Tag Archives: westmeath

Title Piece from newest release


When you worship swans no longer

Will you find your way to me?

Smoke rising in a breathless voice

Winding between shade and sun

 A dream begun on dew drops

  Daring midday like a ghost

Vowing never to fly

From your embrace

Special First Edition Limited to 150: each numbered and signed by the poet.

Price includes worldwide shipping by regular post in padded envelope.

20.00 dollars US /15 euros Ireland /20 euros rest of Europe /15 UK sterling

Items shipped upon receipt of order (purchase through Paypal)

Contact: pdlyonspoet@yahoo.co.uk

With your shipping information and any queries.

Additional inscription on request.

(Numbered books selected randomly)

“PD Lyons work stands at the threshold so loved in Ireland. That almost magical, almost mythical, almost otherworldly parallel that the Irish dip in and out of. Where we chose to believe in luck and superstition and destiny and embrace these as tangible factors in our daily lives. – from the forward by Una O’Neill D’Arcy, Journalist/Freelance Writer

Thank you in advance for supporting this project!




ever onward something goes

just back from the walk poem, first draft by pd lyons


a painted picture

left out before the snow

the wind blows through it

an old sheet of organic plastic

caught on

torn on

hard   wire

a post of whiskers greyer than the stone which holds it

loos ends going no where on each side

cattle long ago

bones softened

no memory even earths recalls them now

hard ground

brown ground

no trail to keep you from getting lost

no place really left to get lost


something shadowy even though its sunlight

fingering illuminating

another afternoon

good fortune

among the winter



Four from Fore Ordinary Sequence, still life photography









Fox, a poem by PD LYONS

We used to live by a lake in Westmeath, Ireland. Our house was down a dirt lane that  ended at the shore line. Occasionally the local Hunt would come through, dogs horses and riders hunting for fox. Our neighbour, in the pink house up on the hill, really did prohibit their hunting through his fields – we didn’t have any fields at the time but we did rather have sympathy for the fox.


wonder is a natural response to beauty

wonder is a natural response to beauty



here by the lake they have been trying to get rid of the fox
for hundreds of years
they have used traps
poison, dogs, guns, horses,
gas, shovels, all terrain vehicles
all manner of machine
and cruelty

the pink house on the hill
our neighbour
leaves food for them
prohibits trespassers
allows respite
vixen and cubs
a copse of furze and briar
never cleared

a dog fox sometimes visits
our back garden
our children delight
his untamed manner
arrogant inquisitive
as noticing us he sits up
cocks his head a brief hello
willing to risk an easy target
before with an ease only true natured creatures show –

we humans have shrunk our already short lives with fear
but not the fox
at the fence
he loiters for butterflies






up the lane

up the lane

Newish, by pd lyons


even if I told you
even if you believed
would it make a difference
would it change the things that made me , me?

if the ocean would have a name
would it be the one you gave?
not by tongue alone
but browned skin
salt sting
surrendered willingly
expressed audibly
 by  simply rhythmic breath?


the sea made her way
snuck up river
dared an overland short cut
crossed the lake
hitched a ride over the high land
to where the old man sat
 against white stucco
Cuban cigar smoke shaping summer’s first day of heat


right away she began
whispering rolling waves
sounds of silver birds
stars like diamonds
pure black
as if traveling among them there would never be another horizon

behind his eyes the old man simply smiled
oh ribbons of smoke softly audible ahs

at which she paused
saw him then as he truly was
and knew all she could ever  do
was return from whence she came
never to kiss his pale grey eyes again


July 23 14

Come Down From Your Hills, by pd lyons

Come Down From Your Hills

Come down from your hills and see me
Remind me when I was a girl
Tip my kisses with honey
Bathe my feet in your curls

Soft green grass in showers of gold
Apple blossoms swirl like snow
Echoing laughter my hands on your face

Come down from your hills and see me
Remind me when I was a girl
I’m tired of long wool skirts
Tired of wobbly shoes
Tired of being a stranger afraid to remember you




versions of this poem published by the following:

