Surviving

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

2017 04 08 Poetry, Or Am I April 15, 2017

Happy weekend everyone.

The poem below is one that I wrote a few years ago. I haven’t had time to write much these past couple days, so I’m going to the bull pen for this one.

I have pretty weird dreams, more so these past few years. Are they associated with my vision loss? Who knows. All I know is that I see faces more vividly now, and some of these faces are of people that I haven’t seen for twenty years or so. Some even older.

One funny thing about my dreams is that I don’t dream of people I have met since I became blind. Why is that? I know I haven’t seen their faces, but I have built a mental face of just about everyone I have met since 2010. Perhaps it’s because I picture them as a mental image only? Perhaps my mind hasn’t built a database that it can pull information from during dreams?

Perhaps I might never know, and still, I dream.

I hope you all have had a great first half of your weekend. May the spring blossoms fill your days with colorful joy.

Deon

***

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 familiar face
Not caring what I say

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

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

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?

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2017 04 07 Poetry, In a Darker Room

Hello again. Please excuse these posts that are titled by a different date than the post entry. I wrote a few poems for the month, and am just getting to posting them on this blog. Thanks, and hi again.

To have vision loss is a journey of the heart and soul. Many times as I have searched for a sliver of light, I found myself celebrating the simplest of things that I spent a lifetime taking for granted.

Through the loss of that light, I have found new ways to discover the light, the illumination that now exists from within. I owe so much of these new ways to you all, for your words, your inspiration has helped me so much these past few years.

The light has a way of dancing across a world. The shimmer, the flicker, the incredibly quick dance of shadows as the day moves along.

So many things in our lives depend on each other. We bring things to life with the words that tell the story, and with each letter, the dance begins.

I don’t know what I’m trying to say with this submission, but like most everything I sit down to write, the reasons and the meaning changes each time I read the words back.

It’s another morning in April, and another poem for the National Poetry Month.

Have a great Friday, and forever write on.

Deon

***

In a Darker Room

In a darker room the light loses its way.
In a darker room the mind trips over light.
Brilliant flashes of turquoise and gold.
Illuminations set in motion mimic stars in flight.

In a darker room a word Pirouettes.
It leads to another as they flow in rhyme.
Ballet of meaning, of purpose, of life
Gathering a story that spins back through time.

In a darker room a mind rambles on.
Wandering and veering in step with the dance.
Flashes of light, flickers of fate.
Storied words that give darkness a chance.

In a darker room a door opens wide.
Timid heart roars with a passionate beat.
A picturesque view through the mind’s looking glass.
A story revealed as the words take their seat.

 

2017 04 07 Poetry, 22 Years

Hi Again.

Time has a way of changing things. The clothes we wear, the foods we eat, the songs we sing, the life that we live, all of it has a habit of changing, and sometimes without our being aware.

22 years times 2 I was but a teenager, trying to figure out where my adulthood might take me. Never in my wildest dreams did I ever, well, never in my wildest.

22 years ago a trendificational change grabbed hold of my life, and 22 years later, the change has never let go. It’s been a good change, a strong change, a change of direction, of pace, of likes and dislikes, and through 22 years, it has caused tremendous change in me, around me, and in spite of me.

On this 5th day of April I am reminded of how things used to be before those 22 years. I’m mesmerized by a memory or two that have led to today, 22 years later.

I hope you all had a great day, and as a poet from Maine once reminded me, no matter where you go, there you are, so why not go grab yourself part of it.

Deon

***

22 Years

22 years ago, a world suddenly changed.
A window whispered hello.
A window opened a door to yet another window.
A beckoning call rang through a home.

22 years ago a mouse became a friend.
A desktop gathered an icon or two.
A single tower began to teach.
A cursor swept across a square screen.

22 years ago, a window of amazement grew.
A personality fell for a hard drive.
A list of hobbies could only stand aside, and watch.
A question slowly turned into curiosity.

22 years later a mouse sits quiet, and sighs.
The colored windows now swim with the sharks.
The sounds of the keys sing a different song.
The monitor light galliantly flickered, and then slowly faded away.

22 years the window looks out across a different field.
The window glows with a different light.
The window gathers in a different sound.
The window opens a brand new door.

22 Years.

 

2017 04 04 Nat Poetry Month: Birds of Blue April 5, 2017

April 3rd is here, and it looks like another cold start to the day. I’m not complaining, I’m just saying, if you know what I mean.

Rituals come and go, like the rights of spring, but some rituals blend in and trend their way into a normal routine that just seems like it should be there.

We love our animals out here. When I hear a coyote pack call in the night, a barn owl echo through the midnight trees, the Canada Geese, and of course, those pesky birds that throw their waking calls at you just like clock work.

This poem I dedicate to one of my favorite flyers. No matter the cold, the weather, the time of year, they’re always at the ready with their unique song.

I hope you all have a great day, and it was good to sit back and listen to the call last night. You guys are an amazing bunch of inspiration, and I thank you for it.

dp

***

Birds of Blue

Fingers move slowly in the chilled morning air.
The furnace clears its throat as it fires up a morning song.
Blue jays gather atop the spruce outside and patiently wait.
Their unmistakable calls echo out along the April morning breeze.
Peanuts, cereal and bread fill the breakfast bowl.
The kitchen window opens and the birds shrill away.
The food is thrown, the screen slowly closes, the wait begins.
One by one, those beautiful birds of blue effortlessly glide back to the spruce.
The youngest of the jays slowly drop to the ground.
They chorus loudly with their joyous breakfast call.
Holding open the window, I cradle the empty bowl and smile.
Another beautiful day on the ridge has begun.

