Saturday, August 15, 2015

Summer, by p d lyons

  In June the dead come
October too cold
Perhaps reminiscent of that part of being dead
They’d most like to forget

We talk about the past
After all what else do we have in common?

Mostly women come.
Perhaps because I always went to them
Or maybe death, a vulnerability, makes men shy?
Either way we sit where it is I am these days,
   Outside the kitchen
      By an old apple tree
        Across the sea
           Left behind
            The lands they knew me in
             No longer needing now to wander

Sunday, August 2, 2015

Lessons On Foreign Languages In A Reeperbahn Café by Djanet Tozeur / Slipstream #14 sex food death issue version

Lessons On Foreign Languages In A Reeperbahn Café
for Cordula

trees or torture…”
my breasts were made for children and your fingers…”
choices are limited by the boundaries of the playing surface…”
how do you know that’s not a table?”
if we could meet in Ireland by the palm trees…
everyone drinks Guinness and whiskey, every one drinks Paddy”
“even in the ancient holes of Greece, the big dig and who
wouldn’t give up school for the bones of Archimedes ?”
to find the way past childhood, finding the past of childhood,
the paths of childhood past the personal to the collective…”
who wouldn’t give up tomorrow for a chance to come into Pandora’s Box ?”
well when I am god I shall bless Pandora, bless Eve, bless all those who
turned away from paradise and instead followed the stars
to follow the question – Why? Why everything? Why not something else ?”

ignorance may be bliss but consciousness divine…”

…but if I could meet you in Ireland by the palm trees
yes, even I would drink Paddy whiskey with you from the bones
of Pandora’s ass; and we could trace the historic exile of
our childhood to the music of Bruce Springsteen’s : Point
Blank, The Price You Pay, Ties that Bind, as it tins through
some battery cassette. So roll up another cigarette and pass
the Pandora but first let me see your eyes, and kiss me. Let
me lay my tongue on yours. Let us swallow some of each
others spit, like a Red Indian blood-brother ceremony and
yes you can be Winnetou if you want to…

When I was in Greece I lived on dirt. No not even dirt but
sand – dust. The dust of hot sun and cruel fate, the dust of
ancient tombs split open like over-ripe fruit and covering
everything with a dry syrup crust. We were fond of bonesand
murders, of sacrifices and lesbians and of our Spartan
swords and sleeping children. We hated columns and
Parthenons. We sweated ouzo and goat fat and when we farted
little black olives rolled down and out of our pant legs.

When I was in Europe I lived on sleep. I slept for days in
Wien, Vienna, Vienne, Vienna … Slept for Beethoven at his
tomb and at his little platz by the statue near the
Shubertring. I was frozen in the Maria Theresian Natural
History Museum – lost among the stuffed corpses of every
living creature known to man.
In Hamburg, the whole city is made of sleep. Sleep like a
giant smog impregnated every thing and every moment. Its
embryonic motion grows heavy in a damp heat, like breath on
a still winter night of north sea drifting downward with
hunger, for those German girls ,who like the little boys of
a homosexual fantasy cover me with the slick semen of their
love. Their mouths moaning with love, their cunts hungry
with love, their ass-holes a dream of love…

In the states I lived on flesh. The flesh of pigs,
the flesh of Ronald McDonald, the catholic flesh of Christ bloodless
white and sour… I lived with the flesh of dead dogs and
aborted infants; sucked the juices from the fresh wounds of
teenage girls down in the darkness of their daddy’s garages.
(Dracula had nothing on me man). I walked the ninety degree
heat s of New York City streets. Streets made of skin and
muscle like some giant souvenir of Auschwitz. The tattoos
sweating black ink and muggers. Whenever I couldn’t buy
anything to eat all I had to do was lick the street – Meat
Street USA. And when I could afford to bribe my way out to
the country side? It was for a breath of fresh blood and a
little something still warm from its body heat to chew

