Tag Archives: poetry

The Road You Mean by P D Lyons for Brigid Walshe my friend


 

The Road You Mean 

 

today the January snow

sky a heavy dark of steel

makes those old whiskery fence posts seem black

and too the fingers of those tall swaying trees

 searching for something 

I could not see what for

until the crows came speaking your name

and I remembered

 

The Poet reading from As If the Rain Fell In Ordinary Time 2019 erbacce-prize for poetry.


The Poet reading from As If the Rain Fell In Ordinary Time 2019 erbacce-prize for poetry. If you like what you hear I do have a few limited number editions. Will send post paid for 20.00 euros ship world wide. For availability and queries contact me directly at pdlyonspoet@yahoo.co.uk
Thanks for listening. Good luck Bye!
https://pdlyons.wordpress.com/

Found Those Places Left Behind A Kiss ~ by pd lyons


I found those places

Left behind

Ghost crumb tailings

Shadow sounds soft upon a poplar breeze

Freshwater landmarks unnoticed by untrained eyes

Feral flailing Exuberant heart

Unbridled moon lighting our delinquent ways

What would we ask each other

What would we tell

Or would we, beyond all good fortune

give up these years of fumbling words

Find the only thing our mouths were ever good for

.

true for Christmas is metaphor – best wishes from Ireland 2022


here’s the thing –
the people prayed ;
deliver us from evil,
from oppression,
poverty,
war,
pestilence,
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 next 3 from As If The Rain… read by the poet PD Lyons~ Something in the Night, Lessons On Foreign Languages in a Reeperbahn Café, Once While I Was Away


As the events of 2020 put paid to my intention to promote this book via live readings etc. I have decided to simply read the book in order on short videos. I believe the work should be heard and hope to make that happen here. Thank you if you have for listening. cheers pdlyonspoet@yahoo.co.uk.

Something in the Night, Lessons On Foreign Languages in a Reeperbahn Café, Once While I Was Away. erbacce-press Liverpool UK c2019 video c2021 pdlyons poet.

If you’d like a copy of the book contact me via email to arrange. inscribed limited editions 20.00euros regular postage incl. anywhere in the world. 15.00Euros if you’re lucky enough to live in Ireland.

good luck. bye!

note there are some sexual references here. no violence, or graphic descriptions

you can read them below but as the youtube folks say if you want the joy of watching yours truly read ’em you gotta go ~

  • Something in the Night

back then when knowing the night was an obligation

I got to meet you

we had nothing to do but each other

we had no one else we wanted to bother with

I was working at a local gas station

 pump the gas, check the oil, fill the radiator, fill the tire

 only other things we could sell – cigarettes, maps and coca cola.

I have no idea what you did something textile?

Bobbins, threads, piece work, bonus

somehow, we had met and that was all that mattered.

we liked to drive around at night,

few beers, couple packs of smokes, FM radio.

didn’t go to bars much, drinking there cost more

besides we both had this inability to not piss people off.

last time we were in a bar?

this old Irish guy, the owner, liked you at first

gave you your third drink on the house

but when he was playing pool, money on the table

you kept grabbing the back of the cue just as he shot.

by the third time it wasn’t funny, except to you.

few of the regulars told me; Better get her out of here. Now! So, I did.

we stopped off in the middle of the intersection by St.  Joseph’s cemetery

smoking, talking, kissing – more than kissing.

never a soul, not even the cops came by to bother us.

we had some incredible luck when it came to it.

I told you what my favourite breakfast was.

so, you invited me one morning, your mother’s house,

eggs Benedict you made yourself just for me.

I met your little brother then.

he was 7 maybe 10. He asked if I ever went fishing?

sure, when I was your age my dad used to always take me.

must a said I’d take him sometime

cause about a week after we stopped seeing each other I get this phone call 

could we go? maybe tomorrow? you know fishing?

I don’t remember how but I told him no. It made me feel sad.

I knew what it was like to believe you were going fishing then not.

And you?  Even if you were around, I don’t think there’s anything here you wouldn’t have already known and forgotten long ago.

