Feeling the warmth of the sun on a cloudy day. A glimpse into a blind billy goat's unique, ever changing perspectives.

2014 04 22 Poetry: Or Am I April 23, 2014

Or Am I

I lie awake in morning hours
Stepping out from cluttered dreams
Dusting out the cobwebbed drawers
Waking up, or so it seems

It’s hard sometimes to separate
My reality from my sleep
The perceptions of my waking hours
And my wandering slumber’s deep

Countless skits of searching steps
Closely looking for a clue
Wrestled down by an unseen foe
With goals to carry through

City scapes and country roads
Take me far away
Amidst crowds of unfamiliar face
Not caring what I say

Endless tasks that seem at hand
Surround the piercing day
Breathless ending to a hurried start
Transforming lumps of clay

Memories from the twisted night
Blend in with simple ease
Blazing trails for setting suns
Cast out for open seas

Not knowing if it’s night or day
I stumble ‘cross the stage
Guiding hands and friendly tone
Help me find the page

Pull the shades and shut the light
The spinning day is through
Thoughts and visions lay me down
As dreams come into view

Casts of characters wait in line
The tasks are all at stake
Have I somehow fallen off to sleep,
Or am I wide awake?


DP Lyons


2014 04 22 Poetry: Scattered April 22, 2014

It’s still National Poetry Month, and I’m still posting poetry. Isn’t that cool? grin

I do thank you for dropping by, and hope this next set of rhythmic text finds you well.

Take care and be good.




Another day lies scattered in my wake.
Another trip across the sky by an October sun.
Another restless walk through a similar thought, wrapped around a couple more.
How short the days seem, the older I get.
How the wind seems to whisper those songs of yesterday.
If I leave now, I might catch up with tomorrow.
If I leave now, I might stay ahead of the past.
If I leave now, I might remember what I’m supposed to do.
With one glimpse, I could see the horizon.
With one glimpse, I could tell the difference between yesterday and today.
With one glimpse, I might be able to see what it is that I hear.
Another thought reminds me of a dream.
Another sound reminds me of a song.
Another touch reminds me of a story.
Another step reminds me of the journey.
Another day reminds me how to live.
Chasing the sun, I skip across the day.
Chasing the shadows, I fall back a step or two.
Chasing a familiar voice, I whisper to myself.
With one more minute, I grab hold of an hour.
With one more breath, I catch hold of life.
With one more moment as a man, I remember the child.
Another moment lies empty on the shelf.
Another midnight wraps around the night.
Another sunrise shines into my endless dream.
Another day lies scattered in my wake.


If you like this poem, and you’re yearning for more, please visit my author’s page on

DP Lyons

You can find my compilation of poetry entitled, “Ready, Set, Poetry” as well as my recently published novel entitled, “Sully Street”.

Both books are available in print and in digital format, and each title can also be found in digital format on Barnes and Noble, “”

Thanks again for stopping by “Surviving”



2014 04 21 Poetry: Skipping Stone April 21, 2014

Skipping Stone

Flickering sunlight slides in through the passing trees
The hum of the tires on the pavement sets my wandering mind in motion
Memories take hold of my hand and lead me back in time
Graced with magic of the mind, I look through the eyes of a boy
The emotion is there
The energy is there
I, am there
The slide show of unforgettable snapshots is from long ago
The smells, the sounds, the emotions generate a calm from deep within
The age of youth, for a moment or two, directs the scene
Childhood ways born from youthful days, gaze back through eyes of innocence
A simple tone soothes as it beats in time with a rhythmic lullaby
So easy to see
So right to feel
So familiar to touch
My heart strums the chords of yesterday’s song
A smile breaks the surface as I remember
I breathe in deep and slowly exhale
And away we go, like a skipping stone, back ahead, into today


2014 04 20 Poetry: Sweep April 20, 2014

Well here we are, Easter Sunday. I hope all of you have a wonderful holiday.