… but now we sit by the palm trees of Ireland and we
have hung up our harps to dry. Pandora’s ass is so dry, is
like a sponge sucking up Irish whiskey the way a drowning
man sucks sea. We don’t sleep anymore and the only flesh we
eat is our own. You have met me here and like Winnetou have
taken the blood of my wound into your own. So my dearest
look at me; you have the saddest eyes I have ever known. Do
you remember the peace I stole from you in Hamburg years
ago? Now there is nothing to heal, nothing, no reason to
steal… So roll up another cigarette; the sun is really out
doing itself today, a splendid display of muscle and our
harps soon will dry… But first let me lay my tongue upon
yours, let my tongue sleep awhile in that sweet hole. Let
us see how long we can stay still like that

and yes you can be Winnetou if you want to.

on the occasion of my first trip abroad in 1983 I started this piece. this version was published by Slipstream a print magazine out of Niagara Falls New York (the town not the water) in their #14 sex food death issue. As you can see this one ticked all the boxes. It was published under the pen name Djanet Tozeur in 1994. At the time I didn’t realize it but my work was published alongside (more or less) material by Charles Bukowski. It wasn’t until I was 52 years old that I discovered Bukowski otherwise I would have enjoyed the publication even more. I was 39 years old in 1994. Unfortunately the issue is sold out and out of print otherwise you could get to read his really cool poem about his death. Anyway Slipstream is still publishing and doing the good work of keeping poetry alive in the USA and the rest of the world.  The last line with the  reference to Winnetou was not published by the magazine. Who knows why.  But I liked it too much to not add it on here. Otherwise it is exactly as they published it. You should look up Winnetou, if you want to – Google is the way to go.

from Wanting To Be In The Old Tongue – by pd lyons

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Originally posted on Pdlyons's Weblog:

Bound by chains of lowland vines,
Nourished only by the rain.
The red meat of my heart
Now chips and shards of stone
That even ravens cannot find.
I am most subtle now,
Unable to touch or to be touched,
Only smoky tendrils nimbly wrapped
Upon the memories of men;
A formless thing perceived by them
Only in their sleeping dreams.

Kept alive by hunger.
Eager to be embraced with flesh
And upon the bones of war – like men,
Answer with firm metal once again
The faithful ravens call.
Out of the west
Out of the west
Where is the storm that brings me breath
To let these lips of moss reveal
That charm which causes me to heal –
For when those birds recall my name,
Then will I be whole again.

from Wanting To Be In The Old Tongue…

Copyright © 2011 PD Lyons
All rights reserved.
ISBN-13: 978-1466272996
ISBN-10: 1466272996

When Mercury Is Not Enough, by pd lyons

stripper of superfluous flesh
quickening  silver skates
bound to winged feet
never wanting to leave the earth alone
in her gravity.