  • Lessons on Foreign Languages in A Reeperbahn Café

Trees or torture…

My breasts were made for children and your hands

Choices are limited by the boundaries of the playing surface

How do you know that’s not a table?

 We could meet in Ireland by the palm trees.

Everyone drinks Guinness and whiskey, everyone drinks Paddy

Even in the ancient holes of Greece, the big dig and who

wouldn’t give up school for the bones of Archimedes?

To find the way past childhood, finding the past of childhood,

the paths of childhood past the personal to the collective…

Who wouldn’t give up tomorrow for a chance to come into Pandora’s Box?

Well when I am god, I shall bless Pandora, bless Eve, bless all those who

turned away from paradise, instead followed the stars.

Why? Why everything? Why not something else?

Ignorance may be bliss but consciousness divine…

…but if I could meet you in Ireland by the palm trees

yes, even I would drink Paddy whiskey with you from the bones

of Pandora’s ass; and we could trace the historic exile of

our childhood to the music of Springsteen’s: Point

Blank, The Price You Pay, Ties that Bind, as it tins through

some battery cassette. So, roll up another cigarette and pass

the Pandora but first let me see your eyes,

 Let me lay my tongue on yours.

 Let us swallow some of each other’s spit,

like a Red Indian blood-brother ceremony and

yes, you can be Winnetou if you want to…

When I was in Greece I lived on dirt. No not even dirt but

sand – dust. The dust of hot sun and cruel fate, the dust of

ancient tombs split open like over-ripe fruit covered

everything with a resin crust. We were fond of bones and

murders, sacrifices, lesbians, our Spartan

swords and sleeping children. We hated columns and

Parthenons. Sweated ouzo and goat fat and when we farted

little black olives rolled down and out of our pant legs.

When I was in Europe I lived on sleep. I slept for days in

Wien, Vienna, Vienne, Vienna. Slept for Beethoven at his

tomb and at his little Platz by the statue near the

Shubert ring. I was frozen in the Maria Theresian Natural

History Museum – lost among stuffed and pickled corpses of every

 creature known to man.

In Hamburg, the whole city is made of sleep. Sleep like a

giant smog impregnated everything and every moment. Its

embryonic motion grown heavy in a damp heat, like breath on

a still winter night of North Sea drifting downward with

hunger, for those German girls, who with the slenderness of

a homosexual fantasy covered me in the slick semen of their

love. Mouths moaning with love, cunts hungry

with love, assholes a dream of love…

In the states I lived on flesh. The flesh of pigs.

 Flesh of Ronald McDonald. Catholic flesh of Christ, bloodless

white and sour. I lived with the flesh of dead dogs, aborted infants;

sucked juices from the fresh wounds of teenage girls down

in the darkness of their daddy’s garages. Dracula had nothing on me man.

I walked the ninety-degree heats of New York City streets.

Streets made of skin and muscle like some giant souvenir of Auschwitz.

 Tattoos sweating black ink and muggers.

Whenever I couldn’t buy anything to eat all I had to do was lick the street –

Meat Street USA. And when I could afford to bribe my way out to

the countryside? It was for a breath of fresh blood with a

little something still warm from its own body heat to chew on.

… But now we sit by the palm trees of Ireland

 our harps hung up to dry. Pandora’s ass so dry, is

like a sponge sucking up Irish whiskey the way a drowning

man, sucks sea. We don’t sleep any more. The only flesh we

eat is our own. You have met me here have taken the blood

of my wound into your own.

So, my dearest look at me; you have the saddest eyes I have ever known.

Do you remember the peace I stole from you in Hamburg years ago?

