch of how you define your

slender secret self

vulnerable to love

shielded by the city

defensive diaphragms

nicotine & coffee

shadow sister

manhattan monochromed & cool

believing anything was possible we were the same

beneath warm tones of old bones

pictures of girls and oceans

first born anxiety

visitation eased by distance

horizons met and thus reset

soft steady ache like something summer upon green lawns

time to talk in silence

citrus in black iron

citrus in black iron

In 2009 this poem appeared in :

The Poetry Warrior –

The Real Poet’s Ezine.

www.thepoetrywarrior.com

Thank you to Abigail Beaudelle editor.

Once While I Was Away, by pd Lyons


Paris doorway pdlyons photo

You might have come

Expecting awkward greeting won by

Philosophic well planned answers to

What you thought my unasked questions were –

Accidental touch

Silent linger hands

Knowing prelude to a kiss

All it would take to unclench my heart

Inviting you in

So you’d have something to do for the afternoon  DSC_1192

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

Another one of those young love poems. probably 1980’s. not sure. but reminding me today to something Manhattanish or maybe Paris premonitions?

Paris doorway pdlyons photo

Paris doorway pdlyons photo

Paris doorway pdlyons photo

Maiden Lane, poetry by pd lyons


Back in the early eighties I was living in Manhattan. Studio apartment on Maiden Lane 14th floor – in love wth the city and in love with the girl i was living with. I was working in Queens – took the E train. Was due to start school at the School for Human Services. The towers still stood and I’d cut through the financial center to get across the highway and go grocery shopping. The Batter Park was fairly desolate in those days, especially in winter, but i could wander, any time day or night always something worth doing always even going no where was an adventure….

Maiden Lane

spoon-fed in the dark room

draped by butterfly hands

angels tiptoe all around

curling quiet across the bed

behind sunglasses and cups of old coffee

home to lands edge from the sea

the city stirs a brown wrapped overcoat

with room for damp cigarettes

and no place else to go

among the 4 A.M.’s.

~~~

down the block of slow return lean

one last quarter into the viewer

and there as far away as

possible, the rusted Dutch

freighter makes its way through

another sleepless night

like rain.

 

 

DSC_9106

titanic dry dock Belfast

 

 

Morning Piece, by pd lyons


Morning PieceCSC_1181

This morning
Wrap myself
In a one of a kind memory
Close my eyes
Slip into my hands,
Cock my head back
Lean into a Manhattan Sunday
Just before summer
On the luxury side
Of uptown
Slightly smiling.

 

 

 

as published by Galway arts centre

http://www.galwayartscentre.ie/events/view-event/75.html 2013

Espresso @ the Borgia by pd lyons from The Women a retrospective,


Espresso @ the Borgia

She used perfume
Smelled like cinnamon gum
That should be enough

If not:

Dressed in black tights
Emerald green Kamali sweater
Hair long white  recently un-braided
Red marks her mouth left on porcelain cups  

 

muses

Maiden Lane, poetry by pd lyons


DSC_8549

Maiden Lane

spoon-fed in the dark room

draped by butterfly hands

angels tiptoe all around

curling quiet across the bed

behind sunglasses and cups of old coffee

home to lands edge from the sea

the city stirs a brown wrapped overcoat

with room for damp cigarettes

and no place else to go

among the 4 A.M.’s.

~~~

down the block of slow return lean

one last quarter into the viewer

and there as far away as

possible, the rusted Dutch

freighter makes its way through

another sleepless night

like rain.

DSC_9106

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