Thursday, June 25, 2015

Nobody’s Child Should Be Killed, by pd lyond

Nobody’s Child Should Be Killed
Great adventure
Fraught with spills of Disney danger
Ogre infested roller coasting
Wood slates buckle
In a pre-safety -harness dawn
There are no directions home
Resistance is fatal
No one can verify the conspiracy theory of your life
Contact with those you even think can
Is mercilessly forbidden
(Who are you?)
Why do you think they’re so far away?
No body can stay in one place any more
Besides who do you think they are?
Through cracked glass eye
Looking glass creatures
What will you find?
Where do you go?
Paris in springtime
Looking at you kid
Better hold onto your life
Draped in Shan gri la la la boom D A
Dancing merry as a moth in May
All your wonderful fears
All your fantastical inspirational fears
Settle into muddy sucking reasons,
Reasons to stay home go to work, get insured,
Go home, watch every possible moment of TV
Your mission, you’ve accepted, is non negotiable
The situation is non superficial
Critical mass is a constant
There’s not enough pretense to make a hill of beans
The whole world is looking for a blanket to hide under
If you don’t keep your back turned all the trees that have turned into gorilla monsters
Will get you and if they get you they’ll get me so do as you’re told
Pins and needles dinosaur chimes of freedom flashing brief
As if all the lifetimes of all the worlds were but a pan.
No matter how old you are
There’s always so much more time than that
That you will not be
(Who are you?)
Where do you go?
The simple joy of youth –
The ability to say fuck you to the truth and mean it
But when do you become adult?
Where are those roads you promised to go down?
Rank and file
Basically a rotten plan for escaping.
No matter where you go there they are.
No matter where you go, there you are.
I am's what I am and I can’t stands no more.
You get the life you deserve,
You get the leaders you deserve –
You know we don’t deserve anything as fucked up as we got.
A strung out petrol-chemical nightmare addiction full blown paranoiacs unexplainable any more by mere greed.
Its people. It’s made from people.
The small-scale suicide is terrifying.
You want something comforting like Hiroshima or Auschwitz.
There’s a degree of stupidity that transcends mercy.
(Who are you?)
Where do you go?
Dukes of hazard big brother X file factor maybelline extravaganza
How to be the perfect whatever it is they’re trying to sell this week
There goes your final wake up call
There’s no going back
No post-apocalyptic fiction
No post anything
It’s apocalyptic now
Right now there’s no fucking later.
Oh the wisdom of the west - base your entire way of life on a single
Rapidly diminishing non-renewable highly toxic substance found mainly in parts of the world where the indigenous peoples hate you for it.
There’s no fictional account of anything.
Every book a holy drivel worshiped by some idiot.
The majority of all life is lived in panic.
Which way do we go?
Which way do we go?
The Roman Empire built on concrete
Blood mixed in the mortar lasts a thousand years
You in the west
You in the west
Foundations set in human blood
Good reason why it rhymes with best.
The blood of all the children of this world
Nourishes your unequivocal pursuit of acquisition and
Only the insane would ever want to blow it up?
(Who are you?)
What does it take to fill you?
When will you ever have enough?
You who have everything can’t even recognize what enough looks like.
Insatiable pit, a black hole without even an ass to hold it
(Who are you?)
How do you travel?
To eternity, to the great beyond, to the wild blue yonder?
SUV Four wheel drive of course
Crush the world you see through TV windows
Climate controlled stereo CD DVD padded seats and harnesses
Oblivious to howls screams flood fire
No shake no rattle no roll
In complete safety and comfort – just like your own home.
Oh say can you see
How fuckin deaf can you be?
So much stupidity wields a star spangled nightmare
Of pure un awakening destruction.
If you want bananas
Will grow in blood
Pineapples in blood
Horror provides the blood with which you preserve your way of life
How do you not know?
How do you not see?
How long before the insane old men with their dried up old salt entrenched vengeful versions of arrogant entitlement shit die off?
Where do they keep coming from?
Is there never to be an end of ignorance in power?
There’s no place left to go.
Where do you think you’ll go when this world is dead?
Where do you think your child will be?
How can anyone not get it?
People die, human beings die mothers fathers children babies infants die so you can drive your car and wear your pretty little diamond rings
And before they die they live in misery
So you can make Justine Timberlake richer than god, ralky round the Donald trump.
People watch their babies’ burn – on fire so you can count the shopping days before Christmas,
Have more shit than you’ll ever know what to do with, poison everything on the planet to get it and still feel depressed because you don’t have e-fuckin-ough.
(Who the fuck are you?)
Where do you go?
Cinematic re writes history
With theme songs and celebrities –
There is no sound track to the horrors of your world,
Plenty of human voices afraid
Afraid of their own pain
Afraid for their children -
Drenched in ancient orange napalm bikini smart bomb festival of fleshtuals
Ritualised horror but not terror
Drowned out with TV and Mctimberlake, Magazines, news show and talk show diets
Wal-Mart shopper specials, medicines and miller time.
Why would you want to hear anything else?
When do those old mother fuckers who kill our children die off?
When do those killers die off?
The only question worth asking.
The only one worth answering.
The only one worth hearing
Why don’t they take their own stupid asses to that heavenly paradise?
Leave the rest of us alone.
No body’s child should be killed for any asshole person, place or thing
Even if it is your god.

