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23 3 23 Morning Coffee Notes by PD Lyons

On today’s tray ~ Woman Blood Christ Female Darkness


23 3 23


Grail Woman Blood Bride Christ

Easy to read the new testament with feminist eye. The goddess is there before us. The only missing part is ourself. To read with our heart not with someone else’s law.


Try Eve ~


Serpent ancient symbol of immortality

Knowledge wisdom tree of knowledge

Every oppressor dictator in history considered knowledge to be a sin.

There is more mannishness than godliness in the wrathgod’s jealousy.

Eve the mother offering immortality – life to her children and to the one she loves.

Someone has deemed that a sin worthy of being exiled.

Again, smells like toxic masculinity rather than god to me.

So, we are exiled from Eden/eve.

We are exiled from the mother. The one who gives all in favour for the one who doles out.

The one who loves freely as the mother as the Christ.


Put it back. Make it real.

Every feast day for every woman saint together in the front pews women should sit together. Every event for Mary. line the pews together. Every rosary sit together. Show every priest the solidarity of the mother with her children. Mary with Christ. Children with the Mother Church.

What Christ has wrought with eve

What Christ has Wrought with Mary

Let no mere man break asunder.

One of the most female based religions needs the involvement of women in order to be restored. Healed.



The new testament of Christ is to be read as antidote to the old testament of wrathgod. That’s the rebel Jesus. Love over idolatry. Kindness over stone. 



Once We Knew the Dark

No matter where days may differ but darkness is the same.

What if I lead you by the mouth?

Places underwater you could breathe in

Fingers taught on instruments stranger than bones

Drawn by strings reminiscent of words long ago

Familiar colours since extinct.

When winter was all there was could you find reasons to celebrate?

No matter how elaborate windows intricate trees harmonic songs

What does it take to lure a silver sun?

Bleaktitude chased

Hot whiskey voices

Oak wood smoke

CúirtRed berry holly

Slender secret ghosts vulnerable to love.

If it were long ago and my name was Jesus

Would you change your name for me?

Would you be my Mary?

I have become food for other creatures

Things I never knew existed indulge themselves in me

Grey not white birds mark my passing secret self

No evidence during that time of my existence

Yet even so something still remains:

A dying ember tenderness unquestioned.


Drawn to the wound in you moon strong as my own

A thing to be fingered or fucked a place to meet or loose ourselves.

What makes me want to reach in wonder what shape your creatures take as I do?

Unlike them others, reverse rodents unable to stay,

I’m not afraid. I know nothing survives the future.

Why wait for secrets? When we forget enough we die.

21.3.23. Morning Coffee Notes by PD Lyons

On todays tray:

stories, energy, equanimity, democracy, boomers, oppression, religion , and coffee.


21 3 23


I have often told my self stories

Then believed them to be true simply because I was the one who told them

These have been the cause of all my suffering




There is energy. There is us needing to identify these energies. To categorise, conceptualise, judge. The defining of energies makes us feel solid, in control. That’s why joy, peace, kindness usually seen as strength. Not like anger or hatred, these give us a delusion of being solid, strong. These mask our fear of not knowing who or what we might really be. Through them we pretend to know what we are – firm solid strong hero of our own story.

There is energy.

It needs no identification

In order to be

But it takes a bit of courage

To let go of the pretence of being solid.


Reading life like poetry expands your world






There is energy.


There is energy that is good

There is energy that is bad.


There are types

Tired energy






There is energy




Whatever tells you

Don’t look

Don’t care

Don’t question

Don’t learn

Don’t love

Don’t live

That isn’t democracy or religion,

That’s oppression.



True Democracy

See I was taught that democracy takes courage. The courage to allow the rights of the other. Not only their right to exist but their rights of life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness. That it takes democratic courage to allow the other a voice, a choice, a privacy, an equality.

The belief that majority rules is erroneous with regards  to true democracy. Otherwise, everything depends on the personal belief of the many. This is only might makes right, this is not democracy. Democracy is the courage of all to allow the human and civil rights of all.

