Tag Archives: winter

what if i could tell you, by pd lyons


What if i could tell you about the day?  first real snow? Crows huddled in the grey fingers of that tree, watching as if waiting for  for something I didn’t have to give

 

What if I could tell you, that poem you wrote? I’ve hung copies of it up on the bedroom wall, the back door, the horses’ stalls, and along the straight wire fluttering like little white flags between the paddocks and the pasture.

If you were here? Oh I know what you would say, you never liked it anyway, kept it only out of loyalty. That poem you tried to write for me

now like some accidental prophecy  no longer needing to be read

 

mix media by morgan lyons

 

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winter anyway, a love poem by pd lyons


 

used to walk by trees like these

a country where winter meant deep snow
wind sometimes cut  wounds like a smile across my face

a great breathless
no-doubt-about-being alive-rush  deep New England winter

 

Made my way to some place I knew existed then,

slight shelter from the gale

flick and fumble

eventually light
sacramental cigarette

to the east, to the south, to the west, to the north, as above so below,
as within, so with out, on the smoke that is my prayer…

and somehow all I could do was say thank you –
for this snow,
this wind,
this gunmetal sky,
this bit of shelter crook of a stone wall
this cold, cold, cold against the small heat of my beating heart

 

 

Siane part 3, real magic, by pd lyons


 

Real magic has the quality of knowing. By paying attention you get to know things and when they will happen. With this knowledge you can create the illusion that you cause the inevitable to happen. Real power is when you have people convinced that they can’t get along without you. But there are other things, things beyond people. Once I convinced the wind that it couldn’t get along without me.

 

I’d go out to the top field where the horses ran free. Where they worried themselves only with petty grievances, grazed as they wished regardless of day or night and sometimes lulled by whatever dreams it is that horses dream. lay like dead things strewn.

On a grey out crop of lichenined stone I’d stand, turn my face to the sky and say:

 

“If I could be anything in the world

I would be the wind.

To kiss the sea.

Embrace the sky

Caress the earth.

Come wind I call you

Bring the rain, bring the storm,

The lightning and the thunders roar.

Come wind I love you!”

 

I tried this several times and sometimes the wind would come up strong while other times calm and quiet. In other words, I made no impact what so ever. But I did not give up. By now the horses took notice of my antics and drew around as if seeking inspiration from my sermon on the mount. Perhaps they found some but the wind did not. Once I got so angry this is what I said:

“If I could be anything in the world

It would never be the wind,

Insignificant bastard of the heavens

Ignorant victim of a manipulative earth,

Carrier of piss spit bird droppings

Owner of dust and ashes….”

 

At this did the wind hesitate even for a moment before it went back to ignoring me?

 

Eventually the horses too lost interest in my daily ritual. After all I brought no carrot or apple, I didn’t respond to their sparing for attention and I was as bored as they with their rearing, bucking, bluffs.

 

Finally, I decided to give up. I decided that if I couldn’t be master then I would surrender. So when the wind was quiet, I’d say,

“As the wind is quiet and still, so am I.”

And too if the wind moved from the East I’d say,

“As the wind I too move from the east.”

 

So it was with every direction and with every temperament. As gentle breeze or herald of the storm and too through the seasons such as that of summers comfort or raging winter’s howl. For a whole year this was my daily practise. There were times when I thought I ‘d be carried away, dragged along the ground or else motionless so long I ‘d drop from fatigue. this did not happen. But I did begin to really know the wind, a scent on the air, look of the sky, temperature from yesterday compared with today, slight almost invisible trembling of leaves – all were signs. So closely did I follow that I became as if a shadow to the wind.

 

In time my movements became just slightly ahead until it was I who cast a shadow called the wind. Until once more late autumn and, I could say “Follow my hands as I have led you this way forever.” And the wind, having no memory of forever, believed that this was so and therefore had always been so. How could it doubt I was who I claimed to be? After all, had we not moved together and had it not now been reminded that this had always been?

So once again I spoke, my purpose being to keep my image in its fragile memory,

“I have known you with whisper, shout and breath,

Shared with you submission and mastery,

Shared with you the gift of motion and stillness

Now  remember me!”

