Che by pd lyons w/photos

ruthless pursuit of your own dream.

suffering, the only reward for those who commit themselves to a dream.

swamped by muck of the masses.

vain valiant fool.

exhaustion your killer.

all sucked away, your ideals, your blood.

too late for you.

too late for those who loved you.

the people get the leaders they deserve.

no one asked you to die for them,

so they killed you.

2002.

easily cherished by pd lyons

 

an armature chess crossin

fine tattooed ass

indigo satin

fine breathless

golden brown caffeinate

unable to lullaby

sircular

sircular

rosebud plum tippin

clearly dew dippin

wishes

true unanswerable laughter

easily cherished

cherished

and so easily

cherished

.

First Day of Spring, by pd Lyons. As published by Shift Lit – Derry

First Day of Spring

my daughter asks me
why did people invent war?
don’t they know it’s the devil not god that likes war?
do children have to fight?
do they kill children too?
boys, and girls?
how old are the children?
why don’t the soldiers just quit?

and then the sound of helicopter passing
she thinks it wondrous dashes off to look

and for all those for whom that sound is terror?

because of them
we must love the world
all the more

Published in Shift #4 Revoution Issue:

http://www.facebook.com/SHIFT-Lit-Derry

photo by shift lit derry

published by Poetry Warrior 2009 ~

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

—
The Poetry Warrior, The Real Poet’s Ezine.

www.thepoetrywarrior.com

jenny published by poetry warrior 6 issue aug.09 www.thepoetrywarrior.com.

Thank you to Abigail Beaudelle editor.

Little Witches & The Winters House in Winetown read by the author pd lyons

Little Witches

One little witch

with bright yellow shoes

did a magic spell and then there were two

two little witches

in a white birch tree

did a magic spell & then there were three

3 little witches

at the red kitchen door

did a magic spell and then there were 4

4 little witches

sharpen  silver knives

did a magic spell and then there were 5

5 little witches

on blue broom sticks

did a magic spell and then there were 6

6 little witches

At a quarter past eleven

Did a magic spell and then there were 7

7 little witches

on a green metal gate

did a magic spell and them there were 8

8 little witches

making spider wine

did a magic spell and then there were 9

9 little witches

chasing grumpy ladies and cross face men

did a magic spell and then there were 10

10 little witches

with their little black cats

did a magic spell and next Halloween they’ll all be back!

The Winter’s House in Winetown

Was Saturday the witches came

haggard hoary bristly three

and in the kitchen at the sink

incanting charms and pantry spells

resorted themselves to beauty.

Then went down to the lake again,

 fairy visits and cool trees,

bouquets cut of certain weeds

grown only on forgotten graves.

Taunted dreaming frogs with transformation.

Lured from whispering reeds,

wood duck, heron, silent swan.

Cupped and rubbed soft feathered chins,

 left them fast asleep invisibly protected for the night.

Velvet bats alight upon their fingers

 sang them softly twinkling songs,

until blown away by kisses, flew off beeping through the dark.

Back home then for mid night tea

around a blazing fire.

Wood rum, pale cakes, spiced ales.

Nettle cheese, pumpkin slices, chestnuts roasted,

mushrooms honeyed, cups of steaming coffee coco.

Where greeted right well all manner of visitors.

Unknown travellers of the night.

Those with, as well as those without, a definitive day time shapes.

But none so well as the tabby cat.

Intent on playing catch the front porch pixies

strayed bounding in across the flagstone floor

and before she could correct herself and flee?

Clear bowls of cream.

Cooked river fish.

Petted, stroked, and secret named,

until red cushion velvet by the fire purred herself to sleep.

And at the first faint sign of sunrise?

a final toast of elderberry

a spell to do the tidy up

stumble giggle up the stairs

to find their way beneath the blankets into my creaking bed

Cover photo of Mays Book in my Kitchen. words by PD Lyons Poet

(May Sarton)

 

how many years

how many miles

 

today the sun just above the horizon

orange auras long silver fingers

 

first frost this year

my unkempt garden

my unkempt heart

 

wilderness

not afraid

 

I would not set the desk

so, my back be to the window

 

I would squander how many poems?

for the distracting view.

 

as well as to be honest

I’d like to see anyone who’d be coming

or thing for that matter

but as I think on that, I realize

 

here in my kitchen

I do indeed have my back to the wall so to speak

I have no view of the front or side driveways

 

only a slight view over the  sink

uneven fence line, ruff grass field, distant trees

not one inch of a glimpse of the little lake

destined to be sapphire in this daylight

the house was not built by someone with views in mind

 

the laundry machine dominates

the last load dwindles the side windows

sweatshirts, dress shirts, Morgan’s school jumper

hang on the curtain rail

 

still the sun finds a spot of gloss on the black mahogany table

just in time for me to go.

~

two swans

over a lake I cannot see

this morning brought November

unknown photographer

 

 

say yes. “yes”

“…I was a Flower of the mountain yes when I put the rose in my hair like the Andalusian girls used or shall I wear a red yes and how he kissed me under the Moorish wall and I thought well as well him as another and then I asked him with my eyes to ask again yes and then he asked me would I yes to say yes my mountain flower and first I put my arms around him yes and drew him down to me so he could feel my breasts all perfume yes and his heart was going like mad and yes I said yes I will Yes.” Ulysses J. Joyce

 

yes

why we like yes factory

Hey PD!

Sorry about the delay, we were totally overwhelmed with the number of submissions that came in. We’s like to publish As If The Rain. We aren’t asking for first rights, just the right to run your story in our digital magazine and feature it at the release party. We’re having the shindig in Brooklyn, NY on September 1st. We’ll send you an invitation mid-week if you agree.

The Yes Factory

http://www.theyesfactory.org/

Why we like Pyrokinection & Jellyfish Whispers

pd,

 

I am pleased to tell you that your poem, “only august” is slated for publication on Jellyfish Whispers on July 29th.  Additionally, your poem “belize” is slated for publication on Pyrokinection on September 10th.  I am going to pass on the other piece this time.  I will email you again when your poems go live on our sites.

 

Thanks again for your support of our new projects.  And please be sure to stop by our new mother site, http://www.kindofahurricanepress.com/, and check out our call for submissions for our first anthology!

 

A.J. Huffman

editor, Pyrokinection

editor, Jellyfish Whispers

kindofahurricanepress@yahoo.com

three from Wanting To Be In The Old Tongue by pd lyons

WORSHIP SWANS NO LONGER

 

When you worship swans no longer

Will you find your way to me?

Smoke rising in a breathless voice

Winding between shade and sun

A dream begun on dew drops

Daring midday like a ghost

Vowing never to fly

From your embrace

 

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

 

 

 

 

 

LITTLE SADIE

 

black velvet traveler

dark morning herald

solitary secrets kept

well behind green eyes

alluded only by such offerings

as left upon our doorstep shrine.

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

VIRGINIA, CO. CAVAN ’98

 

winter wash

sails on hemp rigging

 places precious

this January sun.

strong wind, clear sailing,

a rising Tahitian blue,

fed by silver slips of memory

travelling on wings of fantasy

calling sea birds soar

above a mucky barking back yard dog.

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

from Wanting To Be In The Old Tongue

poems of an Irish descent

by pd lyons

Copyright © 2011 PD Lyons

All rights reserved.

:

ISBN-10: 1466272996

pdlyonspoet@yahoo.co.uk