Longford Ireland www.virtualwriter.net/  

  Scotland  http://www.ospreyjournal.co.uk/


Except in John Prine by PD Lyons from “Old Songs”


navan co. meath

Except in John Prine

And if I had whiskey then I’d have a drink
And if I had money I’d get me some sleep
And if I still couldn’t sleep then at least I‘d be sittin’
In a place with some heat

And there’s nothing like a city to make you know you’re alone
Nothing like darkness for seein’ all the things you ain’t done

Guess I’m just a man who never growed up
Should’a known mama weren’t lyin’
But somehow I thought it’d work out just right
I was destined for fortune and fame

But now people go by with that look in their eye
And I find that I have to agree
Cause there’s nothing more mysterious
Than just how I turned out to be me

But maybe you been down yourself
Or maybe you heard a John Prine
There’s some song he does
Not sure anymore how it goes
But it’d make you not mind maybe smile some time
When you come across someone like me

And when all someone’s got is lonely
And for sure ain’t no ship comin’ in
It might be a stranger’s smile,
A kindness with out any strings
Means more than my own silly words
Or the comfort that some small change brings

And sure I thought it’d be different
But at my age there’s no way to hide
So whether you stare or smile,
your words are gentle or snide
I’m grateful for whatever you’ll spare


mullingar, co westmeath



As it says this was inspired by one of my favourite artists John Prine – no sure which song or tune but definitely his.  Written in 2005 or there abouts.  his tune my memories.

Fore Abbey, by PD Lyons


Fore Abbey

Whiskered wooden posts
Decorated by bits of rusted star crossed metal
Silhouettes upon the hillsides
Random marks above the weeds
As if graves of unknown beings

Silent but for crows
Tied like rags upon an invisible thread
Suspended ever changing from an ever changing sky
More shades of grey than words I know

And when the sun
Ignites as far as I can see
A brief and brilliant green such as emeralds could only dream
Sure as this November morning makes each breath a smoky prayer
I know this rolling valley is the wherever I should exactly be

Cut stones shifted by anonymous hands
Nameless legacy bequeathed from each to each
Now held by my own
What lingers here for however long

Richer than any fame
Black earth by sparkling pebble beds
Fed by springs that have no end
Remembered by some other unknown soul

All who left their mark upon this land.


A version of this appeared in the Irish American Post in 2006. It’s good to be home.



Fore Abbey by pd lyons; Irish American Post version




Fore Abbey

whiskered wooden posts
some still decorated by bits of rusted star-crossed metal
silhouetted on the hillsides
random marks above the weeds
as if the graves of unknown beings
silence but for crows
tied like rags upon a single thread
suspended ever changing from an ever changing sky
more shades of grey than words I know
and when the sun 
ignites as far away as I can see the rolling valley edges
in brief and brilliant flames of green such as
emeralds could only dream
as sure as this November morning
makes each breath I take a smoky prayer
this is the wherever I should exactly be 
stone once shifted by anonymous hands
now held by my own
a nameless legacy bequeathed from each to each
a richer draught than any fame
what lingers here for however long
black mud by gravel beds
fed by springs that have no end
where someday I along with all the rest
remembered by some other unknown soul
perhaps while sitting on this very ledge to ponder
fates befell all those who left their mark upon this land.


For years now i have been fortunate enough to know of and be able to walk the landscape around the village of Fore Westmeath.  accompanied by my dear friend and on occasion my dear family. Lily was one of those all terrain jack Russell creatures who i have never seen tired although she would easily do at least five to every mile i’d walk. she was equal to all weather and was a fairly good rock climber when needs be. to day was the first time in i cant remember how long i walked her walk with out her.

this poem was published, along with three others,  by the Irish |American Post http://www.gaelicweb.com/irishampost/year2006/12fall-winter/featured/featured12.html FALL-WINTER 06 / VOL. 7 ISSUE 2. it is live archived. it is also still as of winter 2014 still publishing : http://www.gaelicweb.com/irishampost/





and unlike some, she had a great capacity for retaining dignity


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