Tag Archives: poetry

Now Safe in Snug Harbour, (sometimes in this writing life part 12) by pd lyons


Think there is nothing left because

Things are not they way they were?

I have shouted at the city-blocked midnight

Danced fence post crooked side walked racially slurred neighbourhoods

Found my way past numerous boot strap bras soft slung underwear

Love named and nameless

roof tops-vestibules – pinewood -parked cars – basements – garages – around the corner from some bar

All long railroads of dreams no longer gleaming dull rust misuse


Waiting supplicant for the dew that would soon cover us

 Cold reservoir air upon one another

 Our mouths an open universe.



And days or nights never mattered

Hit by shrapnel amphetamine opiate subduction 

Elegantly by psychedelics led,

What is behind whatever it is that things have become?

Oh these  were meat for you

All this was blessed for words by you

And I needed to know was nothing because all newness was all sacred.


Tears of lovers in the dark

Knowing soon that we would part

No longer see another day

The way we were

 Now so far away


All my instruments pointed

All my solitude true

It was not to other lovers

No mortal could compare

No substance base, mercurial,

will ever compare  with you. 


I could not understand factories of men and bee

Women Buying Guns In America, by pd lyons as published in/by Rolling Thunder Quarterly #11



Smash the fuckin’ TV walk barefoot in the snow

Pierce ourselves with steel

Chew tequila worms ‘til the hand of god wipes our mouths

Piss wherever, say whatever fuck whoever

Fearless with the night of any street of any place

And no Thelma and Louise

We don’t die

Don’t even get caught

We hide

Disguised as geriatric cunts

Happy enough to sleep now

Two ends of the same rope coiling

Richly deserved pools of never never land

Surrender only to each other

 Our Peter Pan tongues.


as published in/by

Rolling Thunder Quarterly: Fall 2013

as published in/by

No Matter How Many Promises Are Broken At Least The Guns Are safe In America by pd lyons

we did not really call you Promise

but we could have

we did completely loose ourselves in the joy

of your deep dark eyes

we did believe that you were a promise to us

as we would be to you

all your bright and wonderful

all your possibility and purpose

we would protect you

we would nourish you

we would teach you

we would dance at your wedding

we did not really call you Promise

but we could have


Sometimes in This Writing Life – you get lucky


So back in the day Books Ireland had a New Writing section.  “A showcase for un-published writing, edited by Kevin Kiely..” On several occasions Kevin selected some writings from an American blow-in, aka myself. Thanks again!



How Like Dreams Now the Days Too Fade, by pd Lyons. Re: Ethel Pollard Lyons Thanks to Donna J Snyder for telling me

Last night I had a dream about you. Nothing major. We just met face to face. You were telling me about my grandmother. We were outside in the sand. I was surprised you knew her. I  never knew she went to Mexico. It was hot. We sat down at a rough grey whiskery  table.

Yes, you said and she rode very well.  A bright grey horse among the caballeros. “And tequila ?” I leaned towards you tete-a-tete  ” What about  the tequila…?” But the scraping sound of speeding traffic brought me into this morning. And I wondered Why Mexico?


I was always a bit afraid of Mexico –

Suddenly Last Summer, We don’t need no stinking badges, Maryse Holder Give Sorrow words, Comancheros, Decapitations decorating the highways…


But when I was a kid –

Zorro. Bands of silver trumpeters. Hat dancing. Cielito Lindo. Raw silver jewellery, grumpy looking straw cowboys, hand bags made of alligator. Souvenirs sent to my mother from her favorite uncle,  United States Army Air Forces navigator.


And why you? I had called you Jan. You had written to me about my own work. I had admired yours, especially the Creation Myths, Hoped someday you’d do an audio version. How like dreams now, the days too fade.


Re: Ethel Pollard Lyons Thanks to Donna J Snyder for telling me


Picture 011

sometimes in this writing life w/ pd lyons and Orbis Journal

~ So it’s always a joy when an editor (s) selects your work to be published. I’m happy as if this were 2023 but its from back in 2008 from Orbis Quarterly International Literary Journal, Still so very grateful to Carole Baldock. Thanks for supporting my work! Maiden Lane (from ny NYC days,) and From the House of Starlings (from my River Glenn Connecticut Days.) Thank you for reading! ~

Thank you for reading! Good luck bye ~

When I wrote new songs and you would listen out of friendship

By PD Lyons


When I wrote new songs and you would listen out of friendship
By PD Lyons
Where we were always cool
By the reservoir
In the pines
Up some stairs tucked into angular corners
Warm winter kitchens smelling of gas
Down by the factories
Not sleeping all night
Into a morning of crisp clean cold
Out on the back door landing
Three flights below the city without fear we knew

morning coffee notes 20.4.23 with PD Lyons

on todays table – dandelions, book, glasses, eyeglasses, sky, fences and coffee


the wind plys my hair

whips at the pages of my book

breaking my attention

Look Look Look

I give in to sunlight across wild grass and dandelion

white puffs across a powder blue sky

melodies of birds known and unknown

Look Look Look

so to see better I close my eyes

and the wind eases

a whisper now

to sympathize

all these busy days you would let go

all these hungry thoughts you would not feed

what courage must there be to let go to be free

to not make a single thing up.


He Saw A Picture of You, by pd lyons


He saw a picture of you today. Still there on Abbey St. Blonde hair like straw thatched out from under the rain soaked brim of that old black hat. There was mud on your wellies, there was a crooked smile on your face as if some wonderful power of secrets about to be told… then left to silence. How many years, how many miles, how many faces, strangers and places so called home? In a punch full of tears all at once he knew it wasn’t himself or them or even you but Dublin broke his heart.

11.4.23. morning coffee notes

this morning at blue wren house ~

I don’t mind cooking

making something nourishing hydrating pleasurable.

I don’t mind clean up

restoration to a peaceful state

the chaos of creation.

I don’t mind sitting out on the veranda

an acrobat of birds

strobing cumulus sky

subtle whispering trees

a good morning  coffee

with you

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