 

2016 04 30 Poetry: 30 Ways April 30, 2016

And here we are, April the 30th. My oh my how this month has traveled quickly. Here one minute, May the next.

I must be honest with you all. I only cheated I think twice this month, in that I posted older writings. The other poems for the month were brand new, and most of those were written rather quickly, like within one hour. I think the longest I spent writing one of April’s poems was just short of one hour, 45 minutes. Honest. I hate to say it, but that’s how most of my poetry comes to me, quick and to the point, like a ping pong ball caught up in a twister.

Seriously though, I’d like to thank those of you who have commented on my writings. You know who you are, and you also know how much I am thankful for the opportunity to do this. It has been a challenge, but it has also been a lot of fun.

I enjoy writing. Always have, always will, I hope. I wish I had done more of it during my young adult years, but it just wasn’t meant to be. You see, a little thing called life caught up to me and chucked me ahead thirty or so years, and here I am. Grin

To my writing friends, thanks for another month of inspiration. To all of my friends, thanks for another month of friendship. To my God and my family, I run out of words after, “Thank You”.

Until next year, I hope the rest of this year brings you the gifts you will always remember. I hope that your health is good, and that your cup is full, every single day.

Thanks again, and always take care.

Best,

dp

***

30 Ways
A poem by Deon Patrick Lyons

And so, April the 30th has come once again.
The errand of a fool must give way to a new name.
A new cycle of birthdays have celebrated the magic of their day.
The torch of spring will be handed off to the runner marked number 5.

Thirty days have patiently graced our paths.
Thirty nights the moon has fallen behind the night before.
Thirty times the earth has spun around.
Thirty different sunsets have followed thirty dawns.

Energetic hands of the clocks have kept us company throughout.
A billion cars have driven a trillion miles
One moon’s tides have all brought the treasures of the sea to our shores.
Eyes of innocence have watched a month of April sunrises.

Thousands of shooting stars have streaked across the spring nights.
A month full of tears has been wiped away by one single smile.
The cries of the newborn have filled the chambers of a beating heart.

May will come, as April did pass.
Another month older, thirty days wiser.
The sun climbs higher as the nights grow short.
The geese are beginning to unpack their summer luggage.

Thirty poems have filled the screen.
Thirty stories have found their way.
Thirty posts have hit the net.
Thirty ways this goat has smiled.

 

2016 04 29 Poetry: Son of My Son April 29, 2016

I am a son. I also have a son, who has a son. That makes me as old as I feel, and as blessed as I can be.

Growing up, I never dreamed I would get married, have a child and become a grand father. It just didn’t seem possible to me.

My son and his son came over for supper tonight. Hearing my grandson’s voice puts me in a dream like state of mind that soothes my tired bones. Trouble is though, as soonas they got here, it seems that only a few minutes went by and they had to leave.

This poem is about the relationship between grandfather and grand son. It is a joyous one that I am very thankful for and will never take for granted.

This is my 29th poem submission of the month, and I’d like to thank all the support I have received throughout this National Poetry Month.

Do take care, and have a great weekend.

Dp

***

Son Of My Son
A Poem by DP Lyons

Son of my son
Why do you run
Will you stop for a moment
And let me know

Son of my son
Why do you laugh
Come here for a moment
And show me the joy

Son of my son
What do you see
Come here for a moment
And show it to me

Son of my son
How do you feel
Come here for a moment
And let me feel it too

Son of my son
How do you know
Come here for a moment
And read it to me

Son of my son
Where will you go
Come back for a moment
And show me the way

Son of my son
Why do you ask
Come sit here by me
And let me explain

Son of my son
Who will you love
Come here for a moment
And tell me of her smile

Son of my son
Who will you teach
Come here for a moment
And teach me too

Oh Son of my son
Why do you cry
Come here for a moment
And let me dry your tears

Son of my son
Take me along
Take hold of my hand
And guide me

Son of my son
Give love to my son
Tell him his son
Is as loved as my son

Son of my son
Remember to love
The son of your son
As the father of your father loves you

 

2016 04 28 Poetry: So Much More April 28, 2016

What’s your question? Are you looking for a particular answer? Is your inquisitive nature ever satisfied? Will it ever be?

So many questions, so little time. The never ending mirage of curiosity is like a perpetual engine running forever, eternity, infinitum, a really long time.

I have asked more questions than have been answered, and in this respect, I’m probably just like every other person who has ever walked the face of this big blue marble under our feet. Live a little, learn a lot, wonder even more, and then, life continues to move on.

Today is April 28, and don’t look now, but the month is winding down. I have written more this month than I probably have since this time last year. With all of the school work, emails, and these poems I have posted, there’s a lot of writing, but I don’t really notice, because you see, my screen reader keeps me company through it all.

Hmm. Sounds like the making of perhaps poem number 29?

And here is poem number 28. I hope that this poem, this blog, this day finds you doing exceptionally well, and I thank you for stopping by.

Do take care, and remember to keep on asking questions. You just never know what kind of an answer you’re gonna get.

dp

***

So Much More
A poem by DP Lyons

Never forget those searching eyes,
Never rely on the obvious.
Never miss a day filled with a new beginning.

When will we learn how to see?
How will we learn where to look?
When will we learn how to notice?

So much more lies beyond.
So much more develops within.
So much more.

Open those eyes and look through the heart.
Open the mind and look through the soul.
Open those arms and embrace the new.

The vision is born within the mind.
The mind is a magnet.
The world is magnetic.

The union is destiny.
The result is life.