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2014 04 17 Poetry: In Time April 17, 2014

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



2014 04 15 Essay: What To Write April 15, 2014

Morning readers.

A lot has happened to me these past four years. Vision loss, assistive technology, learning to touch type, finding true friendship, rediscovering the importance of family, it has all blended in and created a very interesting start to this new chapter in my life. I have lived, and loved, as well as learned, and through it all, I am someone who has never been before.

I wrote the following essay about a year after my 2010 loss of sight. As you will read, writing as become a huge form of therapy for me, and I am blessed for it. I hope that I will be able to continue writing until my time here is done.

Thanks again to all of you who have helped, supported, nourished and cradled my soul. I will forever be in your debt, and you will forever be in my heart.



What To Write

As I sit here, staring blankly at my computer screen, I ponder what I should write. My mind wanders across my life in a torrent of mini scripts and video clips of my life. A never ending reel of movie highlights plays before me, skimming the top, and once in a while, diving deep into my past to dig up little golden nuggets of memories full of smiles, and tears, and everything in between.

I scour my memory for things that have seemed to slip my mind. I search the canyons and dry river beds of my thoughts for the lost pages of the novel that is me.

I sit and wonder some times just what to write about next. Different things come to mind, and as I sort through them, one by one, I am flooded with emotions from my past.

I also wonder if I should just write about my dreams, because they are rushing at me, night after night, like never before. More vivid and clear, the moments and faces and feelings associated with my recent countless dreams, fill my head as I wake every morning.

I can’t say that I recall dreaming of things that have taken place since my vision loss, more so the dreams are of times from when I could see. Tale after tale of wonderfully imaginative adventures that leave me wanting more. Maybe I should start writing about them?

I ponder on my poetry, and it’s meanings. I have written quite a few poems this past year, and it seems that one theme is captured more than not, without even trying. My poetry seems to revolve around my vision loss, and all that surrounds it. I write about colors, and sights, and beliefs, and obstacles, and clarity, and faith. I tend to write a lot of poems in the prose form. Up to a few months ago, I did not know what that term meant. I do now, and I enjoy writing in it. I write what feels good, and flows well from within. My style is my own, and I have no other. I am what I write, and what I write, is me. I can not get away from my writings. They have become a huge part of who I am, and where I am heading. I can not overlook the words that jump out onto the computer screen from my fingers.

I do forget about mostly everything when I am writing. Time flies, and the stories, for the most part, just sort of, appear. I don’t know where I go when I write, but I can assure you that it’s a place where I’m supposed to be. I lose all track of time when I write, and I forget that I can not see. The material part of my surroundings take on a new form, or perhaps I should say, they exist somewhere other than here.

So many times I have started a piece, and before I knew it, it was complete. Then as I go back and read through it, I really don’t remember writing most of it. It’s like I’m reading it for the first time. I seem to get transfixed inside.

I do plan to keep on writing. I hope I never lose this passion for writing that I seem to have found this past year. I crave to be in front of the screen, and yearn for the sound of the keys popping under my fingers. It is such a good feeling to me to hear that popping sound. Sure beats the hell out of that old hunt and peck sound that I had grown accustomed to just a few short months ago.

The stories in me will hopefully make their way out onto the screen, one by one. I feel so full sometimes of the tales and the stories and the poems and the words that live within me.

There are so many clichés and catch phrases that sum up what I have gone through. I am them all, and they, me. I guess that I am sort of a cliché myself. I always went with the flow, and hardly ever went against the grain, for fear of being singled out. That fear is no longer welcome in my life, and although it does find it’s way back in from time to time, it knows that it is going to be confronted with a different point of view.

I turn to the left, and hear the spinning of the dryer beside me. As it turns, the seconds of another day spin right along side it. If I can get my mind to spin fast enough, I can keep up with it. Tumble dry, and static free. Wouldn’t that be great?


2014 04 14 Poetry: The Second Week of April April 14, 2014

Spring is finally here and it couldn’t have come at a better time. The winter months have taken their toll on us all and we welcome the warming rays of the sun.

Thanks for visiting my blog, and I hope you all are grabbing a piece of the sunshine for yourselves.

