"lyon" poems
A old gentleman in a bar was sitting next to a very beat up man this tattered man He wore no shoes
He smelled
He was soaking wet and looked very pale.
The old gentleman bought the man a beer
and ask him what his story was
the man told him that he was once a successful buissness owner
a man of high class and standard.
He wore the finest clothes,
wore the most beautufl jewelry,
and went on amazing journeys.
The old gentleman began to laugh
he sipped his drink
looked over the man and asked him what happened
the man told him that he was driving out in the country comming home from a buissness meeting
He said he had been drinking and reached for his scotch when he
looked up
his car swirved in the lake
water seaped in
He said " water came rushing in so fast"
the old gentleman looked down at his beer
looked up
and the man was nowhere to be seen
he asked the bar keep if he saw where the man went
the bar keep insisted that the old gentleman was crazy that he saw the old gentleman talking to himself...
suddenly
The old Gentleman heard a voice over the television " Good evening we have breaking news it appears that Lyon Lemon Owner of Inka Industries has gone missing. Police have recovered his viechle but with no trace of Lyon inside it. They've issued scuba divers to search for the Lyons body. We will keep you posted on this story.
The old gentleman suddenly felt quezzy and uneasy. His lips dried, his skin went clammy, and his hair stood on the back of his neck. He knew he had seen Lyon not moments ago in the bar. The old gentle dropped a handfull of silver and paper on the counter and rushed out.
Javier Timble once a Master Con Artist and a Cheat was now the one being fooled and tricked with. He knew the game that was being played on him and he was to have no part of being set up for a ****** Timble was shakened but was far from scared. As he walked out the bar he noticed wet footprints. But they were forming as if someone was walking. Timble again felt the rush of adrenline come into his heart he began to mutter to himself and wonder what kind of trick this was. Javier stepped slowly towards the footprints and noticed that there was letters forming on the wall to the right of him. slowly the words formed out to say "InKa"
Oct 24, 2012
Oct 24, 2012 at 2:04 AM UTC
Inspired by George Ella Lyon's poem Where I am From
I am from cul-de-sacs
From skinned knees and seven speed bikes
I am from the bewitching perfume of the osmanthus bloom mingling with freshly mown grass
I am from the familiar music of the bubbling creek and the cardinals song
the swish of a golf club and the thud of a soccer ball
I am from hot pavement on bare feet, the taste of honeysuckles, and reaching pine tree forests whose invisible trails and clearings became my secret empire
I am from airplanes and home cooking
From Mary and Mark
northern accents and southern hospitality
I am from "use your manners" and "Not enough month left at the end if the money"
I am from sunday school and patent leather shoes that pinch my toes
from a prayer before dinner that is carved into my brain
I am from poland
from poppyseed kuchen and kielbasa
I am from my grandmother forgetting baking soda in the bread
and then... years later, forgetting me too.
I am from my grandfather's sense of humor
and his unwavering stubbornness.
I am from too many cousins to count
from pinched cheeks and "How you've grown!"
I am from piles of unfinished photo albums
brimming with new adventures, frozen faces, and old memories
I am from the path I carved for myself with tools that my parents bestowed upon me.
Apr 8, 2013
Apr 8, 2013 at 1:14 PM UTC
With special thanks to George Ella Lyon
I am from crumbling brick
(red, dusty, smelling of musk).
I am from aluminum siding
and triple-deckers,
tall, strong, unmovable.
Hailing from the city on about seventy hills.
From Grandfathers and photo albums,
cigar ash salad and pinecone wars.
From "use your imagination" and "go play in the street".
I am from a whirlwind of faith,
belief from non-believers.
From schoolyards, playgrounds, and crawlspaces
come these faces, and these memories
are worth more to me, than anything.
Sep 22, 2010
Sep 22, 2010 at 7:02 PM UTC
Now it might be hard to understand
But just for a moment I ask that you try to comprehend
The idea, the marvel, the miracle
Of learning love’s true definition from a child less than 3 years young
Her name was Amelia Lyon, but she was called Amy Lou
And her hair was up like Whoville’s own Cindy Lou Who
Dr. Suess would’ve been proud
I’m sure he would’ve loved Amelia, as did every single person of every single crowd
We would bring her with us to Disneyland
The happiest place on earth for both woman and man
And little Amy loved every second of it
With a wide smile, never crying, not even a bit
Bearing the power of a simple smile, and a thousand suns
She would light the very streets she crossed
Reaching out and attacking strangers was far from seldom
With a beautiful kiss of innocence, sincerity, we watched as joy would blossom
Did she discriminate?
