Tag Archives: poetry

Somehow Coming out at Robin’s House… from As if the Rain Fell in ordinary Time by PD Lyons


Originally published by Subterranean Blue Poetry this was part of the winning entriy for the erbacce poetry prize 2019. I once worked in a Jungian  residential treatment ctr. in Litchfield Ct. Robin worked there too as did Eva who got lost with me once in a dream of deep winters

Somehow Coming out at Robin’s House Where She Rescued Us with Coffee

 

That morning we walked into the snow

Across old farm lands

Over walls of field stone

The flakes large steady

Making it hard to see anything but them.

We’d stumble.

We’d fall.

Each of us

Quick to help the other.

Laugh sometimes,

Kiss sometimes.

Push ourselves forward.

Always forward.

semi shelter of thin woods,

some nameless river,

steepening ridge.

swirls of ever deepening ever dancing

mesmerised not bothering to melt snow

Clung

Like new eyelashes,

Like soft old useless flannel,

Like wishes form a childhood

Unable to be blown away

Or ever to come true.

 

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

 

The annual erbacce-prize for poetry is open from January 1st to May 1st every year. It is entirely FREE to enter thus it attracts top quality poets world-wide… in 2019 we had close to eight thousand entries and all were judged ‘blind’. P D Lyons was the outright winner! Below is the book we produced for him… it is sheer quality poetry, the whole book encompasses a simplicity coupled with deep insight; a truly beautiful collection which reveals more each time it is re-opened… (perfect-bound: 112 pages)

http://erbacce-press.webeden.co.uk/p-d-lyons/4586525519

 

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Sometime in this Writing Life – Sitting at the Picnic Table I Made or Rather Assembled, Ruff – by PD Lyons


 

Jefferson Airplane Volunteers  through the windows

Wide open

Cranked up.

Cohiba burning fine.

Smoke drifts fat across a still September

Evening sun cast shadows

Dog tearing up an old sock for fun

skids upon the driveway gravel.

I’m even able to do

smoke rings

while i write

magenta letters

white  loose blue line paper

relieved from all misery of updated software.

This, not anything else is

Why.

 

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Volunteers_(Jefferson_Airplane_album)

sometimes softly in ruff draft by pd lyons


So a few moths back as a graduation gift to our daughter we got to go back to Connecticut for a while. On the way over had the head set plugged in and listened to the Classic Rock section! Hendrix, Byrds, Dylan etc. filed a half a note book with scribbles, just getting to them now. And as i ‘m wanting to do a blog  post today i made it easy on myself and popped this little piece from what i’m doing right now – here. Hope its not to ruff for you.

 

 

sometimes softly comes to me

the smile of your long long ago joy

 

sometimes softly comes so vividly

an open car

your laughter

the sun all ripcord silk and shining 

 

Sometimes softly comes to me

a song you used to dance to

Ol time rock n roll

Doulble trouble shakes n all

A man and a woman a dock on a bay

 

Sometimes softer still

A kiss that dared

A possibility accepted

Your answers to

My questions

Long remembered

~

i love rock and/or roll

I love rock and’or roll!

.

About/ revised 23 August 2019


P D Lyons Winner of the 2019 erbacce-prize for poetry

Thank you to the judges and to Erbacce Crew. I am humbled and honored by this. Cheers Alan!

 P D Lyons Winner of the 2019 erbacce-prize for poetry

The annual erbacce-prize for poetry is open from January 1st to May 1st every year. It is entirely FREE to enter thus it attracts top quality poets world-wide… in 2019 we had close to eight thousand entries and all were judged ‘blind’. P D Lyons was the outright winner! Below is the book we produced for him… it is sheer quality poetry, the whole book encompasses a simplicity coupled with deep insight; a truly beautiful collection which reveals more each time it is re-opened… (perfect-bound: 112pages)

http://erbacce-press.webeden.co.uk/p-d-lyons/4586525519

 

Through the generous support of  Westmeath County Council a limited edition of 50 numbered and signed copies are available to purchase direct from the poet at €20.00 to include standard postage world wide.  Please click on the cover below to order via PayPal

LyonsCover

PD Lyons

Born and raised in the USA. Travelling and living abroad since 1998. Now permanently residing in Ireland.