I have written a lot of poetry about a lot of things. Much of my poetry revolves around my vision loss. The ups, the downs, the sweeping emotional barrage of uncertainty and hope. It all represents what I have been through, who I am and where my feet will take me.

Here is another set of ideas, of thoughts, of a mirage of faith, wrapped around a vision that will forever be a part of me.

Thanks for stopping by.



The smiling faces have vanished from sight, but the expressions in their voices still keep me company throughout my day.

The colors remain faded from view, but they still sneak up from behind, wrapping their unforgettable fabric around the day.

Skies of blue, eluding me with their canvasses full of charcoaled gray, still brilliantly light up the darkest shadows of the day

The scarlet feathers of the cardinal hide from me, but I can still hear their timid wings fluttering, as they call out from the branches of the spruce.

Wings of pure midnight blue escape my searching eyes, but the cry from the morning crow still pierces through, and wakes the slumbering day.

Sunlight’s shimmer washes away the colors of the morning sky, but its radiant warmth still penetrates and soothes my searching heart.

The rows of corn line up, hidden in the fields just out of view, but I can still picture them, one by one, waving in the hot, late August breeze.

Although the sparkle of sunlight on the river’s edge eludes my searching eyes, I can still hear the bubbling current, continuing with its winding quest towards the oceans of tomorrow.

The comforting glow of the crescent moon hangs quietly among the hidden stars, but I can still feel it, painting the illuminated night.

The captivating magic held inside those eyes of blue, still spin around my unforgettable memories of your face, your gaze, your smile, of you.


2014 04 19 Essay: Sounds of Silence April 19, 2014

Listen to that.

Can you hear the silence?

I never thought of silence much, gave it a second thought, or even part of a third. Silence sometimes always, and most usually meant quiet time, time to relax, time to settle back and enjoy some free time. Silence always seemed so peaceful, so uninhibited, so, silent.

not much thought was ever thought about trying to hear silence. Who would? What would it mean if you could hear the silence? Surely, they don’t go hand in hand, do they? How can you hear nothing? After all, isn’t it rather hard to go around trying to listen to things that don’t even make a sound? How can you hear something that by definition, isn’t there? Why would anyone in their right mind run around trying to find nothing to listen to? It all sounds simply maddening, and rather void of logic, right? Just think of it. Silence is the prelude to, everything. Nothing makes a sound without it.

I have thought about a lot of different things these past twenty three months since seeing the color green for the last time, like wondering about the darkness, and the quieted hush that seemed to follow right behind it. Wondering if the things that were no longer seen, have anything to do with the things that were never heard.

So many new concepts, and equations, and perceptions have crept inside this muddled, foggy mind. So many ways to think about things. So many different outcomes and conclusions and moments of ponderment. Is ponderment a word? If you don’t hear anybody say it. Is it still there?

So many different things to hear, so many different sounds to go along with the things that can’t be seen, so many unusual hums, and chirps, and dings, and rumbles, and clangs, and rattles, and one wonderful noise after another. In a way, perhaps they are all surrounded by silence. Is it the same thing that Simon and Garfunkel were singing about? Did they not hear it too? Did they know something that we didn’t?

Silence has to be the beginning, and the ending of everything that makes a noise. Doesn’t it? It is the start, and the finish of noise. All of the noise. As the Grinch said, “The noise, the noise, the noise!” After all, it was silence that he was originally searching for, wasn’t he?

Through all of the endless commotion and the constant racket of the thundering day, silence is there. All you have to do is listen for it.

If you listen closely, you just might be able to hear the silence. It might be that short burst of nothing, in between this noise right here, and that noise, right over there. It might be a lost memory, hidden in the fabric of a quiet moment from a yesterday gone by. It might be peace and tranquility, trying to find its place inside the rolling rumble of today.

Silence is wrapped around just about everything, but how can you tell? Who would know, unless they were some silence expert or something? I suppose that if you don’t pay attention, you just might never get a chance to hear nothing.

Trying to listen to silence is a contradiction in and of itself, isn’t it? imagine the conversation.

“Did you just hear that?”

“Hear what?”


Hear nothing?”