Now there is nothing to heal, nothing, no reason to

steal. So, roll up another cigarette. But first let me lay my tongue upon

yours, let my tongue sleep awhile in that sweet hole. Let

us see how long we can stay still like that and yes, you can be Winnetou if you want to.

for Cordula

Once While I Was Away

You might have come

Expecting awkward greeting won by

Philosophic well-planned answers to

What you thought my unasked questions were –

Accidental touch

Silent linger hands

Knowing prelude to a kiss

   All it would take to unclench my heart

   Inviting you in

   So, you’d have something to do for the afternoon

the poet PD Lyons Reading from As If The Rain Fell In Ordinary Time ~ part 3, w/text


~todays menu~
Pensioners Remiss
Knowing Now the Healing Ways
Atlantic Luncheonette 
~
themes: growing old, 1970’s, love, city
 

PD Lyons Reading from As If The Rain Fell In Ordinary Time erbacce~prize for poetry 2019 erbacce~press Liverpool UK

Pensioners Remiss – incorporates a variety of scenes from my home town Waterbury Ct. St Johns Church for example is still there on the green.

Knowing Now the healing Ways – again influenced by my hometown and my first apartment back in the 70’s. 

Atlantic Luncheonette – one of those classic coffee shops in America long before Starbucks or cappuccinos. On the corner opposite the exquisite white marble Waterbury Post Office. Many a skipped school day involved the Atlantic – strategically placed half a block from the library. How ironic, skipped school to hang out in the library. They even let you smoke in there back then but that’s another poem or two…

 

Thanks for spending time . 

cheers.

good luck

bye

!

 

  • Pensioners Remiss

When I wanted to see you,

Young and available

Dresses out amidst a blue jean wasteland

Stoned as laughter smoky charms

Dancing any moment unannounced

 

On the steps of Spanish little Harlem

Turquoise as your eyes church doors

Sacramental wine just opened

A spiral of possibilities each as believable as the past.

 

When I wanted to see you,

Roads wide open looking to ride

Strong summer muscles

 Love like horses into sunset.

 

 Diamonds across that midnight sky

 Alive only in your love me eyes.

Breathless barefoot pirouette

 Limitless kitchens, dull Frigidaire light.

 Icy India Pale Ale fast as you can drink.

 Third floor back porch dawn

Aegean blue amongst a city of fearlessness.

 

When I wanted to see you,

Saint John’s Chapel Christmas

 Balsam crushed blood velvet

Crystal choir angel

Mysterious as snow.

The mouth you used an accent of hypnosis

Lead like sorrow obsessed with green

 As if summer returned between live pines

 My hands held by your own to cup each one instead.

 

When I wanted to see you,

So much more so than wherever you were

Sharper than anything ever dreamed

So much sooner than now.

 

  • Knowing Now the Healing Ways

I could touch you then. I knew you, just around the corner you. Halfway Up the stairs, you. A single rose growing between back yard rubble, you. Travelled by Grey Hound, cross the country, park bench dreamer, double dancer Zelda, you –

A tide of whirlpools. An antebellum majorette beauty queen. You were the most beautiful woman in the world. You were me as a woman. Wanting to be the first one to make love in a whole summer of dry attics never believing for one minute we could end up on the street by Christmas in Connecticut.

I was gonna. I was destined. I was the one. I was the chosen.  Could have been Jesus, preferred to be Krishna, hoped only to be Watermelon Sugar. A thing delectable to your lips, a thing you might someday remember without lying or regret.

You were anything possible,

Meeting again someday.

Around the corner, halfway up the stairs,

Eyes still same as my own,

Knowing now the healing ways,

Strong enough for love.

 

  • Atlantic Luncheonette

     I walked out into a morning

 too bright against my shadows.

Three steps down I’m on the pavement

wondering just how able I am to get along –

Stable as loose change,

  balanced as a junkie on the prowl.

   Still can’t stop thinking about moving

 where it is, I’ll finally get to.

My boots are holes turning into blisters.

Cigarettes keep tempting me with immortality.

Girls across the street dare me to smile.

 

 I make up excuses to call what I’m eating food.

The waitress sings to the radio

 with commercial interruption asks how I am.

  My eggs keep running into hiding,

The coffee strives vainly to hiccup,

 I leave a quarter for the singer,

 a dollar for the poor.

 Ask the women on the corner, how much for conversation?

They say they don’t cater to perversions – try my luck next door.

  I bump into an old friend who asks about my wife,

I say I didn’t know I had one.

Then he’s handing me a ten spot

 says here go catch a cab.

I hand the driver a social security card

he says this ain’t worth noting unless your old.

