Tag Archives: oranges

morning coffee notes pd lyons 20.2.23


20, 2, 23

Those small oranges

Not even big as a handful. The only type easy enough to peel. Flavourful enough to be worth the peeling. That first piece of peel, Always pinch it between my fingers so I can inhale the stronger scent of citrus oils. Did you know if you hold a lighted match close to the peel while you squeeze the little jets of oils will do split second bursts into flames. Each flame sounding a little bit like a whistling fire work. Tiny streaks  blue flames  for tiny moments whistling themselves out. Don’t remember who taught me that. It was one of those boyhood things that everyone in the neighbourhood seemed to know. Like how to make a sling shot using a coat hanger and some inner tubbing. Which yards you could cut through to sneak up to the reservoir. How to whistle, how to tie a slip knot, how to light a match, how to sneak cigarettes from your parents, how to fix a bicycle chain,  friends showing things to friends.


Today the rain

Sails across the sky

Sounds against the house

Even the dog keeps patient

Let’s me finish my little orange and a cuppa tea

Before setting up we’ll walk.



Let them be unto themselves

Secret never to be told

A futile fantasy

Reveals nothing

But the fact

No one can be truly known



What can you do when you don’t know where the trauma

Shaking you around all knee jerk and random

Comes from?

Where do you go when you don’t know where to go?

No places but for slow simmer heart aches occasionally boiling over. 


Hope the day brings some light your way…

bowl of fruit, words & photos by pd lyons

cheese sandwich & white wine breakfast

try to keep these pages from the mayonnaise

I am not really a poet,

I just can’t write long stories


How plain

this poem

about breakfast



like a painting of a bowl of fruit

or something.

April 27, 1978

Hope the day brings some light your way…

citrus on blue tile, by pd lyons



DSC_1536citrus on blue tile


DSC_1496oranges from spain

tile from italy

why we like Right Hand Pointing


p d   l y o n s
Herding Goats In Ithaca
she went a way up into the high lands.
she had wounds to nourish.
ghosts to speak to.
her own kind to avoid.
Last Poem Before Oregon
                for Olga Blu’
Slept in groves of oranges
Visited by only wet-nurse bees
Shaded by impossible leaves
Clouds drifting shapes of which made harlequin
Dreams disturbed gently by nimble hums
A voice like Marcello young again
 from issue 59.
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