Subterranean Blue Poetry


PD Lyons


by Pd Lyons

That morning we walked into the snow
Across old farm lands
Over walls of field stone
The flakes large steady
Making it hard to see anything but them.
We'd stumble.
We'd fall.
Each of us
Quick to help the other.
Laugh sometimes,
Kiss sometimes.
Push ourselves forward.
Always forward.
The semi shelter of thin woods,
some nameless river,
the steepening ridge.
swirls of ever deepening
ever dancing mesmerised not bothering to melt snow
Like new eyelashes,
Like soft old useless flannel,
Like wishes form a childhood
Unable to be blown away
Or ever to come true.


by Pd Lyons

an elegance of sorrow

nights, no matter how alone

never wishing that they'd end

sometimes the moon

sometimes the stars

sometimes mortality at midnight

halos struck by strange light

always rainbowed by the rain


by Pd Lyons

she has been


to me

and in serving


i make an art,

of that which


have been forbidden

on my tight



i express

a tale

no one can

but everyone wants

to interpret

i cling to it

like a charm

she has been


to me

in secret dark

eyes closed

so safe

she does not


but rather

causes me

to linger

tip toe

from eternity

she has been


to me


this ornamental flesh

a power

always yearned for

yes i would

cut myself


for her

but this she

does not

ask for. 


by Pd Lyons

When I wanted to see you,

Young and available

Dresses out amidst a blue jean


Stoned as laughing smoky charms

Dancing at any moment unannounced

On the steps of Spanish little Harlem

Turquoise as your eyes church doors

Sacramental wine just opened

A spiral of possibilities each as

believable as the past.

When I wanted to see you,

Roads wide open looking to ride

Strong summer muscle

Love like horses into sunset

Diamonds across that midnight sky

Alive only in your love me eyes

Breathless barefoot pirouette

Limitless kitchens dull Frigidaire


Icy India pale ale as fast as we can

drink 'em

Third floor back porch dawn

Aegean blue among a city of


When I wanted to see you,

Saint John's Chapel Christmas

Balsam crushed blood velvet

Crystal choir angel

Mysterious as snow

The mouth you used

An accent of hypnosis

Lead like sorrow obsessed with green

As if summer returned between live


The first breasts I ever saw

You stripped for the reservoir

My hands held by your own to cup each

one instead.

When I wanted to see you,

So much more so than where ever you


So much sooner than now

Despited unrelenting

Sharper than anything ever dreamed.

Nocturnes At The Borders

by PD Lyons

a long passing caravan of days

deserted debris

   hope a pitch black oasis -

sparkling the only un-still things

such as stars, jewel throat ghosts,

your eyes beyond all knowledge,

the only dark that shines -

   a different kind of sun.

my mouth for your love

dreams smoke wandering horizons

red glow desert

a voice wet silk

drawn as if my skin

found out in the wind

perfumed by foreign creatures

nourished by such exploring

my heart contains a fertile seed

   A treasure trove for beetles an insect paradise.

I saw you with tears in American gowns

you were just like Picasso but knelt on the ground

as if genuflecting before the print page you’d inhale

the spirit right out of his grave and I just couldn’t

take it so I wandered around as if I could shake you

Like salt from my skull

   Always returning an orbit of doubt.

The scent of your soapy skin draws me in

ways I cannot identify

like ivory in the morning someplace else away

beyond a snow tipped mountain

before the savannahs open prayer

dark meandering luxurious survival

   Our daring selves mortal among the Edens.

Leaving This House

by PD Lyons

Through leopard clouds the day’s sunlit fingers open,

soft afternoon, occasional whispers between finches

knowing my need for such kindness

even crows come quietly...

What is it of memory and seasons?

What does this shift to autumn bring me?

Why remember what I do? Forget what I forget?

A bed of rolled up cotton,

sun dried white sheets against pale skin,

wishing it was some hangover

so wind chimes could sound beautiful again,

sunlight be inviting and coffee all the medicine you'd need.

I know of this other time when drowsy dancing on sweet wine

we sank beneath that wind chime tree

surrendered on the beating earth

something more than blood and bones,

a tender lightening wove between us

our own muscles able to morph the world.

Now such things cannot be spoke of.

Distorted by sick eyes they'd only deepen your

regrets, as if what was could ever not be.

If you responded to preaching, I'd simply preach.

Instead I must lure you by disguise -

Coffee from thin sharp equatorial mountains,

audibly stirred blue stone mug.

Herbs infused with full ripe summers.

Small secret woodland tinctures.

Ointments rich in years of flowers.

Oils soaked in sunlight, stored in our own damp cellar

warmed as needed over an open flame.

Somewhere past all anger, melted only by tears, yield the ways of memory.

Subterranean Blue Poetry

© 2017