Did she decide who to incriminate?
No, you see, Amelia would never
If someone was hurt, and broken, she could make all things better
A beautiful soul
To match a beautiful girl
I learned, let me tell you
What true love is, something new
Something that is rarely practiced
But only talked about, and the fact is
I’ve never seen love quite like this!
It was sincere, and it was real and it was amazing
A special perspective, a new trail she was blazing
And now I know what true love is
Humble, supportive, and nonjudgemental
Kind, gorgeous and always gentle
Thank You, Amy Lou.
One day, I hope to be like you.
But now she's gone, at two and a half you were taken from us
So unique, Heaven, God, and the Angels were jealous
Do I feel robbed? Do I feel cheated?
Certainly not! Because I know who I shall see when I am greeted
There she will be, adorable and precious
That gleaming smile with a child’s eyes
At the opening of the Gates, it will be glorious
Because finally, that disguise, that shroud of earthliness
Will have been torn away, and we will forever be united again
My baby sister, my Amelia Lyon, my Amy Lou
I miss you so very dearly, my little Cindy Lou Who
With love, bittersweet tears, and a heart deeply aching
Your brother, Remington Charles King
Jan 17, 2014
Jan 17, 2014 at 5:03 AM UTC
eight wickets
eight wickets
he did so well score
on the pitch at Bangalore
he spun the ball
he spun the ball
in the first session of play
over after over toiling away
his efforts were fab
his efforts were fab
bamboozling the batsmen
with a seaming flight of hem
not since Warne
not since Warne
had such a display been seen
on the oval's twenty two yard sheen
a magic spell
a magic spell
Lyon's spinning technique
was truly magnifique
Mar 4, 2017
Mar 4, 2017 at 11:15 PM UTC
Beijing’s Child points at the white clouds flying, veils in the somber sky, to the moon under the yielding tree’s red lantern, he is absent-mindedly playing with his brown braids. He pictures himself abroad, by other long shores turning the pages of his dear illustrated book when a fired fish jumps up to the skies clad in its rainbow scales, glistering. Under the yielding tree red lantern
Beijing’s Child rubs the green ginkgo Although the snow, winter’s daughter plucks the feather leaves of her silvery coat....
Was it the wind, messenger of the west that brought the Biloba bird until Ta? Under the yielding tree red lantern
He thinks about it sprouting, seed of the past. The Child whose name means pagoda lives over the gates of the shining sun chanting to the elements songs and lullabies,
Under the yielding tree red lantern.
And when Earth vibrates under the storms when the frightened men rise their damped eyes the child wraps his body with the veil of the stars I hear by the mounts his voice and his augurs. But the tree was cut down and cannot offer its sweet sap anymore the red gleam has faded long ago of the marooned torn by time book only one thing remains, and it is a dream.
Because, at bedtime, as the world is sound asleep the child pours a golden powder to the souls. Stay awake at night because the Child of Beijing will enchant you until your morning!
Written in French in Beijing, October 20, 2011. Translated on May 9, 2014 Lyon, France
Nov 28, 2015
Nov 28, 2015 at 9:01 AM UTC
We hiked mountains and dove into ocean temples
We tasted apple candy, fried onions and sushi platters
Without you to nourish my soil, my earth shatters
In my mouth lingers the dry taste of our kindred kiss
Longing for a touch that is now long gone
I trudge when I walk back to where we walked
In dreams I call (your name), in dreams I fall
Back into your arms…emptiness… alone!
October 2017, Lyon
Dedicated to my former Californian lover, Aaron S.
Oct 30, 2017
Oct 30, 2017 at 7:01 AM UTC
<font size="22">“Can’t **** every day” is what he said
Hello, we don’t even.
Formal French frankly thrown away
Shock. No.
Scenes of SM and secret desires swirl to me
Wave of pleasure, literature of the flesh as well as poetry
All gone with the air of his breath. Breathe. No.
Can’t withdraw the ideas of fantasies
Can’t fight too long against love’s urges
Can’t deny to ignore them sometimes but
Can’t pretend to love him when his pride
As a male is destroyed, because his walking stick
Is askew, I’ve walked my path from California to here
Can’t always shush my fantasies’ atmosphere
I’m upstairs typing away my rage
On the from the start sensitive and ****** page
Wrote a book of poems full of mysteries and furies
Thought he knew it burned, bright.
Lyon, May 4, 2017
May 4, 2017
May 4, 2017 at 5:39 PM UTC
Furious orange wounds
rimmed in charcoal
betray last night's secret:
died, almost died,
charred in an accidental inferno
due to the lazy application
of a long-standing addiction.