2011 connecticut
by pd lyons

Sunday, April 5, 2015

Happy Easter

happy easter!/ Damien Dempsey – Ghosts Of Overdoses

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545861_10150768266804047_604289046_11400887_1188841737_n   So for this Easter I am posting the lyrics and YouTube video of Damien Dempsey’s Ghosts of Overdoses. It is as powerful poignant song done by a most wonderful artist in his prime. Years ago I worked in Dublin at the Ana Liffey Drugs Project. It was not my first experience working with drug users – at that time I had about 13 years having done so in the States. But like each it was equally a wonderful, difficult and heartbreaking experience.
So with regards to Easter and this song – I think the message of Easter is that we, all of us, each and every one get crucified in life and too each of us have the potential to rise again from that crucifixion. I would ask you to read and listen to the lyrics. To contemplate your own crucifixion and your own potential for resurrection. 

I would also wish all those tender  souls that over the years I have worked with, to be at peace and be blessed with a most wonderful and brilliant resurrection.

Damien Dempsey – Ghosts Of Overdoses

 Famine days, drove us here, off the land,
They tried to clear, Now they drive you

From The cities, to make way for all the yuppies
They stood back, and didn't act,
Those in power, should have been sacked,
Decimate the inner cities, move them out, bring in the wealthy.
Hey little baby, I wanna take you from here
I wanna take you away from here
Hey little baby, dont wanna see you on the gear
Cos it's so hard to find your find your back
Hey little baby, it's every parents worst fear,
For their child to end up on smack.

There was pills, there was tabs
There was pain and needle jabs
And the ghosts overdoses
Replace the ghosts of tuberculois
There was dust and there was liquid
You could buy for just a few quid
And escape out of the jungle
To return and crawl and stumble
You lie, I cry, Please don't go
Now I walk, along these streets,
All the ghosts, they walk their beats
Up to flats and into stairwells,
Where they lie, in heroin hell
Little kids, they walk right through them,
I just hope they don't become them.  

Sunday, March 29, 2015

About/ revised 29 March 2015

PD Lyons

Born and raised in the USA. Travelling and living abroad since 1998. Now permanently residing in Ireland.

Received The Mattatuck College Award for Outstanding Achievement in Poetry.
Received Bachelor of Science with honours from Teikyo Post University Connecticut.

Two books of poetry Searches For Magic, and Caribu & Sister Stones: Selected Poems, have been published by Lapwing Press, Belfast. A third book, Myths Of Multiplicity, published by Erbacce press Liverpool as part of the 2014 Erbacce International Annual Prize was officially launched at the Westmeath County Library, Castlepollard Ireland on 9 December 2014.

The work of PD Lyons has also appeared in many magazines and e-zine/blogs throughout the world. Including, The SHoP, Books Ireland, Irish American Post, Boyne Berries, Virtual Writer, Slipstream, West 47 Galway Arts. Recently selected to participate in Human Rights Consortium at the School of Advanced Study, University of London publication titled ‘In Protest: 150 Poems for Human Rights’.

Relevant websites:

In Protest: 150 Poems for Human Rights’.
In Protest: 150 Poems for Human Rights is an ambitious new publication aiming to bring together the fields of human rights research and literature in an innovative way. Selected from over 600 poems submitted by established and emerging poets, it provides a rare international insight into issues ranging from the trans-Atlantic slave trade, the Hola massacre and indigenous peoples’ rights to the current war in Syria.

  Myths of Multiplicity , all profits to benefit Erbacce writers co-op

Searches For Magic, and Caribu & Sister Stones,

PD Lyons Blog :

Picture 068

Thursday, March 26, 2015

Lovers w/ the Cello Player, by pd Lyons as published by A New Ulster Magazine # 29


Lovers w/ the Cello Player

envy of every straight male
hugged by those knees

arms for which the word sinew was invented
hands entwined by pure blue vines

exquisite needles drawn from every inch
spread through
return to

our randomly occurring bodies
until this moment never knowing anything



Photo Credits :
1) morgan lyons, The Arming and Departure of the Knights, one of the Holy Grail tapestries
2) pd lyons – unknown artist, Wasworth Atheneum, Hartford CT.

