This is How We Live Now

Together we sleep in one another’s arms.
As if that safely  protects us from the world.

Yet between our breath and our heart beats
the days brutality each night melts away.

And should the world find us so vulnerable?

Our accord is this,
always our side-arms within reach.

Our promise,
to deliver each other into the protection of death
freed forever then from harm.

This is how we live
Now.
This is how we love.

We Make Our Way

Deliberately slow
 through the wood towards the road – 
pong pong pong. 
We pause. 
“What is that?” 
“Shh…” 
There are men, laughter spitting gutter sounds. 
We see them. 
pong, pong, pong… 
we see her. 
Pong, pong. 
Naked bloody woman holding a steel lamp pole 
slamming her forehead into it. 
Again…again…pong, pong, pong.
 I raise my weapon. 
Lightly Shirley places her hand. 
A sign for quiet.
 In various states the men fix themselves.
 Gather their weapons. 
Kick bottles. 
Argue over those not yet completely empty.
 Eventually they amble on. 
No heed for the woman spilt into a heap of silence at 
the base of a metal  pole.
 Once the men move on. 
I look to Shirley. 
"She is better off now. Come. Let's go." 
So, I follow. 
We angle off to the edge of the road briefly pause. 
The woman indeed dead.
 It is hard, to see these things. 
But we look. We always look. We are witness. 
The last human contact. 
We squat. I touch her still warm shoulder then stand. 
While Shirley rolls her over making sure to close her eyes. 
Touches her own lips to the palm of her hand and lays its kiss upon the woman's forehead. 
"No time for more.” She stands. Looks down the road “We'll follow." 
So, we do.

But It Is Forbidden 

This morning of streets
emptier than anything from my
deepest darkest youth.

Not even a beggar to drop a coin to
not even a reason to unlock the doors
useless to lock anyway.

Ambrose comes in.
 Tells me about darkness and men so scared
that only by killing and striving to not be killed
by one another can they bear it.

I pour hot black coffee into his cup,
warming his hands,
 a browner porcelain of prayer as are my own.

On creaky chairs
face to face our audible lips in unison ahh.
 Hot bitter caffeine rewards us another day. 

We have silence.
We have soft grey light through shuddered windows.
We have no need of heat yet.

I get up and from behind the counter
bring a small tin box
knee to knee we look in
share the same ingrained thought:
but it is forbidden.
Then broadly smiling.
We two grown men
each pick out a cigarette.

PD Lyons was born and raised in the USA  Since 1998  has resided in Ireland. Spent a few years before  in Cape Brenton Nova Scotia where winters are great for writing. Travelled a bit worked a lot raised two wonderful children as well as horses ( Morgans, Andalusian Thoroughbred, Irish sport horse etc.) in USA and Ireland. Has worked as dishwasher, floor washer, textile mill labourer, construction worker, pesticide sprayer, fire safety inspector, toy shop manager, substance abuse councillor, women’s shoe shop manager etc currently cutting grass in a small medieval village in co. Westmeath Ireland. 
Lyons received the Mattatuck College Award for Outstanding Achievement in Poetry and a Bachelor of Science with honours from Teikyo Post University Connecticut (USA). The work of PD Lyons has appeared in many formats throughout the world. Lyons published poetry collections by Lapwing Press, Belfast and erbacce Press, Liverpool.