I tell him my hearts just gone arthritic

He says here pal try a gun.

Xunantunich, by pd lyons – from Myths of Multiplicity


In 1990 I was lucky enough to travel to Belize. For half the trip we were doing a horse trekking in the highlands. We stayed at a former orange plantation – i remember most vividly the flocks  of free flying parrots. They were elegant airborne acrobats so unlike those domesticated souls back in the states. We wold ride through the jungle for hours sometimes lunching by water falls, or swimming into limestone caves. we each were issued a machete to lop off the foliage as we rode. It was deemed poor etiquette to not do your fair share of keeping the trails clear. occasionally we’d pass trees of ripe citrus – reach up from horse back and pick one. Our guide had worked with Harrison Ford on a film based in Belize. He told us he really liked Harrison and became friendly with him. So much so that Harrison promised to take him back to America where he could work for him. But this never happened and now he didn’t like Mr. Harrison Ford too much no more.

Xunantunich is a Mayan  site. It had been excavated years ago, a pyramid complex. The steps of which were terrifyingly steep and slippery with wet limestone. All too quickly we would be done with our days of 4-6 hour rides and return to Belize City our only solace being to go on and spend a week on Ambergris Caye discovering the sea.

DSC_8253

Xunantunich

The silent policeman
Lay himself down
Across the great western highway
Tired from watching everyone
He wants a return to dreaming
A return to those days of the high bush
Those days of the interior.

Swimming into limestone caves
Box of toucan matches
Lighted lantern
Floats on a little block of wood
While on a smoke of kerosene
Coming back to him now, the words of his fathers:
“So now you know. Everything is alive.”

The silent policeman
Lay himself down
Across the great western highway
Tired of growing heavy with the world
He wants a way
To avoid
End of Paradise Hotels
ESSO drums
Coca-Cola CESSNAS
To return
To those days of the interior.

Behind his eyes bare foot women light the lamps
Honey shadows seep up into a palm thatch
While owls make questions of constellations
And rolling in from across the valley
A hush answers “From the pale eye of the hunter
A single tear drop fell arching over an unseen face
It touched Earth and disappeared.”

Ring tail ghosts come by
Soft grey kisses through white jungle nets of night
Beyond an ancient plaza
Immersed in some whisper of wings
Jealous eyes of jaguar
Two great gold pearls on the edge of rain.

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

DSC_8247http://www.metbelize.com/lodging.html

(unfortunately I did not get custody of the photos so none from Belize)

2015 NOTE – in setting up this blog post i search for some info re Xunantunich and found this piece of info kind of interesting, keep in mind i wrote the piece on my flight home in 1990 –  from Wikipedia listing –

Xunantunich’s name means “Stone Woman” in the Maya language (Mopan and Yucatec combination name), and, like many names given to Maya archaeological sites, is a modern name; the ancient name is currently unknown. The “Stone Woman” refers to the ghost of a woman claimed by several people to inhabit the site, beginning in 1892. She is dressed completely in white, and has fire-red glowing eyes. She generally appears in front of “El Castillo”, ascends the stone stairs, and disappears into a stone wall.[citation needed]

Xunantunich – Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia

en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Xunantunich

LyonsCover01fin)

myths of multiplicity by pd lyons 2014 runner up erbacce poetry prize

Slow Moon by pd lyons


 

Slow moon

miles ran

rain bent

poplars pines

remembering snow

flickery yellowy butterly

light

echoes of breath

along windows

washed 

as if 

my

eyes

,

Ruff excerpt from the poem Rings of Saturn by pd lyons


 

 

and you know this feeling

it is the constant star

as if you’ve been home sick all your life

for a thing you’ve always known

yet never had…

but these days are good

and also familiar 

days of peace

wet earth and time passing slowly

like the time of children and animals

the time of growing things

each moment

unfolding

each moment you’re knowing

you’ve know it all along

even before there were words to describe it

 

just as you also know

constant stranger moving through these days

unable to stay for very long

a thief only able to carry little bits away

beneath the leather jacket

in a pocket next to your heart.

the hunting fields by pd lyons


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