Warm,
paper-burn stink clings
to the heat of an early morning
- July.
The slowly-creeping wet heat
in stark contrast
to the quickflash realization of predawn:
my bed was on fire.
The must never know,
those in the cells opposite -
surely, threats of neglectful destruction
warrant the hasty eviction
of the new tenant.
Thus I,
the wakeful sentinel of 611 Lyon
watching for mattress fire
have overturned the hopefully-cooled burns
and will sleep
to avoid dwelling on thoughts
of bonfires.
Jul 7, 2010
Jul 7, 2010 at 12:39 PM UTC
(In English, we were supposed to write a poem based off of George Ella Lyon's poem "Where I'm From" and this is the one I wrote)
I am from picture frames,
from Dove and Suave.
I am from the white house on the corner of the street
(far enough from the train tracks, close enough to the park).
I am from lilacs,
from the rose bush on the side of the house,
always humming with bees.
I am from crocheting and complaining,
from Edith, Rachael, and Susanne.
I am from blind eyes with a blue glow,
from "Speak up!" and "Sit up straight."
I am from "Now I lay me down to sleep..."
and old, golden cross necklaces.
I am from Ohio,
turkey, and sweet tea.
From the night my grandparents ran away togethers,
and the glass wedged into my father's finger,
the day god lifted him from the driver's seat.
I'm from the upstairs closet,
sitting beside childhood memorabilia.
Images of faces I never met,
and those I'll never forget.
Bags of animals,
stuffed with imaginary souls,
and boxes of books
which tales will never grow old.
Dec 9, 2013
Dec 9, 2013 at 12:30 AM UTC
Craving the crack of the whip possessing the flesh
Before it hits the air, the breath of the bound captive
Hearing in the silence of the caressing hand a touch
Pored out behind the shackles, the feathers, the rules
Trying to make sense of the frustration and delusive
Desire of the entangled ******* rough and intricate mesh
Taking off all misunderstanding, embracing your blush
A sort of rituals of carnal, Sir, Mistress, Save Our Souls.
Bound to love the feeling of expectancy in a dark room
Dealing with all traumas and successes bending a knee
Savoring the exquisite or frightful balance of pleasure
Muttering an ****** language known by all yet dreaded
A scene in which your persona stages a fantasy
With a consenting partner or in your mind, it is easy
There is no self-help book for this topic, it all takes place
In your body and your heart, you decide if you keep pace
Power plays challenge your equilibrium, your lust
Whether you believe in a prophet or in flesh and dust
The beginning is near and she carries all your hidden rites
If only you would disrobe and lie down in many of your nights.
Lyon, July 28, 2017
11:04 pm
Jul 28, 2017
Jul 28, 2017 at 5:06 PM UTC
Play off “Where I’m From” written by George Ella Lyon
I am from novels
From thrillers and believers
I am from the roots which keep me grounded
(Deep, Strong
Holding me up right)
I am from the graveyard
A haunting gaze
Whose eyes have seen violence
And tears turned to stone
I am from flashing lights and late nights
From whiskey and cottonmouth
I’m from the runaways
And the poets
From shut up and get out
I’m from please forgive me
With baby, it’ll be okay
And honey he’s better now
I’m from a conventional home
With grilled chicken and extra veggies
From the innocence I have lost
To a monster
The blue eyes I keep shut tight
Under my pillow was a knife
Spilling broken dreams
A sift of faces
To drift beneath my nightmares
I am from these moments—
Snapped before I budded—
Blooming towards the roads ahead
Sep 4, 2013
Sep 4, 2013 at 12:46 AM UTC
He wakes up at her hips
And will reject her lips
Before she is long gone
Because with her he’s done
He paid the wretched queen
And to her he was keen
Fair enough! She is off
To some masculine doll
His lust her skimpy scroll
In the night of the void
Her body ovoid
Circle seized disposed off
To the fancy of those
Who once gave her a rose
Made of a dollar bill
She is of love, ill, ill
Wondering she may not
About her condition
She will insert the coin
Into a random slot
Her marked lone ****
Bearing alienation
Her own ammunition
Longing for salvation
No lover at auction!
December, 3, 2015
Lyon 2 University, France.
Dec 3, 2015
Dec 3, 2015 at 12:50 PM UTC
A take on violence
The exiling waves of life
Battered a Syrian child
Swept ashore. We scrolled.
We shrugged this violence.
Eyes glued to a simulacrum of love
Expecting the controlled dominance
Of a filthy rich fictional character
We said: “It’s vanilla.”