Saturday, March 21, 2015

The Woman, by pd Lyons as published in A New Ulster # 30

The Woman, by pd Lyons as published in A New Ulster # 30


The Woman

I could not speak.
Maybe loved more gently
I could have.
Maybe if there was a moon
I could have.
But only sun –
a crazy glue
lips sealed
slays weds

This is what I cannot say,
this is what they refuse to hear:
After death is pre-natal.
Through me,
everything is world.
Without me?
Conception is by eating,
birth by excretion.

The International Women’s Day issue of A New Ulster one of Northern Ireland’s online Journals featuring the works of Marion Clarke, Helen Harrison, P D Lyons, Marie Lecrivain Judith Thurley and Mari Maxwell and many more

Friday, March 20, 2015

Do Do Run Run by pd lyons as published in A New Ulster #30

(photographer unknown)
(photographer unknown)

do do run run
after the show she’d call him
wait with the security guys out back
in the open door way if it was storming
watching waiting smoking.
she’d heard they added menthol to ‘em so you wouldn’t feel what they were doin’ to your throat,
she wasn’t sure about that – isn’t there just too much miss-trust in the world?

anyway it never took him long,
no matter what the time was
even if the show ran late
even if there was snow
he was never long.
run up them iron stairs
and every time
kiss her before saying hello, how was the show?
and walk her arm ‘n arm to the car,
open and close her door …

she was back up singer in a steady small town gig.
the one who wore a black beret,
sang better ‘n most of the stars she broke her ass to make look good.
and maybe if she were younger…
and maybe if she weighed a little less…?

back home,
he’d always have something good and warm and ready to eat
and sometimes in the shower the hot water lasts an hour
and sometimes she’d have a little something strong to drink.
and he’d put something on the stereo real low like madam butterfly
and lay her down until falling asleep
only by some taunting dream
she’d wake
to find
his arms
around her.

The International Women’s Day issue of A New Ulster one of Northern Ireland’s online Journals featuring the works of Marion Clarke, Helen Harrison, P D Lyons, Marie Lecrivain Judith Thurley and Mari Maxwell and many more

Wednesday, March 18, 2015

The Israel Of My Heart, by pd lyons

condolences to the world and in particular the children regarding the out come of the Israel elections. at least the Israelis have made themselves crystal clear.

The Israel Of My Heart
stares like a stranger
sometimes from doorways almost in the rain
sometimes through haloed moonless streets
unable to make peace
unable to articulate
engaged none the less
 the Israel of my heart
flows like tears
through my each and every step

how can I meet such darkness all alone?
it is through weeping not muscle
such chains are broken

may all who journey remember

Sunday, March 15, 2015

dear everybody…. Today by pd lyons

dear everybody…. Today by pd lyons


this is it.
this is life.
LSD a placebo.
religious ecstasy a placebo.
stop looking be seeing.
stop waiting be experiencing.
stop trying be allowing.
this is it.
this IS life.
This is bliss.
get on with it.
see you later the sun is out all across the most amazing world I have ever known…..


Monday, March 9, 2015

every place is a small town needing to be left, by pdlyons


you think you know where you want to go,
unable to know where you are?

  small spaces hold a universe of ache.
leaving is all I’ve ever known,

all I am ever able to truly do.
when you are walking down streets
and I no longer do so,
does it mean you are any more there than I am?
does it mean that you’re leaving and mine
some how differ?

we can not fit any more into any space than the universe,
and that too leaves its own ache down it s own street.
all there is, no guide to us
or any one else for that matter.

like some

Micky Corbo hair do

angel wings

tribal dowries

cool tree in yellow back from the end of the year

crows like days between the worlds

all lemoning and impossible to capture.


Sunday, March 8, 2015

As Long As Its You, by pd lyons

As Long As Its You, by pd lyons

paris by pd lyons

As Long As Its You
When you breathe it is my name.
When you stare reflected statuesque,
Your own eyes black pools,
Liquid movement synchronize my own.
Who knows me any better?
Naked throat? Beating heart?
You may heal. You may feed.
Whatever you do, as long as its you.