“Yes, nothing.”

“No, nothing.”

“Exactly! See? You heard it!”

Shades of “Who’s on first” or what?

Through it all, it will always be there. In all its quieted glory, and hushed praise, it will remain with us to the end.

Listen to that.


Can you hear it too?

It sounds as perfect as nothing I’ve ever heard.


2014 04 18 Poetry: Straight Ahead, To The Left April 18, 2014

Straight Ahead, To The Left

Brilliant light coming from a dark room
Colored schemes tangled into a blank document
Hollowed out souls, looking for an over stuffed chair
See through confusion, wrapped around cloudy comprehension
Hopeless ending surrounded by an endless hope
Scripted sunrise mixed up in a blueless horizon
Whispered shouts amidst the screaming quiet
Reckless abandon with a perception of exact accountability
Presume what isn’t ever going to be there
Justifying shame, with a pinch of humility
Sanity spinning around, inside a logical dementia
We reach, we grab hold of, therefor, we lose control
Taking for granted what should have never been
Freshly folded linens atop a dirty kitchen table
Craving a taste for the things in which we dislike
A bottle of glue broken in two
Looking ahead into the rear view mirror
Loving to hate those same passions that we hate to love
Walking in through the out door
Leaving behind the beginning of something different
Pulling hard on nothing at all
Looking for something you never knew was there
Mixing up the ingredients that someone else added
Listening for that same, unfamiliar voice
Answering someone else’s question
Forgetting to remember what you already forgot
Setting the table after the meal is through
Fixing something you haven’t broken yet
Looking out through a window with the shutters pulled tight
Solving a brand new problem with the same solution
Forging on, straight ahead, to the left


2014 04 17 Poetry: In Time April 17, 2014

Filed under: Life,Life,Poetry,Writing — DP Lyons @ 8:37 pm
Tags: , , , , , , , ,

Hi again readers and thanks for stopping by.

In recognition for National Poetry Month, I’d like to post another poem I wrote a while ago. This particular one jumped out onto the screen and demanded my attention, my focus, my time. No matter what time it is, our minds are busy at work, dodging and manipulating our way through our day. It’s probably not the last time we’ll have to figure out the meanings of the day, but at the moment, at the time, it’s the most important one of all.

I do hope this finds you well, and if you’ve got the time, take a look around, and take the time to stop and breathe, because, this is it.


In Time

Tick, Tick, Tick, there it goes again.
Hands sweeping away the time of another timeless day.
Scores of seconds find their rhythmic beat as they continue to keep time.
Read along, and you’ll be right in time for the next chapter.

Follow the swirling hands of time, and hypnotize the day away.
Stack, and pack, while keeping track, and on and on it goes.
Write it down; punch it in, log on, just in time.
Same time as it was yesterday, right about this time.

There it goes, taking its time, again and again.
It will tell its own story, in its own way, in its own time.
Fear not, though it may appear to be just a waste of time.
Through the ages, the gentle caress of time will work it all out.

Breaking away the moments that made up Floyd’s dull, flittering day.
Isn’t it about time that we’re on time, just this one time?
A wonderful time, had by all who took the time.
In the knick of time, times two, and don’t forget to carry the three.

One last time, followed by just one more time, if you have the time.
Healing all wounds, while standing still, time and time again.
Time to start something new, hoping to finish it just in time.
Time to get up, to wake up, to stand up and get ready for bed.

Time to leave, to go, and to never look back.
For everything, there’s a time, and a time for everything.
In the nick of time, a stitch in time will surely save some time.
Timeless masterpieces find time to keep in time with modern times.

This is the last time, and probably the time before that.
Is there such a thing as an endless journey, followed by a timeless tale?
Isn’t it about time you found out what time it is?
I suppose I’ll let it go, but only this one time.

Time and time again takes up where time left off.
Once upon a time, there was time to dream.
It’s times like these that try the hands of time.
There’s no time like the present to make an effort to at least be on time.

This is the last time I’ll spend my time figuring out what time is a good time for you.




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