Tag Archives: poetry

from my badlands / words and photographs by pd lyons


along the north sea port

join a Virgil woman

guiding darker underground

 beneath the cities of men

 

up for air

 

ice hung with our breath

long wrapped woollens

nestling steel in our pockets

heated by such as our own mortal blood

behind the drapes

through the doors

 company of sailors whores and other stranded strangers

ritual of smoke

purification of rum

dreams spoke of southerner seas

twined with stories of the ice

phantomed like Frankenstein and Winnetou

every one of us a mythology onto ourselves and each other.

what you we do but cling?

what could we do but put our breathing mouths together?

labyrinth

tongues

underworld

archetype

alive.

 

 

 

 

 

 

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With Alessandra


With Alessandra

          ~

time travels softly

across the river

sun pours

volcanoes of night

suck away the day

ghosts rise hungry

clean olive scented bones

in another sleepless night

                                                                                 along this land of green dreams

 

 

 

When You Worship Swans No Longer Poetry By PD Lyons 30 March 2019


www.justbookswestmeath.com

draped in white your invisible hands , poem and photography by pd lyons


 

 

 

~

went down by the house you used to live in

all the windows had the same curtains

the one where your bedroom was was open

for a moment

draped in white

your invisible hands

wave

~

 

One poem as published by – Literariedad


Amarillo

By PD Lyons 

 

like that street
wandered down street
no siesta noon
shadowed woman leans
black iron filigree not quite a balcony
lace the colour of some-place else
drawn as if a breeze
pecan smooth her face

what would the story be?
choose that place you should not go
walnut doors second floor
barefoot invitation
whisper of late grapes
hint of something strong
dull embroidered armchair
unlaced boots
dusted finger prints
smooth as kisses table
folded towels
uncertain colour
enameled basin
clear glass tumblers
lemons sliced in water
sunlight striping something velvet on the bed

Literariedad

Revista dominical que asume la literatura, la poesía, el cine y el teatro como calles, lugares de encuentro y desencuentro. ISSN: 2462-893X.

Literariedad

Revista Latinoamericana de Cultura. Año 5. Desde Bogotá, Colombia. Apuntes de Peatón. ISSN: 2462-893X (En línea)

As published by Inquietudes Literary Journal Spring 2018


Waltzing the Night

by PD Lyons

We’d hold ourselves like prayers between each other
bare feet, beating hearts
soft by each breath
full moon kisses
beyond any daylight horizon

 

it was one o’ clock this morning.
woke up no particular reason
didn’t even need to pee.
kitchen floor so cold I hurt for shoes
stood there adjusting to Frigidaire light
three bottles of beer on the second shelf
opened one by the window
chugged a salute to those long
hard rain halos

this is not the city I used to know with you

maybe I go for another
maybe it’ll help me sleep
probably not
these days once I’m up
even beer can’t touch me

deserted even by the small comfort of your ghost
still I sway as if somehow
we’re dancing

_________________________________________________________________

links to the full issue #1 and the Journal for submissions of your own work

 

https://inquietudeslitjournal.weebly.com/issue-1.html

 

issue_1_ardor_and_anguish

 

 

poetry & photography by pd lyons


 

In the Language of Flowers, It Meant We are Already Dead

 

 

Beside whatever water there was there

Over flowing bowl an undulate of green tendrils

Draped swan songs

Left morning a capture of sorrow

She reached out to nothing there

She reached out to something ridged

Pulling itself from her heart

In and out

A pornograph of pain

The table set with only bones

Memories picked clean

A criticism of cutlery

Every single question ever asked –

A useless pointlessness recycling

Long beautiful bird like creature


 

~

all American

blonde

brown

long

tribal denim

horizontal

perfections

my eyes caught.

 

 

a voice more melodic than my own

breasts smaller than I have known

 

smiles through

even me the stranger

gone

 

 

There Is No Need To Believe by pd Lyons


unknown photographer

 

What is discovered

is beyond doubt

 

what is discovered

is beyond choice

 

free from duality

is certainty

belief has nothing to do

with what is

 

the teacher shows

the steps

the student takes

the walk

the teacher shows

a way

 

the student who goes

knows

there is no need to believe

DSC_0499

the people who had cured themselves from the virus they once called language ( a dance piece) by pd lyons


the people who had cured themselves

from the virus they once called language

~

communicated eloquently

with their hands

with their arms

with their skin colour

with their eyes

a dance impossible to be misunderstood

~

they learned of the winds worship of leaves

the way the sun and every shadow enjoyed each day by day

and the height of midnight stars all sparkling –

happy with the moon

longing for its return

~

eventually they forgot –

the coarseness of verbal abuse

the trickery of its seduction

the con of its half truths

~

they made themselves dwellers of an island

rescuers and healers of those washed up from the deep

unafraid of reinfection they let the long term healing of their lives

speak for themselves

.


William S. Burroughs

“Language is a virus from outer space”

William S. Burroughs

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