Thursday, March 5, 2015

Jenny, by pd lyons as published by The Poetry Warrior 2009

artist unknown


my fingers have touched
your face
your razor cut hair
rose bud lips
every square inch of how you define your
slender secret self
vulnerable to love
shielded by the city
defensive diaphragms
nicotine & coffee
shadow sister
manhattan monochromed & cool

believing anything was possible we were the same
beneath warm tones of old bones
pictures of girls and oceans
first born anxiety
visitation eased by distance
horizons met and thus reset
soft steady ache like something summer upon green lawns
time to talk in silence

In 2009 this poem appeared in :
The Poetry Warrior - The Real Poet’s Ezine.
Thank you to Abigail Beaudelle editor.
Photography by pd lyons :
1) artist unknown
2) citrus in black iron

True Democracy & Boomerz by pd lyons

See I was taught that democracy takes courage. The courage to allow the rights of the other. Not only their right to exist but their rights of life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness. That it takes democratic courage to allow the other a voice, a choice, a privacy, an equality.

The belief that majority rules is erroneous with regards  to true democracy. Otherwise everything depends on the personal belief of the many. This is only might makes right, this is not democracy. Democracy is the courage of all to allow the human and civil rights of all.

The question we should be asking people is – do you really want to live in a country where the your rights and the rights of others may justifiably be revoked every time the majority demographic shifts?

Today when I look at my country that’s what I  see. Rather than the nurturing of courage, it seems to perpetuate the right to bully, the right to instill fear, the right to make money at all costs, the right of might – with no regard for the amount of misery, tragedy, or  instability it causes  its own citizens or the rest of world.

It has always taken extreme courage to be democratic. It still does.


I live only in memory
The day to day does not inspire me
I only want to sit here think about what used to be.
Here only in my own home.
 Locked doors, paid taxes, insurance policies, protect me.
TV,  petrol chemicals, nourish me.
People not like me outrage me.

Boomerz – from  Caribu & Sister Stones
ISBN:     9781905425907
Published by Lapwing Belfast

Photos by pd lyons

Wednesday, February 25, 2015

How The Woman Alone Brought Rain To The Island, by pd lyons

mix media by morgan lyons
mix media by morgan lyons

What if the Rainbow Hunters
Reached down to her,
There in the crevice of fresh water.
Wouldn’t their grass wrapped hands
Protect her?
And the children,
What if they stood by her
In the crevice of clear water.
Couldn’t their songs disguise her?
What about the crazy ones?
What if they ran in mixed up circles around her
There by the crevice of fresh water.
Wouldn’t their waggling red hairs
Conceal her?
And the High Priest,
What if he were to return, fulfill the ancient legend,
Blessing her
There in the crevice of clear water.
Wouldn’t his centuries of prayers
Absolve her
From the wrath,
From the armed bow wrath.
From the arrow,
From the pinning arrow,
Of the warrior,
Of the sun.

from: Searches For Magic by PD Lyons, Belfast Lapwing, 2001,
ISBN 1 898472 59 9

Friday, February 20, 2015

THE WIDOW’S SON, by pd lyons


at the end of the world we came,
where what more could I do,
but leave you?
now that battles din,
finally in my head grows dim,
I walk alone by the sea,
each swirling drop of blood
reminding me to my own pain….
That I could do more I would,
for what would I be without you?
A man is nothing without loyalty,
That I could do more I would,
That I gave all I was able,
I was willing.
Know that even now,
for the sake of the Widow’s son,
I stand upon this isle shore.
After all is not death the common enemy?
thinking we can manipulate it,
we send it this way and that,
as if to serve our own ends,
when ultimately
that which plays us honour bound,
one against the other -
that is the final victor,
such is our glory.


Thursday, February 19, 2015

The Terrorists Stopped My Car, by pd lyons

The Terrorists Stopped My Car, by pd lyons

this has to do very specifically with current political issues in Ireland, where if you stop a government official’s car during a protest over water it is called an act of terrorism and you can be arrested, and as of today’s verdicts jailed. The Irsish goverment has been known to compare these protester with the likes of ISIS.