Here’s another poem I wrote a couple nights ago. Enjoy.



The Second Week of April

The second week of April is knocking at the door.
The snow drifts are melting fast, but it’s never fast enough.
It’s been a long, hard pull through a cold arctic night.
The trees wake from their winter slumber and begin to stretch their limbs.
The starlings are moving north a little earlier than usual this season.
News must travel fast about the tasty black oil seed.
The blue jays, cardinals and finches, they’ve always known.
The mourning doves don’t really care, as long as the feed keeps coming.
There’s heavy construction equipment in the blue spruce out near the garage.
The robin family is hard at work remodeling their nest.
They have been patiently waiting to do their choreographed spring stomp across the lawn.
A more entertaining vaudeville act you will never find.
The crows sit on high and guard the ridge at day’s first light.
Nothing much gets past them, but then again, nothing much ever happens.
that certain, sweet smell of spring tumbles on in from the south.
The frosty April nights remind us all of winter’s frozen song.
Day by day, the sun climbs higher in the southern sky.
The culvert out front sings aloud with springtime’s rushing thaw.
The second week of April is waiting patiently at the front door.
Come on in and make yourself at home, my old friend.


Care to drop me an email?

I’ll do my best to answer all correspondence.

Be well.


2014 04 12 Poetry: Blackness April 12, 2014

Hi again and welcome to my latest post. I have written many poems about blindness these past couple years. They have taken me places I never knew existed. They have taken me into my heart, soared through my soul and sprinkled droplets of sunshine on my spirit. I write about my life and it comes to life in my poetry.
Through it all, inspiration remains the key and I am thankful for all that I have received.

I focus on as much positivity as I can, but there are also those moments when time stands still and the sunlight is pulled out of view.



Tired mind, worried soul, burdened beyond today
Never ending cavern tumbles straight into the depths
Nerves shatter along side a curb full of doubt
Obsessive buzzing strips the senses clean

Foggy thoughts scatter in the winds of things never discussed
Numbing chill rips through to the bone in a lightless room
Relentless questions break down only the logical answers
Tired, weary frown takes control of a somber mood

Blackness patiently waits all around
Blackness swallows the day, whole
Blackness represents things to come
Blackness is exactly what sighted eyes can not see

Tired mind, skeptic soul, never ending doubt
Tired mind, captured soul, shackled without a key
Tired mind, fearful soul, huddled in the corner
Tired mind, searching soul, look closer than before


2014 04 11 Poetry: This April 11, 2014

Morning folks. Well, it’s still National Poetry Month, and I’m still writing poetry. The following is a poem I wrote a month or so ago. It wraps itself around one of my true passions. A passion that I can never seem to get away from for any length of time. I am fortunate and blessed because of it.

Have a wicked good day, and here we go.




This is a pair of gentle, soothing hands.
This is a meadow packed full of flowing summer color.
This is wrap around, hold you close, tucked in tight bliss.
This is a hand up, a walk through, a stroll along the river.
This is passed down from the old to the new.
This is a jar packed full of home made sweetness.
This is a mother’s smile on a rainy day.
This is a bowl full of your favorite ice cream.
This is a wide eyed grin from a brand new babe.
This is a timeless touch from a tone that carries the verse.
This is a heart pounding trip through the bars of harmonic bliss.
This is a soothing lullaby, in stereo.
This is a golden ray of sunshine.
This is a melodic epidemic with no need for a cure.
This is a sweeping passion, right at your fingertips.
This is the combination to my soul.
This is pure emotion at its best.
This, is music.



