Tag Archives: poetry

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.

 

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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.

 

 

 

 

 

 

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)

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