Wishing You the Constant Joy of Your Own Song ~ by PD Lyons

 

 

Wishing You the Constant Joy of Your Own Song

The artist whose voice

still goes right through me

most exquisite of them all

I know exact and precise

As if I really knew you ~

to be forever in that moment

to be forever that creation

Where always was your joy

That is exactly where

you should always be.

 

First time  you  were 21 years old

Toads Bar in New Haven

Flew straight through

First album

One gig

No banter

No break

Your voice went right through me.

Person I was with, rest of the place,  all  disappeared.

And I knew the only joy you’d ever know

Would be the art of your own creation.

Now decades come and go

Albums now CD’s

Politics a torture

religion and Family

curses and blessings

And me someone you’ll never know

What would I wish for you if I knew that wish would come true?

 

Wishing You the Constant Joy of Your Own Song ~ by PD Lyons

 

 

Wishing You the Constant Joy of Your Own Song

The artist whose voice

still goes right through me

most exquisite of them all

I know exact and precise

As if I really knew you ~

to be forever in that moment

to be forever that creation

Where always was your joy

That is exactly where

you should always be.

 

First time  you  were 21 years old

Toads Bar in New Haven

Flew straight through

First album

One gig

No banter

No break

Your voice went right through me.

Person I was with, rest of the place,  all  disappeared.

And I knew the only joy you’d ever know

Would be the art of your own creation.

Now decades come and go

Albums now CD’s

Politics a torture

religion and Family

curses and blessings

And me someone you’ll never know

What would I wish for you if I knew that wish would come true?

 

tomatoes with black slate on green table – for Donna J Snyder

 

https://donnajosnyderpoet.wordpress.com/

and a red glass bowl

 

ash myliu KAREN, street art photograph

that’s all for today

Alan W. Watts, “Advice? I don’t have advice.”

“Advice? I don’t have advice. Stop aspiring and start writing. If you’re writing, you’re a writer. Write like you’re a goddamn death row inmate and the governor is out of the country and there’s no chance for a pardon. Write like you’re clinging to the edge of a cliff, white knuckles, on your last breath, and you’ve got just one last thing to say, like you’re a bird flying over us and you can see everything, and please, for God’s sake, tell us something that will save us from ourselves. Take a deep breath and tell us your deepest, darkest secret, so we can wipe our brow and know that we’re not alone. Write like you have a message from the king. Or don’t. Who knows, maybe you’re one of the lucky ones who doesn’t have to.”

― Alan W. Watts, born 100 years ago today

unknown artist

might be a moment in winter by pd lyons

 

 

 

might be a moment in winter
a tinsel a star gone astray
~
maybe first colour of Autumn
geese not yet on the wing
~
might be your birthday’s in April
someone with curls in their hair
~
or maybe someone with roses
whistling all summery with out a care?
~
there’s not really any rhyme or reason
not really any way to prepare
~
whenever I cry I see you
whenever I cry you’re still there

 

nameless red rose

Re: poets

 

 

Those masterful images because complete
Grew in pure mind, but out of what began?
A mound of refuse or the sweepings of a street,
Old kettles, old bottles, and a broken can,
Old iron, old bones, old rags, that raving slut
Who keeps the till. Now that my ladder’s gone,
I must lie down where all the ladders start
In the foul rag and bone shop of the heart. —

 

 

 

from W. B.  Yeats :   The Circus Animals’ Desertion

 

 

 

 

 

Titanic Belfast… and rust to rust (part 1)

doorway to the ocean

and rust to rust

green mostly

mostly green