The question we should be asking people is – do you really want to live in a country where the your rights and the rights of others may justifiably be revoked every time the majority demographic shifts?

Today when I look at my country that’s what I  see. Rather than the nurturing of courage, it seems to perpetuate the right to bully, the right to instil fear, the right to make money at all costs, the right of might – with no regard for the amount of misery, tragedy, or instability it causes  its own citizens or the rest of world.

It has always taken extreme courage to be democratic. It still does.




I live only in memory
The day to day does not inspire me
I only want to sit here think about what used to be.

Here only in my own home.
Locked doors, paid taxes, insurance policies, protect me.
TV,  petrol chemicals, nourish me.

People not like me outrage me.

by PD Lyons



It is much easier to philosophise about pain

While it’s not active



11.3.23 Morning Coffee Notes (re: suicide ) by pd lyons

pd lyons photography

The first time I went to a funeral was for the wife of one of my then sister in laws friends. She had shot herself in the head. She wasn’t anyone I knew well but I’d met here now and then. She seemed so very happy. Like they were a good match, and their little boy was doted on. I’d heard how when her husband came home from work he found her. I could only imagine so I did. Her lovely blonde hair blood clots brain. And what about her face? I think she used a rifle or a shot gun. Pistols were harder to get in those days. Fortunately, the son was at school or out or something. Maybe she didn’t want him to see. Any way she was 24  only a few years older than myself.  I’d left not really wanting to stay long. But not before the little fellow tried to get the coffin open so he could be with mommy.


It might be because of this my heart has always been open to those who choose to end their lives and those who survive choice. You know the families friends loved ones friends. While I can understand all their emotional and reactions I never get how other folk make it their business to get angry and demonstrative about it. At times even ridiculing the dead person. I guess since anger always comes from fear they must be afraid of what they cant control and feel threatened in some way by a person’s choice even though it has nothing to do with them.


But family and loved ones etc I think that they must be accepted and respected allowed their expressions.


Sometimes the best we can do is stand beside the grieving and keep our silence as respect and encouragement.




We had come to that place

Where sometimes a river, a chasm, an ocean, a darkness

We, unlike you could go no further.



Snow comes soft fragile slowly

Each unique contribution

Until stopping the world in its tracks.




We’re all going to be hurting

At times we’ll be tempted to lash out.

As if anger can push away our hurt.

Do your best to not give in to that urge.

The more you allow yourself to feel

The more you allow yourself to heal.

The more you lash out,

The more the hurt grows.


Over the years I would learn more about suicide and families. My work in residential treatment centres and drug addiction and jut everyday life ( no pun intended)


Stainless un-marked sky


Against a powder green wall single bed

Magazine photos yellow cellophane taped

No underwear favourite red t-shirt

30/06 lever action

Blue barrel fingerprints

Weevil ticking toes

Flys hum against the glass

Until heat makes everything

Even outside



Beneath that shirt

Bump each little island

Up to where if a boy

An Adams apple ‘d be.

Knees steady. Butt end

On a white board floor.


Spidering fingers.

Raw cotton breath.

Knowing it’s loaded.

Stainless un-marked

Alone in your room







Last Poem Before Oregon


Slept in groves of oranges

Visited by only wet nurse bees

Shaded by impossible leaves

Cloud drifting shapes of which made harlequin

Dreams disturbed gently by nimble hums

A voice like Marcello young again

Lip sticking fully curved

Remember the time

We discovered our deep lush alikeness

And rose, perfect stamens

A fruit of aching beauty



 for Olga




Morning coffee notes 22.2.23



She told me she was going out to lunch with her friend. Even asked if I wanted to come along. I was busy at the typewriter, so I said maybe next time.

  Came back, told me she’d seen a lawyer and wanted a divorce. I was so angry I just said Fine. Packed a back, left.

 A while after, once it was settled I was picking up the rest of my stuff.