Violence as an idea is sweetened
You gulp down the pill
But violence as a means is condemned
You still gulp down the pill.
March 6, 2018
Lyon 1 University
Mar 6, 2018
Mar 6, 2018 at 5:04 AM UTC
Crippled crowned crowds crawling for a crate
Craving to cry in crystalized cradles
Formed of fires in a fidgeting frame,
Favor the finest flavor for your fate!
Bedtime in a bleak baby-like babble
Blessed on his bustier blasting the blames
Gently gathering her gorgeous gauntlet
Glad to be glazed in the glass of his gin!
Soothed by his sights for this serene sin
Secretly seduced by this spoiled piglet
Whooshing wooden wildness withering
On the willing winding ***** whispering!
December, 3, 2015
Lyon 2 University, France
Dec 3, 2015
Dec 3, 2015 at 9:35 AM UTC
Desperate to grab the grail of words
we decide to share our joint thoughts
to introspect our vision together
of what it takes to write two at this hour
Pen and paper, one
writes witness into the mind of the other
and meets the timid point of punctuation, followed by
the exasperation of words
it only follows
rules do not apply
nor does a simulacra of similes
the enjambment is our language
that we create we can
misplace
is it our native tongue so much so that
poetry never needs to be learned?
The friendship of thought to process
Relays poet to poem
to poet
And poem again
It's with you now
I walk
Our eyes along the same path to troth
It's truth is spoken
Between lines, it's in the heart
Our paths, alone, come together
Its friendship Is art
Dialogical process fill in
the blanks at 1:01 4:01
p.m, hey aim
For the sweet link we proudly
discovered and shared in eyes and ink
Both black.
It's lack of light
Where the sun of the one seeks the night of the other
It's days and nights; mark hours... asunder under calendar
And daydream of once and again seeing the same sun face the marvel of the other
We are time traveling, air traveling through words
book a seat at the airline company of poetry
What the other sees in the sun sky above her
the other thinks of under his night sky
the thought of one never cancels that of the other
We trod on the same path
Me with Ginsberg, you with Plath.
Written jointly by Appoline Romanens first, third, seventh and ninth paragraph at 1:00-1:27 pm, Lyon, France and by Jesse Altamirano, second, fourth, fifth, sixth and eighth 4:00- 4:30 am, Riverside, California
May 23, 2017
May 23, 2017
May 23, 2017 at 7:40 AM UTC
Life
Baffled.
What befell
Our civilization
Is hell. There is no heaven
When religion is mistaken
For a token of radicalism.
Death
Rejoiced
What brought her
Our people
In a living inferno.
There is no pourparlers
With terrorists and benighted
Souls.
Manchester
These people are heathens
No virgins await them up the heavens
But the cold-blooded sight of a bleeding earth
Stigmatizing those out there who protect their hearths
In tears, facing the West
This is a waste of our so called civilization
Jews
Muslims
Christians
Buddhists
We aren’t.
We are humans.
In the aftermath of the deadly attacks that befell Manchester Arena, May 23, 2017.
Lyon
May 23, 2017
May 23, 2017 at 4:54 AM UTC
I made my way through Sierra Madre
Through the trail entrance and past the monastery
Three miles or so I hiked
I took a video of a snake
Little miniature birds
About 2 inches or so
Fluttering in the bush
When I look across at the mountain
It seems so very close
Never did a mountain seem so real
Birds dance beneath the sunlit sky
Ancient earth
Magnificent
I walk alone
But I am never alone
For He is with me
And now I have some up close photos
Of a lizard
Two shades of brown and teal
Were the colors it displayed
I always say hello
To my fellow hiker
I often wonder about those
Who for whatever reason don't say
A simple hi in return
We share the same earth after all
How hard is it
Just to return the hello?
I do not understand
Sitting on the green bench
At the trail's entrance
Small stumps and grass
The breeze blows
The monastery bells ring at 6 pm
To be good
To do good
To show love to my fellow human being
Is what I will always do
Groups of hikers passing by
With their dogs
I make my way back through Sierra Madre
And On a tree
There is a box
That reads "please take one"
It is a poem template
Entitled "I Am From"
Inspired by "Where I'm From"
By George Ella Lyon
May 3, 2015
May 3, 2015 at 10:22 PM UTC
If she wasn’t hooked on honey
she would fall down on my page
I rescued a blue-winged bee sage
I hope she’ll enjoy her stay
in my human home
She strains her abdomen
I pray it’s not a bad omen
her Hermes powers at rest
Did she leave her nest in earnest
I found her on lonely gray stairs
I pray she heals from her despairs
as the carpenter bee sleeps dangled
To my honey lathered chopsticks
I admire her frail black body
I gently blow on her she’s inside
my heart. I felt hers when she
Gripped my thumb.