 

And the wind enveloped me and inhaled and from the breath of my voice to the scent carried on every hair of my body – I was known!

 Quiet then rocked with shivers head cradled between my knees, my own steamy urine pooling around my toes before trickling down to where a bald faced chestnut mare stood watching like a ghost…

 

 

alone along the border line, ruff by pd lyons


 

alone along the border line
cigarette struggles

her finger tips
pale lips
naked throat
moving through fields
between snow
holes where there is still water

deep within
heavy heat awakens
her lover’s name.

now when all the west is orange
clouds race black across
ask in voices lent by  winds of winter
do you
do you
do you
through the taste of midnight
into the wound of sunrise
until the evening sparkles into dawn
even when the day light spreads out broad
do you
do you
do you
still believe

and on a double edge of sacred steel,
her own voice met by  winds of winter,
she answers

Yes.

IMGP0005

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Holy_Grail_tapestries

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

incline

something shadowy even though its sunlight

fingering illuminating

another afternoon

good fortune

among the winter

 

 

The Watcher, by pd lyons


Beryl Markham by unknown

Beryl Markham by unknown

 

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

The Watcher

~

bright morning

sun magnified by ice and snow

stood at the sink

about to fill the coffee pot

look through the window

there through an even brighter space

where the curtains do not meet

in the distance something

a movement

almost tallest pine

deep against a pure dimensional sky

“What a beautiful bird”

after a brief pause said again out loud

“Because I know it is a bird and to me all birds are beautiful”

as if that part of himself was ever satisfied with any answer,

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

From the amazing Canadian maritime winter days – when even coffee making was an adventure. written around 2003-04 from the self published Not Quite Thomas – new poems by p d lyons, lulu.com 2008. the photos are of Beryl Markham, the photographer is unknown by me. She is one of my heroes.  If interested you can goggle her and find out why she is and why she is part of this blog post.

 

beryl markham, by unknown

beryl markham, by unknown

Soon Like Crows poem by pd lyons


DSC_8765

 

Soon Like Crows

and would I know
the winter
still sliding down
silvering the window
soft whispers
smoke secrets
between
the kitchen fire
and all those winter fires gone before
each ghost arrives upon the gale
welcomed here beside the hearth
each breath of my own
rare and gifted by such drifters
visible in smoke
audible in flame
never alone

 

wrote this the first winter having moved back to Ireland from the states. we were living in Galway a small town called Barna on Galway Bay. Galway Review was kind enough to publish this along with four others. for me the ghosts of Ireland like those of all places are busiest during the winter months.

http://thegalwayreview.com/2012/11/13/five-poems-by-pd-lyons/

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Barna

 

Grey Horse In Connecticut by pd lyons


 

Grey Horse In Connecticut

Walked a waking dream
north by Thomas church
before the red wing black bird flew
where barn-breaking winter had not withdrawn
even though the fourth day of sunlight
had woke the river from its sleep
and red birds sang with invisible birds
and the only other sound
fresh water ice scrapes against the shore
spun slow in an eddy water loop
copper green burnish brown
pushed eventually further down around the bend

And myself to cross the wood plank bridge
must walk the stone wall borders  ancient flooded road
 found there in some wood shake run in shed
himself framed in darker doorway
cocks his black edged ears to my whistle
slights his softer winter whiskered head to my whistle
no other movement

SAM_0005

 

Annie In Connecticut. poem by pd lyons. from; The Women, Retrospective


indian pipe @ sleeping giant

Indian pipe @ sleeping giant

Annie In Connecticut

The leaves turn brown
For winter,
The sky’s gone grey.
I’m turning my thoughts
Around you,
Wondering how it would be,
But knowing better
Than to ask you to stay.

I’m thinking of how pretty
You are in dresses
And how you smile
When I hold you.
But this winter promises
To be harsh
And I can’t be the one
To keep you from your
Alabama sun.

The leaves turn brown
For winter,
The sky’s gone grey
And you
No matter what your accent,
Will always be October.

chipmonk @ sleeping giant

chipmunk @ sleeping giant

might be a moment in winter by pd lyons


 

 

 

might be a moment in winter
a tinsel a star gone astray
~
maybe first colour 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 there

 

nameless red rose

nameless red rose

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