The Terrorists Stopped My Car

For two hours they wouldn’t let my chauffeur drive.
Two hours they spent trying to convince me -
That it was wrong to add another tax
That it was wrong to spend millions to set up a bonus company
    designed to collect millions more from them forever
That it wrong to add this to the existent burden of;
    decrepit health care, unemployment, scot-free bankers, unprecedented evictions,
    years of non-transparent squander.

For two hours they implored me to listen.

So what did I do once we got through?
After spending days telling every news talk, state owned television, newspaper how -
  Those terrorists , scared me
  Those terrorists who had nothing better to do with themselves,
  Those terrorists who had elected me,
 Those terrorists who voted for me and my party.

Yes that was it, I was afraid of them, terrified by them.
So in daring early morning raids
I had those terrorists arrested.
and then continuing on as Party  Leader
fixed the mask of Larkin
like cloth of an emperor across my double face
so anyone with eyes could see

Saturday, February 14, 2015

For the Ice to Heal, by pd lyons

For the Ice to Heal, by pd lyons

wrote this while living in Cape Breton – the winters were longish there and sometimes folks could get a bit depressed about it, and steel mills were gone and the liquor was cheap. but the ocean was beautiful, the pack ice on a sunny day would sing like wind chimes and sea birds and wood land birds would follow as I walked alone upon the rough shore line


For the Ice to Heal

From the kitchen window
Curtain less
Stiff abandoned
On the line
Since October
Sentinel dish towel
Clumsy signal
Not yet
Not yet
Might as well
Another coffee
Something for the birds
Rare as rubies cardinal
Blue jays bright stuns my eyes
Dull small brown little things
First thing tomorrow
Auger from the garage
Break that agreement
Made with myself
To wait
snow by morgan lyons
snow by morgan lyons
Augers – either gas- or hand-powered – are used by ice fishermen to drill holes to fish through.


Photography :
1) red birds by pd lyons
2) snow by morgan lyons
3) Tara Waves by pd lyons

Friday, February 13, 2015

why we like A New Ulster poetry

 I am very happy to have work appering in the current issue of A New Ulster. Looks like i am in very fine company indeed. Thank you very much Amos Greig. Please do yourselves and us a favour by checking things out via ISSUU link. Also available in print. cheers

Thursday, February 12, 2015

The erbacce-prize for 2014

why we like – erbacce-press & Michael Mc Aloran & Edith Jones Rubin

The erbacce-prize for 2014

Winner; with a vote from every single member of the panel: Tim Taylor
Runner-up; with five votes out of six from the panel: PD Lyons
Two other poets were mentioned as ‘exceptional’ and we shall ask each of them to be a featured poet in a future erbacce-journal; this will mean they’ll be interviewed and one half of the journal will be dedicated to them and their work: Elio Lomas and Richard Hughes
There were 5,450 accepted entries and just over another 300 were rejected for not following submission guidelines
So that’s it for 2014. Thanks go out to all of you who sent entries and right now it’s time to get together your submission for 2015; we’ll be open for entries at the beginning of January and we’ll close the 2015 contest on May 31st


Poems portray pitfalls and ecstasies of memory, as well as exquisitely wrought impressions of Here and Now.  Rewarding to read and ponder deep insights and wonderful juxtapositions in this poetry.

Edith Jones Rubin, publisher/writer

P.D Lyons’s new short collection of poetry, Myths of Multiplicity, is a body of work primarily concerned with themes of a colourful nostalgia; of memory, & its uncertainty & the unreality thereof, of love, all composed with a deceptive ease & sureity of liquid language and beautifully placed & balanced lines that carry the reader through intimate landscapes, as they are cinematically revealed. These are beautifully balanced poems, written by a poet possessed of a keen sentience, an exactitude of observation throughout these highly visual/ impressionistic & retrospective pieces. The reader will also find recognition in the existential dilemmas scattered throughout this collection…This is fine writing, & should not be ignored, & is very much recommended. –

Michael Mc Aloran—‘The Zero Eye’, ‘In Damage Seasons’.

 all proceeds from books purchased will directly benefit the Erbacce Writers Co-op. Cost is £4.95 and includes shipping worldwide.