March 13, 2018
Lyon
Mar 13, 2018
Mar 13, 2018 at 4:02 PM UTC
Reacting to the new dangerous trend of taking the ****** off in an until then consensual ****** act.
Dear America,
I strolled down your famous Sunset Avenue
Tasted the marine-inspired SF clam chowder
I had dreams about a Hollywood Undead venue
I had in mind Madonna, Monroe and their powder…
Dear America,
You gave me Ginsberg, Baldwin and Brooks
You gave me Hawthorne, Poe and Hemingway
You gave me strength and glory along the way
You gave me all my poems found in these books.
Dear America,
Today I want to tell you about stealthing
No I’m not talking about your crusade and sword
I want to tell you about a new trend and word
Consisting of taking your ****** off in the act
Dear America.
Irving told me he saw a desperate mother– it made me cringe
At the hospital, watch her son slowly pass and leave her
In his arm they gave him an against whatever AIDS shot syringe
This mother planted the needle in her arm.
Dear America,
The gay community was stigmatized because of barebacking
Horses of desire that they decided to tame
And you tell me your youths are, as we are speaking
Making love risking their lives, and no one is to blame?
Trumpets of shame I hear, crumbling the walls of reason
This brand new world to our bodies is nothing but treason
What is that? Is stealthing **** America? I don’t know, say,
What was your reaction when they took your freedom away?
Dear America,
To the insolence of the 1970s youth, the recklessness
This generation responds with an air of stupidity
Go waste yourselves on the altars of dumbness
We won’t move a finger, to again witness this madness?
April 28, 2017
Lyon, France
Apr 28, 2017
Apr 28, 2017 at 5:17 AM UTC
For Adrien,
San Francisco is asleep
On the lips a vermillion souvenir
Of an unthought dream yet
Paralyzed from a wound not mended yet
Red iron body in the night
Of two lovers we have observed
Hurt by a somber Beauty…
Two naked children, to Charity’s breast
Born and tortured by a majestic Love
Loving each other, two men as on Humanity’s
Very first day, in the large bedroom America.
In the passion of a bridge their two hands link
That time… Freedom! And tenderness heals
Devoted fingers, divinized with desire…
Trailing down, delicate, along backs, pleasure
Awake and keeping watch in the large bedroom America
Love comes by, patiently, Pacific
Two entangled lovers, male Galateas
Protected in the silver of their gold, protected from decay
Discovering each other, deliciously, in the bedroom America
In a California, stylistic seduction,
You too are dreaming about your bedroom America!
Montpellier, France July 19, 2015
Translated on July 20, 2015
Lyon, France
Nov 28, 2015
Nov 28, 2015 at 8:33 AM UTC
Des lumières tamisées
Sur vos lèvres irisées
Des couleurs de ses phalanges
Ailées comme deux beaux anges
Vous et votre éternité
Ombres de la noire nuitée
Vous savourez la caresse
De son rythme. Votre détresse
Devient détente divine
Par vos rires on le devine…
Là, la douceur infinie
Tout commence, tout fini
Par ce que ce corps vous fait
Dans ce soir noir si parfait
Lentement, si tendrement
Par ses doigtés, doucement
Connaissant votre plaisir
Et comment y parvenir
Vous lui rendez, soprano
L'extatique mélodie,
Ainsi l'on aurait bien dit,
Que vous êtes son piano…
26 Août 2015
Lyon, France
Nov 28, 2015
Nov 28, 2015 at 8:12 AM UTC
To my grandma,
Dressed with your antique gold decorations
And your oneiric sets
In a swinging gait, bucolic
You come into view, tall, fabulous
In your museum, my amused
Unveiling the stylized veils
Around marbles, spread
In colors, irised hues
You’re dancing, evolving, fragile
Between Vélázquez and Vergil.
Of the Graces, of Guernica, deft
You know it all, aurora, sybil.
Of your opportune inspiration
I tasted all the delights
Between your eyes and smooth fingers
I’ve seen the masters’ evil spells
But also a pale beauty
We have together moored
On the ocean of eternity
Beside the Arts, carved out of love.
Still reading in your golden voice
Those expert accents of yours out of
Time, your moves back then
A work today, still glistening
To you then this libertine fire
Your impish fingers detain…
September 8, 2015, Lyon
Translated on October 18, 2015
Nov 28, 2015
Nov 28, 2015 at 12:05 PM UTC