Received The Mattatuck College Award for Outstanding Achievement in Poetry.
Received Bachelor of Science with honours from Teikyo Post University Connecticut.

Two books of poetry Searches For Magic, and Caribu & Sister Stones: Selected Poems, have been published by Lapwing Press, Belfast. A third book, Myths Of Multiplicity, published by Erbacce press Liverpool as part of the 2014 Erbacce International Annual Prize was officially launched at the Westmeath County Library, Castlepollard Ireland on 9December 2014.

The work of PD Lyons has also appeared in many magazines and e-zine/blogs throughout the world. Including, The SHoP, Books Ireland, Irish American Post, Boyne Berries, Virtual Writer, Slipstream, West 47 Galway Arts. Recently selected to participate in Human Rights Consortium at the School of Advanced Study, University of London publication titled ‘In Protest: 150 Poems for Human Rights’.

Relevant websites:

‘In Protest: 150 Poems for Human Rights’.
In Protest: 150 Poems for Human Rights is an ambitious new publication aiming to bring together the fields of human rights research and literature in an innovative way. Selected from over 600 poems submitted by established and emerging poets, it provides a rare international insight into issues ranging from the trans-Atlantic slave trade, the Hola massacre and indigenous peoples’ rights to the current war in Syria.

http://www.sas.ac.uk/about-us/news/protest-new-poetry-anthology-explores-human-rights-and-social-justice

Myths of Multiplicity , all profits to benefit Erbacce writers co-op

http://www.erbacce-press.com/#/p-d-lyons/4586525519

Searches For Magic, and Caribu & Sister Stones,

http://www.freewebs.com/lapwingpoetry/

 

PD Lyons Blog : https://pdlyons.wordpress.com/

Picture 068

20 September 16, ceremonies of the horseman ruff by pd lyons


 

prisoners haunt the hallways

 

opportunities regretted

 twists turns past lives

I didn’t want to leave

only dry hollow husks

blown reluctant to participate in my one and only treasure.

 

 I lived in a time

when women sat beside me whispering on back porch landing’s

 interrupted by neighbours running down the stairs

 hands wet beneath Danskin purple skirts

she spoke of how in past or future it didn’t matter which

I was her child she the mother

 knowing I would go on to crucifixion

suckled me with saltwater glistening breasts mingling milk

into my hungry hot house mouth.

 

were there ever other places other days,

freedom? confidence?

 a mouth full of meat?

a belief anything was possible?

 

 

 

I stood with someone once at midnight

 not just a time but the place

 a place where midnight born and lives out in each of us.

The place of my mid night?

 sometime in October out there by the water

breath rising in smoke, dew soaked shivering pirate breath kisses

 

 I called you cypress by moon light,

 buccaneer beauty I chose

 there in the place of my own midnight

 you but not you rather the you of what you ever were.

 

 I called you Guinevere by moonlight

 lay down with you there

 in the place of our own midnight

 among cold Halloween coarse grass

surrounded by stolen beer bottles

 a dwindling hedge barely separated from the street.

 

The only promise I ever kept?

 never a mathematician or carpenters’ wife.

I have not even now more years than miles can tell – broken that promise.

 

Sometimes I forget I made it,

sometimes I forget to congratulate myself for not breaking it,

sometimes I try to barter it, threaten to turn my back if somebody doesn’t pretty soon pay me for it.

 

 But I am not the famous rebel, not the muse’s figure head –

quietly steadily I am only the keeper of my own promise

born from misguided Madonna’s introduced by white women to the place of my own midnight

 

I have never stopped; I have never turned back.

 That’s all I have ever really done with all that treasure which was my life.

 no big deal but still, something real. no surrender, no slipping,

no disparity of one who broke the only promise ever truly made.

 

Yes, still writing. Yes, still the poet.