Immortal Beloved, by pd lyons

Immortal Beloved, by pd lyons – This is the poem of my youth

best american beer ever
So this would have been written early 70’s  and revised steadily through the ensuing years. This is the poem of my youth, at least my high school years 1970 – 74. Went to Crosby high school in Waterbury Ct. In those days it was located down town. Needless to say the small industrial city was an instrumental part of my education. Learned to shoot pool ( a little bit anyway) in Gentlocks – old slate tables scarred by decades of cigarettes, table legs as wide as me, and no girls allowed. Learned to panhandle from Charlie brown and Whitey ; enough for some cheap port a pack of smokes and maybe a little orange sunshine for myself – was a good afternoon.  Dazz’z was the pinball arcade – just next door to the pool hall. Dom’nNicks the by the slice pizza joint – 35 cents one large slice and a sprite. the Palace Theater an old vaudeville house with acoustics to die for and crystal chandeliers and velvet seats – eight Miles High with the Byrds…. I learned about getting ripped off at the Kingsbury hotel – gave the guy a fiver for some acid and told wait out here, by the front door – not knowing there was another main door on the other block. Cheap enough the lesson – never got ripped off again in my life. Mattatuck music – the record store – still had listening booths, turntables and head phones. Tiger Ted, Louie, Bobby Comfort , all there still somewhere in my head. Dresher’s was the oldest restaurant in the state and i could get a dark german beer on tap in the bar, underage an all. Bird was this friend of mine named Dave. And too there was this older guy looked just like Beethoven. I bummed a lucky off him once. Used to see him once a day around 2:45 crossing the street to the green – always in a hurry always black raincoat and no hat. As for Beethoven’s lover – I don’t know lets just consider it a prayer from me, for him or maybe for myself after all?

Mel-Ramos-Lucky-Lulu-Blonde (copy)
Immortal Beloved

There is no such thing as Beethoven in Waterbury.
No one sees him buying race forms or cigarettes at Bauby’s corner.
He doesn’t play pin ball at Dazz’s,
chalk a cue at Gentlocks, pan handle a concert crowd at the Palace theatre, order Blue Ribbon shorts at Backstreet’s or sit in Dresher’s after three sipping cool tall dark drafts.

He’s not protesting the war at Library Park,
selling acid from the Kingsbury hotel,
falling asleep on Christmas eve with a girl named Mary in the chapel of St. Johns church.
Strung out girls don’t get to build snowmen on the green with him,
Mattatuck music can’t hire him to move their stock
and the old man at Palace Liquors can’t argue with him any-more.

Hare Krishna’s can’t get him to do their chanting.
Doorways where he stood out of the rain for hours are empty or are gone. Strangers at the all night bus station, killers on their way to Canada… women from Louisiana… never meet him any-more.

He doesn’t share a table with down-town Shirley and her father,
foretell the death of walking- stick Louie betrayed by Tiger Teddy,
sell more orange sunshine than Bobby Comfort,
blow a joint with the New Riders of the Purple Sage,
love a reincarnated baton twirling beauty queen from North Carolina,
let catholic school girls follow him home – cry when he had to let them go.
He doesn’t clamour along the roof tops with a friend named Bird, who never got to California, find free warmth in the library or in the stairwells of the Brown building or for a quarter a slice get to sit behind the pizza ovens at Dom’n Nicks.
And no one sees him sitting on the fire escape drinking Roma California Port with Whitey and Charlie Brown –
There’s no such thing as Beethoven in Waterbury any-more.
On the corner of Lewis and West Main, Beethoven’s lover stands
Eyeing several school girls waiting for their bus across the street.
She watches and waits – nothing happens for her in this town any-more.
Yet she dyes her hair red for him, still refuses to ever ride a bus
And her pale lips still struggle with those Lucky Strikes
Just like always in his dreams

(photographer unknown)
(photographer unknown)
1974 crosby
1974 crosby

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