He saw a picture of you

He saw a picture of you today. Still there on Abbey St. Blonde hair like straw thatched out from under the rain soaked brim of that old black hat. There was mud on your wellies, there was a crooked smile on your face as if some wonderful power of secrets about to be told... and left to silence. How many years, how many miles, how many faces, strangers and places so called home? In a punch full of tears all at once he knew it wasn't himself or them or even you but Dublin broke his heart.

In The Attic

In the attic those Batman DC comics never read, Micky Mantle rookie cards never cloths pinned to any two wheel red bike, that's where that baseball '61-'62 Yankees signed never brought up to the park amazed by how far a real baseball could be hit. Grandfathers uniform uneaten by moths, cavalry sabre unfroze by rust, mothers elephant collection, figures of ivory porcelain silver gold and oh yes still packed in perfect cedar long white lace veils satin silk and sleeves of pearls all the weddings ever worn mother and her mother and her mother before. What the hell just sell it all anyway, nothing cosy as cash and now there's no one left who'd notice.

There's Something to Be said

There's something to be said for the dark, something good desirable especially when its morning and someone's brought the coffee to you propped up still warm on pillows of last nights dreams. Then, no matter what country country awaits or morning shines,  no switch should be turned no shade raised or curtain parted. All that waits in daylight, work and striving to get to it; better lingered nicely coffeed
finding moments put the world inside your head in such a way as grounded in some sense of truth, suffering transformed to wonder. So when the light comes rushing in child bounces upon the bed crow complaints across the snow, shades snap up all on their own and yes each breath all bright shiny dance the shadow and its twin - all there is Monday miraculous so all you do can or will, is laugh. Up now or we'll all be late.

DOG STORIES

Maybe the boy is six years old when his father takes him. They walk behind the houses through a maze of added on structures. They stop at one. His father opens one of the splintered doors part way and slips in. " Stay by the door," his father tells him, " don't let it close." Then his father goes all the way into the dark. He can hear the footsteps of his father. Then there are other sounds, other things moving in there. He can make out the shape of his father. See him bend down and reach into a cornered mass of moving whimpering things. Now there is another sound, a rising yelp and yap. Dogs. His father keeps dogs in the shed.

His father backs into the daylight, hauling with both hands the lead and then the dog. The dog is black with golden tan on its underside. Its long black tail curls down between its legs up along its belly. Its low diamond shaped head moves side to side like a great snake .

They walk. His father’s boots crunch the hard ground. The dog skids, pulled against its own trembling legs. The boy's soft small steps follow. Around the corner, against the far wall his father leads them.

The boy watches. His father attaches the lead from the dog to a cable. The cable runs up a series of supports to the top of the wall, and then angles back down the same wall to the ground. There is an almost echo snap as his father secures the end of the lead to the cable and walks away. The dog whines and tries to follow, but the cable pulls up short. There are more dog sounds as it turns, tries another direction, comes up short again.

Suddenly the dog stiffens. Its head begins to rise. Its front legs come off the ground. At last it shows some canine aggression. It snaps and snarls wildly. Tries to turn in such a way so as to tear its attacker apart. But the dogs attacker is a thin braided cable steadily tightening. It gets harder and harder for the dog to do anything. Finally his father anchors the cable.

On its tiptoes, the dog stretches taller than the boy now. Quickly his father returns to the dog, stretches out his arm, jabs at that golden inner thigh. The dog makes sounds like screaming. It takes a few seconds for the boy to notice. There is blood on the dog's leg. It pulses from the place his father touched. His father goes and slackens the cable. Lowers the dog back to the ground. The dog at first a frenzy of licking and yelping gives way to a slow motion pitter patter of paws. Eventually, it curls itself up on the hard wet ground and moans.

He no longer hears these things. He does not remember how old he really was that first time, that moment when at the point of happiness he realised, “This dog is no gift to me from my father." He does remember how to treat them so they stay afraid, how to clean them and how to strike the artery deep enough but keep the hole small. He does not remember if it was his ninth or tenth birthday when his father first handed him the blade.

He is walking down the street. Notices a group of strangers. Someone he knows is with them and calls out, saying “Come, join us."

The strangers speak a language he does not know. They are two men and a young child. The child is wearing a brilliant pink fur coat. Someone he knows explains, " These are the buyers of skins. This child, the daughter of one of them. They want you to know about this child's coat. That it is made from your skins."

Not sure if he understood this last part he asks if this is so. “Yes. Yes. This little girl's coat is made of skins from you."

He looks again at the child. He squats down before her, extends his hand and stops. He looks up to them and from one of the men receives a silent nod of permission. He reaches out to her, she is not afraid of him. He touches her coat, pinches it, rolls it back and forth between his thumb and fore finger. He opens his hands. Runs his palms along her shoulders and down the sleeves. “ It is a wonderful coat. An amazing colour. A lovely gift for a child. But,” shaking his head he stands up. “No." he says and shakes his head again, “ Tell them no. I have never dogs the colour of this."

He does not remember the names of those buyers or why they laugh when he tells them the truth. He does remember the little girl. The look of her at him squatting there as if they shared some secret then. As if he had told her how he could no longer see the face of his father, or hear the voice of his mother, even though he had promised never to forget.

pd lyons poetry: Happy Easter All

pd lyons poetry: Happy Easter All: Dorothy Sebastian photographed by Clarence Sinclair Bull c. late 1920’s

pd lyons poetry: new work from pd lyons and other wonderful poeters...

pd lyons poetry: new work from pd lyons and other wonderful poeters...: Curio Issue 5 up for your viewing pleasure! Hide Details FROM: Curio Poetry TO: Curio Poetry BCC: pdlyonsp...

a mandala of dinosaurs, a message of lovers

A mandala of dinosaurs. A pestilence of motorcyclists. A red sky of warnings. A coyote of marzipan. A zygote of intelligence. Crystal of elan-ists. Soda of psychopaths. Preponderance of dictators. Herald of crows. Kansas of superpowers. An eclipse of educators. Blessing of coffees. An autumn of smudges, a winter of geese, a summer of topiaries, a spring of dreams. Empire of penises. A squander of vaginas. A catapult of efforts. A plethora of crows. An envy of ravens. A parcel of pachyderms. A coagulant of desires. A mercury of fish. Kick-start of starlings. meandering of serpents. Bucket of worms. Sack of cats. A giggle of girls. Shyness of boys. A Saladin of wisdoms. A crisis of faiths. A plague of religions. Carpet of bred crumbs. Sanctity of prisoners. A rats-ass of carers. Trombone of sexes. Conglomerate of crows. A pudding of infants. A declaration of sea shells. A tumble of puppies, a cartoon of kites. Meander of mysteries. A half league of words. A complaint of crows. A severance of hopes. An ignorance of drivers. A Shenandoah of daughters. A crux of sons. A crossing of souls. A delightful of crows. A smatter of kisses. A moonbeam of tongues. A secretion of secrets. A message of lovers.