She asked me Why?


Why didn’t you fight for me, for our marriage.

I don’t remember what I said but I wasn’t angry anymore.



How should I treat pain?

With kindness.

When I can.

No matter how many years it takes.



February sun dances

Crisp morning across my fingers

Each breath catches wonder

Each step keeps me close



In fact, we don’t really see anything. We perceive reflections of light. And of the light spectrum we only perceive partially. Our eyes are limited. So, what we can’t “see” we decide does not exist. Or we decide it might exist according to our own impositions. Either way, all the while our vision of reality is based on what we don’t really see much like that which our eyes cannot perceive anyway.

Why are we crazy?



Somethings I’ve known Come back to me

Meandering horses, stray dog, orange cat

A smile you had when you were three



true for Christmas is metaphor – best wishes from Ireland 2022

here’s the thing –
the people prayed ;
deliver us from evil,
from oppression,
all this misery.
And hearing their prayers
they were sent an answer.
But it wasn’t a king,
an army,
a weapon,
a political party,
not even a religion –
but rather with all the miracle and glory
 their prayers were answered
with a child.

Remember to remember

The Ghost of My Mother’s Lover, by pd lyons as published by Gone Lawn

The Ghost of My Mother’s Lover by PD Lyons

Sometimes I would find the things he left, loose change under the cushions, a little red box of wood matches (that my mother took away), black liquorice candies wrapped in stripped silver foil
And once a big silver skeleton key – that he really left for me.

One night I woke up, hearing his voice, his voice form my mother’s room, his voice talking and talking. I went up to the door which was not quite closed – they were in bed together. He was sitting up and mother lay with her arms around him, head on his bare chest. He wasn’t just talking
he was reading, so I sat down there in the hallway and listened about Morgana the sister of a king.
I guess he didn’t notice my mother was asleep because he kept on reading and whenever he turned the page I thought he would look right at me and smile.

I listened as Morgana looked into the water for pictures of the future and how some of the knights did not like her but there was one, one with dragons on his arms who loved her very much, how it was Morgana who taught the little girls of Avalon to serve the Goddess…And I thought I have to ask him, who is this Goddess?

I must have fallen asleep there on the floor by the door of my mother’s room because the next thing I remember I am being carried and in his arms! My face against pictures of blue stars and a black winged horse on his shoulder. His smell a little like the ocean mixed with something from
my mother’s kitchen. His muscles so great that with one arm he held me while with the other pulled back the blankets, swung me down into my bed so fast I almost laughed out loud then tucked me in.

Through my half closed eyes I could see his face coming closer and closer, then his lips touched my forehead – but soft like mother’s kiss even though his breath of smoke and prickly chin were not at all like mother. As he pulled away he said so that I could hardly hear, “Sleep well. Sleep well little Morgana.”

Then I remembered I wanted to ask him… I sat up and said “Tell me -” But he was gone
and already the light in my mother’s room put out.

Featured Image -- 6462

This piece appeared in Gone Lawn #2, winter 2010   http://journal.gonelawn.net/issue2/Lyons.php

wrote this in the  mid 90’s i’d say.

was living with the Mists of Avalon by Marion Zimmer  http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Mists_of_Avalonand Starhawk’s  The Spriral dance http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Spiral_Dance .being very influential in those days

. Gone Lawn are, as of this writing actually still publishing  – http://journal.gonelawn.net/glj_about.php

as published by gone lawn


Slow Moon by pd lyons


Slow moon

miles ran

rain bent

poplars pines

remembering snow

flickery yellowy butterly


echoes of breath

along windows


as if 




the hunting fields by pd lyons

Halloween, For all who’ve gone before we celebrate your passing and our own waiting.

Girls by pd lyons


no need of piano

rain subdued colour late summer

maybe never stopping

curtains drawn in hope

everything soft

afternoon kisses

beloved new

knowing nothing but discovery

How like dreams now

these days too


by pd lyons 2022

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