Tag Archives: pd lyons photography



   truth needs no violence




I know forever is the memory of your touch, by pd lyons

Angels with broken wings

I taste the sin they bring

I want to cling to them

But something always haunts me


Lust that is true,

Dreams that have gone astray

Down every road you know there’s really nothing much to choose

The siren’s sweet lament

Their spell is my intent

But there’s something in my head denying my attempt

A kind of howling sound says I am pledged to you


I cross the thousand years

Part the veil of tears

Despite the demon fears

I’m reaching out for you

And breaking through at last

The circle finally cast

Kneeling down I bow my head to you

My sword at your feet

My crown on your lap

My heart into you hands

I am my Lady’s man

from  Still Wishing To Be Ravens – 2009


happy new year


true, by pd lyons


The clouds

do not take the sky



Newish, by pd lyons


even if I told you
even if you believed
would it make a difference
would it change the things that made me , me?

if the ocean would have a name
would it be the one you gave?
not by tongue alone
but browned skin
salt sting
surrendered willingly
expressed audibly
 by  simply rhythmic breath?


the sea made her way
snuck up river
dared an overland short cut
crossed the lake
hitched a ride over the high land
to where the old man sat
 against white stucco
Cuban cigar smoke shaping summer’s first day of heat


right away she began
whispering rolling waves
sounds of silver birds
stars like diamonds
pure black
as if traveling among them there would never be another horizon

behind his eyes the old man simply smiled
oh ribbons of smoke softly audible ahs

at which she paused
saw him then as he truly was
and knew all she could ever  do
was return from whence she came
never to kiss his pale grey eyes again


July 23 14

For All The Sylvias , by pd lyons from Myths Of Multiplicity

from the recently published Myths Of Multiplicity. Erbacce-press, Liverpool UK. If you order from Erbacce then not only is postage free

but all profits will directly benefit Erbacce writing co -operative.




For All The Sylvias

sometimes our Odysseus hearts
slip all those sailor knots

sometimes life, not appalling,
rather free – so free we can choose to fly

we have not always carried
flaming skulls of anger
sipped curdled clots of blood

we have not always harmonized
harsh heavy dogs of our dismay
gristled our own lovers

sometimes we have slipped clearly,
breathless and perfectly certain
beyond all mysterious constraint

sometimes we do not come back.

sapphiric no more
golden filigree no more
sun dress polka dots
tall G&T’s
heart shape sunglasses

our children pail and shovel the beach
their laughter, their chatter
muted by waves
grown more distant,
ever more distant


from the recently published Myths Of Multiplicity. Erbacce-press, Liverpool UK. If you order from Erbacce then not only is postage free

but all profits will directly benefit Erbacce writing co -operative. http://www.erbacce-press.com/#/sales/4528051110




Leaving This House, by pd lyons

Leaving This House

Through leopard clouds the day’s sunlit fingers open,
soft afternoon, occasional whispers between finches
knowing my need for such kindness
even crows come quietly…

What is it of memory and seasons?
What does this shift to autumn bring me?
Why remember what I do? Forget what I forget?

A bed of rolled up cotton,
sun dried white sheets against pale skin,
wishing it was some hangover
so wind chimes could sound beautiful again,
sunlight be inviting and coffee all the medicine you’d need.

I know of this other time when drowsy dancing on sweet wine
we sank beneath that wind chime tree
surrendered on the beating earth
something more than blood and bones,
a tender lightening wove between us
our own muscles able to change the world.

Now such things can not be spoke of.
Distorted by sick eyes they’d only deepen your
regrets, as if what was could ever not be.

If you responded to preaching I’d simply preach.
Instead I must lure you by disguise –

Coffee from thin sharp equatorial mountains,
audibly stirred blue stone mug.
Herbs infused with full ripe summers.
Small secret woodland tinctures.
Ointments rich in years of flowers.
Oils soaked in sunlight, stored in our own damp cellar
warmed as needed over an open flame.

Somewhere past all anger, melted only by tears, yield the ways of memory.




Grandview Avenue, by pd lyons

Grandview Avenue

We were walking
Hand in hand
Up the hill
In the rain

You had your bright red scarf
Wrapped around your head

Traffic swished by
Lights on
Wipers squeching

We didn’t know what the day would bring
But I turned my face up to the sky
Trusting my own two feet and you to guide me





what is true remains.

for me writing is something I do, sometimes I want to sometimes I don’t, but always I do. as if someday maybe all those written words sifted through, subtracted from ,will leave remaining some thing I don’t know, but want to find out – what’s left after I subtract all the words of a life time – that’s what I want from it. For what is true remains.


sometimes in this writting life

sometimes in this writing life

Before The Growing Season Of Grass by pd lyons


Kent Leopard , Kent Ct.Lilly

Kent Leopard , Kent Ct.Lilly

Dreams Before The Growing Season Of Grass

by pd Lyons

Not early enough
The day already begun
Anyone with any place to be
Already there or else so late not worth fretting about.
Brand new bus half empty
At least two hours to go.

No ghosts dance over the river.
No diamonds tip the foliage.
From  dark shapes emerge;
A girl you used to know
Leads a horse you used to own
Liver chestnut
White star snip
Bucks rears dares

Once your brown hands could do anything:
   Melt the mouths of untried horses,
   Finalize another divorce,
   Set fence posts well bellow the frost line.
   Pull sunglasses from a girl,
   Hold her slight surprise,
  To kiss and kiss and kiss
  As if  there would never ever be anything else to ever do again.

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