 

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

there will be a time when I walk alone no possibility of interruption, no sense of anything but wonder. ready to go anywhere – I will alone step upon a beach of star dust, a twilight evening morning without distractions of any sun rise. Body resembling translucent moons encircled with rings like Jupiter silver oh you know what I mean.

 to walk alone totally alone; the great adventure that. every step a holy ground, every step unknown places beckoning without distraction. the only one around, me walking without reluctance across the universe. And when like some great invisible hand reaches out  cupping me as if my whole body but a sweet lovers cheek, the last eyes I see before I know of eyes no longer? my own reflected back across an endless sky as if in kissing my own self one brief momentary glimpse of the Krishna that is and always has been me.

No longer afraid, narcissism the enduring aspect of the world in the jingle jangle mornings I have followed and loved only you.

 

.

 

 

Mr. Tambourine Man. B. Dylan, Bob Dylan Live 1975. Play it while I die if I die quietly or lingering otherwise at my funeral.

 

sometime when i cry, words by pd lyons, photograph by morgan lyons, music by Raveonettes


 

 

Sometime  I will surrender all the hard hear life

Sometime I will understand courage has nothing to do with anger

I will remember your face and smile

I will remember your touch and smile

Allowing just the experience of happiness

Allowing just that experience

Surrendering the need to go further

Staying just for the brief soft moment of love

Not needing the hard heat strength to go beyond

 

 New Haven


 

 

along marvellous streets

 the girl walks on her toes

sneakers let the ballet peer out with wonder

 

amid this morning garden slipping into the shade

who is it gives you pentagrams

whispers water lily secrets

when your mornings get too heavy?

 

Leaving the Stars behind

I call you flower by moonlight

you call me cypress by spring

I watch you from evening

change grey misty morning

across the spider down day

16 3. 73.

 

 

FIELDS OF CAPRICORN words and photography by pd lyons


 

FIELDS OF CAPRICORN

 

 with ash figures, smudge me.

 with woman oil, mark me.

 from the little lady of the green, offer  water

she who taught me how to drink.

 tonight, with common ancestry

across our knees, we sit.

 with a blade made by my own teeth, cut.

 blood speaks. all deaths are nourishing.

from the little man of the bone tattoo

offer  warm flesh,

he who teaches how to eat –

this is the man time.

 

 

 

What if We Could Meet the World Unwounded? & Demons prose poetry photos by pd lyons


 

What if We Could Meet the World Unwounded?

The inner wounded child haunts us Why? Because we bind it. Our attachments to this child, Desires to relive To ease and protect from all pains past and potential keeps this woundedness froze in time. Locked in. Seeking to replicate past scenarios, attempting a new positive result. But each time the super sensitive ever-woundedness simply fulfils its own prophecy

Can we dissolve that attachment? Can we allow our own courageous awareness to perceive what is true? Can we  let the child be?  Then to joyously go – just the way we wanted to be when we really were that very young?

 

 

Demons –

These are thoughts

I conjure, use

To make me child of wounds

Feel important

Feel real

But how subtle this ensnarement

Creates only an unsolvable past

Layer by layer

A prison of ghosts

Let go Let be

If I let the child go

Now

Just the way we wanted to be when we were young

Blissful free

No need for demons ever again

 

Everyone whoever caused my wounds

Are either dead or so far removed (in time or distance)

Can no longer cause me harm

Neither can I give you,

What you should have had.

I cannot go back and fix the past.

But I can give you freedom now

I can let you go, unchained from an unresolvable past.

Be free be free be free at last

 

And now my anger demon

You’re finally done

This child so faithfully protected  now free,  moves on.

So too may you be.

Thank you for your diligence, your vehemence, your loyalty.

Thank you for your faithful service.

You may go. you may leave. you may enjoy the bliss of freedom.

Be free be free be free at last.

Now that energy once locked into being ever vigilant, ever ready?

available to be new again.

 

And now my arrogance demon

There is no need to be special

No need to sooth this child’s wounding by invulnerability.

You do not need to know or act as if you do know everything.

This child indeed special. This child indeed free.

Relax faithful hero this child who is free needs no protection

Relax valiant healer, willing, wishing saviour

Thank you for your faithful work

be free be free be free at last.

Now that energy once locked into being ever vigilant, ever ready?

available to be new again.

 

 

 

 

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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