2014 04 10 Poetry: Nothing But You April 10, 2014

Filed under: Family,Life,Life,Poetry,Writing — DP Lyons @ 8:50 am
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Nothing But You
A Poem by DP Lyons

I sit and I stare at complete, uncontrollable beauty
I sit and I breathe in your gaze from across the room
My hands fumble with feelings they can’t comprehend
No matter where I look, You’re all that I see

Beads of sweat form on my brow
Beating heart skips and flutters with life
Anxious eyes travel to you, then quickly away
A stirring feeling like absolutely nothing before

Shyly, you look my way, and smile
My throat grows dry
My feet nervously start to tap
My mind starts to spin

Every inch of your face burns into my soul
My mind is bombarded by a picture of you
I see nothing in the room, but you
Again, you look at me, and the world stands perfectly still

I can’t breathe
I can’t think
I can’t stop my mind from circling around you
I just can’t

I think I’m in love
I feel I’m in love
I sense I’m in love
I must be in love


2014 04 09 Roland April 9, 2014

The following is a short story I wrote a couple years ago for one of my writers groups. Here is a link to our website:

Included in this story is a poem that I also wrote. The poem is about cancer and the fight that has waged in the past, today, and will continue to go on tomorrow.

I am a cancer survivor, as is my son. We hold our heads high and pray for all those afflicted by this ruthless monster.

Thanks for stopping by. I hope this story brings home the strength and passion for life that exists all around us today.



The speaker stepped up to the podium to adjust the microphone. He glanced at the empty chair to his left. He anxiously checked his watch, frowning at the results. He licked his lips and tugged at his left ear. His eyes found the clock on the back wall. His heart rate speeded up as he realized the chair to his left was still empty.

Moving to his right, he grabbed hold of a glass of water on the table beside another chair. Nervously, he sipped the water, while tugging at the neck of his dress shirt. As he moved back to the podium, he looked up at the banner behind him. It read, “Cancer Awareness and prevention week”.

He adjusted the microphone once more as he glanced at the clock at the back of the room again. It was 7:04 pm. He leaned into the microphone, “Good evening ladies and Gentlemen. My name is Charles Moody, and I would like to thank you all for joining us tonight for this evenings annual support meeting of The National Cancer Awareness and Prevention Week, which has become a very important yearly event for our community.” He looked at his watch one more time. “We have scheduled a very special speaker for you tonight, but first I would ask you all to join me in looking over some of the printed materials that were handed out to you all tonight. Let’s start with the orange colored pamphlet that is titled,”

The large double doors at the back of the hall suddenly clicked and swung open. A slender middle aged woman entered the room, accompanied on either side by two taller, younger men. The heavy wooden doors clicked shut behind them as all heads in the room turned and followed their progress to the front of the hall , and up to the left side of the podium.

The speaker backed away from the podium and stared intensely at the woman as she made her way towards him. The two younger men stood at her side.

The speaker and the woman exchanged whispered words for a few moments . He bent down and hugged the woman, then took turns shaking the hands of the young gentlemen accompanying her. He stepped up to the microphone once again. “Ladies and gentlemen, at this time I would like to turn the meeting over to a dear friend of mine,” He turned to look at the woman, then faced the crowd again. “Please help me welcome, Mrs. Eleanor Johnston.”

The room applauded as Speaker Moody retreated to the right side of the podium. He lowered his head , and stared at the floor, while Mrs. Johnston slowly moved up to the microphone. The two tall young men that had accompanied her into the hall, now stood at either side of her, staring straight ahead.

In a soft, searching voice, the woman began to speak.

“Thank you Charles.” She smiled at Mr. Moody.

With hands clasped tightly together in front of him, his eyes never lifted from the floor.

She continued, “Good evening everyone. As most of you know, I am Eleanor Johnston. These two handsome men with me tonight are my sons, Avery, and Samuel. We are blessed to be here tonight in support of this wonderful cause, and hope that all of you will join us in the ongoing fight against this ruthless disease that we call cancer.”

She paused, looking back over each shoulder, smiling at her two sons. Turning back to the audience, she reached up onto the podium and placed a standing picture of a handsome, gray haired man. She continued speaking, “It was our original intensions to have my dear husband, Roland Johnston, speak to you tonight. As some of you know, Roland has been battling bone cancer for some time now.”

She paused again, looking down in front of her. The hands of her sons graced her shoulders as she slowly picked up her head once more. She reached out and ran her fingers around the gold frame of the picture. “Although he had been in remission these past few weeks, my husband, their Dad, Roland, unfortunately lost his battle with cancer early this morning.” The room sighed with collective grief as she bravely continued. “He moved through and past this life with dignity, strength, honor and grace.” She paused as her son on her right bent towards her and gently kissed her cheek, as she leaned back into him.

