Tag Archives: roses

Wordless Wednesday ~ Fore, County Westmeath, Ireland

enjoy some peace and quiet

all photographs by pd lyons ©2020 For more please visit, Pdlyons’s Explorations Irish American Poetry Photography Worldwide ~ pdlyons.wordpress.com

Fore Abbey

she to her own personal buddha. words and photos by PD Lyons




she  to her own personal buddha




the answer

same again


of course she said smiling at her self



then as if in reiteration

the buddha





Wordless Wednesday ~ Fore, County Westmeath, Ireland

enjoy some peace and quiet

all photographs by pd lyons ©2020 For more please visit, Pdlyons’s Explorations Irish American Poetry Photography Worldwide ~ pdlyons.wordpress.com

Fore Abbey

words and photographs by pd lyons


Roses swollen with rain


full breasts dreaming for the hungry mouths of bees

soft in a gold of sunshine sung by small birds invisible

day dream ripples dull grey puddle answers spilling over the edge

storm gutters blocked by neglect

and wishes would ride the open mouth kisses of our own
















what is the ordinary? by pd lyons


a leaf

a blade of grass

the ground we walk on

the air we breathe?


the sky blue

the sky black

stars slowly shifting

phases of the moon

the sun setting

the sun rising?


what is the ordinary?

clear water

salt water

tides changing

river motion


the scent of roses

buzz of insects

birds singing

birds upon the wing

shapes of shifting clouds

the sound of rain upon  warm pavement


what is the ordinary?

your birth

your self

your child

your lover

your life

your death


what is the ordinary?

explain it to  me please



whenever I cry you’re still there, by pd lyons

indian pipe @ sleeping giant

indian pipe @ sleeping giant

might be a moment in winter

a tinsel a star gone astray


maybe first color of Autumn

geese not yet on the wing


might be your birthday’s in April

someone with curls in their hair


or maybe someone with roses

whistling all summery with out a care?


there’s not really any rhyme or reason

not really any way to prepare


whenever I cry I see you

whenever I cry you’re still here



When We Lived On Nelson Ave. by PD Lyons as published by Blue Lotus Review

When we Lived on Nelson Ave.

days when my father took milk and sugar
leaving the spoon in his coffee
my mother whistled among lilacs and roses
mahogany furniture kept well polished
and special knives and forks only used on holidays

I knew the name of Lilly of the valley
not to ever put them in your mouth

there were kittens in the sun porch
we watched born from a tabby cat named Felix

there were cherries from our backyard tree
so red I thought they were black,
tasting like no cherries
ever would again


a version of this poem is included in the collection :  Caribu – poetry by pd lyons


Sometime In This Writing Life, by pd lyons. from – Newish Poems



Sometimes in writing Life (2)

had to cut back on the computer

it had got pretty bad

hours of my life a day sucked away

got nothing done

got neck aches wrist aches

contacts dried out fell like glass

from now on once a week

maybe Mondays

got dressed

drove into town

picked up a case of Lebanese red

two bottles Tyrconnell 

litre of un-oaked Chardonnay for cooking

stack of legal sized pads,

2 pounds Italian coffee

it was Tuesday


liberation to celebrate.

sometimes in this writting life

sometimes in this writing life


There Was This Texaco…



Tuesday, February 28, 2012

there was this texaco


There was this guy and his wife. They ran a Texaco service station in town. Their home was just behind the pumps and a two bay garage. Sometimes they’d sell Joey and me tickets when they weren’t going, face value box seat season holders since before the monuments. One of them would always pump the gas, no self service in those days, check under the hood? Checked the oil, front left looks a little low why don’t you drive over? We’ll fill it. We were just seventeen or eighteen, both of them were white haired and not yet feeble. But  his face and neck had been corkscrewed pinks and reds. And one of his hands, pearl wax white wrung out like rubber a glove still twisted. One day we asked her and she explained someone had pulled in for a fill up, tossed a lit cigarette while he was pumping. They used to have perfect triangle pine trees at either end of the house and across the street instead of a highway was the entrance to an eighty acre city park, fountains, formal rose gardens, small stone bridges arched over clear running streams. Years later another town another Texaco full service or self. Used to get my truck worked on, watched while I’d wait, his little girl and boy playing around in the driveway sometimes ride their tricycles. Now its a Mobil station and you can still get gas, no choice but to pump it your self and if you want; hot dogs, tacos, donuts, newspapers, coffee, lotto, butter, milk, eggs and you can still get a pack of Marlboro if you want to. And if any kid played in the drive way now? They’d probably get run over. Back in the day when I first met this girl she told me about how she and a friend had plans for robbing a gas station. A full service Texaco, this one on the way out of town, run by an old fellow plenty of cash from travelers to New Haven. He was really old and lived in a trailer behind the pumps stayed open ’til after dark. I’m certain I talked her out of it, we talked of other things instead like getting married and living without our families, she became my first wife and as they say one mans saving is another mans hell or I guess you’d have to say purgatory

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