The Roland that we all lived and loved with gave us all strength to endure his struggles. He gave us all a sense of purpose, a gift of hope, and as he bid farewell to us, his passion for family shone brightly for all of us to see.”

As silence strolled through the room, the faint tears could be heard throughout the crowd.

She reached into the front pocket of her sweater, pulling out a piece of paper. Unfolding it, she laid it flat on the podium, and slowly smoothed it with her hands. Taking a deep breath, her eyes lifted again to the onlookers of the room. “Roland Johnston always had a passion to write. Although he hardly ever found the time to do so, his written words graced my soul and found their way into my heart for all our years.” She cleared her throat, looking down at the paper. “This is a poem that my darling Roland wrote, just a few short weeks ago.”

As the audience dried their tears, her soft gentle voice filled the room. She read,


“Carry On”

“With whispered silence, you enter our lives.
Meek and mild, so cleverly disguised
Like dust trailing in the breeze, you slowly settle in.
With unfamiliar guest, the Unknowing victims overlook.
Crouching and waiting, you poise patiently through the night.
Never asking, never worrying, never confused.
The goal you seek is written firmly in darkened script.
Unsuspecting, we make our way around you.
Our passion for life becomes your fuel of rage.
So it begins, therefore we change.
Tiny warriors of our lives slowly do battle with you.
You inject your painful sarcasm into our lifelong tales.
Our stories stolen, our memories misplaced.
With relentless hunger, you feed from ravaged hearts.
The Recipes of souls pour out and cry for mercy.
Dwelling deep inside, your endless pillage moves through.
You claim what is not yours, and rip away so much more.
You remain forever mute to our merciful plea.
You remain selfish to our plea.
You remain emotionless to our plea.
Hear our sorrow through our tears.”

With tears streaming down her face, she reached into her other sweater pocket and pulled out a handful of tissues. Her sons moved in closer to her, cradling her shoulders as she looked at each of them, smiling through her sorrow.

Looking back down at the podium, she cleared her throat, and forged on.

“Overcome with question, we search for the answer.
Overcome with doubt, we will always believe.
Overcome with fear, we remain standing brave and tall.
Your burden, though heavy, will not end the love that surrounds us.
We will carry on the names and savor the smiles of tomorrow.
We will carry on with fists full of beating heart.
We will overcome, as we conquer your pitiful cause.
We will endure your spiteful, grayed ashes of doom.
We will hold tight to the love of all from deep within.
We will find our way through your twisted, cancerous root.
You may not ask for one thing more.
You have taken far more than enough.
It is time for you to pack your things and leave.
It is time for you to be on your way.
It is time for us to live once again.”


The room sat mesmerized in silence as she quietly folded the paper and placed it carefully back in her sweater pocket.

Again she spoke, “Roland Douglas Johnston fought the cause. He was living the example for all to see. His brave, continued struggle to beat back this monster will not die with him. His courage and determination will live on in the faces and voices of those that are, and will continue to face the struggles that go hand in hand with the armies of darkness that surround this evil beast.”

Her voice became stronger, as her eyes beamed, “With God’s strength and guidance, I will live the rest of my life fighting for this cause, and I welcome you to join me!” She reached to her shoulders, and clutched tightly to her sons hands. “I welcome you to join, us. From the bottom of our hearts, we thank you all.”

As she stepped away from the podium, she breathed a sigh of relief. The speaker stepped towards her, and hugged her, then strongly shook the hands of her two sons as he whispered in their ears

She, and her sons, made their way down from the podium, and through the main aisle. The crowd silently stood and quietly reached out to her as she walked by. Spreading her arms out, she graced them all with her touch, slowly moving towards the exit.

Her sons slowly open the double doors, and the three exited the hall. As the metal latches of the doors clicked shut, the audience slowly returned to their seats.

The room was frozen in silence.

Speaker Moody stood at the podium, reached into his coat pocket, pulled out his handkerchief, and wiped away a tear rolling down his cheek.



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