The Real, True Meaning of Love. This Time For Sure.

Author's Very Serious Note: 

     The National Enquirer recently printed a simply heartwringing true story, giving the details of a lawsuit filed by a disgruntled magician. It seems  the magician's young wife and assistant, "Bambi" (no, really...Bambi.) attended marriage counseling with Pastor Bob, a former former soap star. Bob  DID help the couple achieve closure. Unfortunately, Bob did that, by running off with  Bambi. 

The poignant note in this story, and the reason for the lawsuit, was this:

When they vamoosed, Bob and Bambi took with them-at least according to the details in the lawsuit--
the magician's--wait for it--

"Specially trained Kangaroo".

And so...a poem was born. Yes. Some things are so..so...well, amazing, that only Poetry can describe them. Deep, dark, heartwrenching poetry.

See below.

Thank you.

xxooo

  



kangaroo doggerel: a plea




How could you do

This to me, who

Has loved you so long!

Oh the disaster!

You ran off with our pastor

And that’s not all too!

When you ran, 
you took my heart

My money; most expensive art;

But:

What

turned my heart deep blue:

Was that you took-

You awful crook!-
You took

My Specially Trained

Kangaroo.

I see you now, you three-or two;

Just two, without the kangaroo

Or three, if you include him too;

Or four: my poor heart makes one more;

All of us-I mean all of you-

Are riding into a sunset, ooh.

Just you and him,

And me and you,

And a wellworn

 Didgereedoo*

And of course,

-That’s not a horse!

It’s way too cool:

it’s our specially trained

but-who knew? so cruel!-

     Kangaroo.

Now I am not a bitter man,

But dear it does seem cruel;

After all that I looked past,

To  do this last thing too:

[spoken:]

I forgave you

When you strayed with my best friend

My catchers’ mitt

A vat of organic peanut butter

Some Filipino acrobats

And a cockatoo-

Hey,

I thought it was just an amour fou!

But now I know better

Since I got your letter.

It was a picture of You.

With Bob,
that swine with whom you flew,

And worst of all,

What hurts of all,

It’s true-

In the middle of the two

of You

is .... Jim:

My Extremely

Specially Trained,

And Ungrateful,

HardHearted

Kangaroo!




By Peri Lyons, The Poet Who Understands. -Sort of. 2011

Cat Doggerel c peri lyons 2011

the cat                                    peri lyons c 2011

love leaves by the window;

love sneaks out the door.

i think Love must be somewhere near-

cuz it was here before...

the more you ask Love where its gone;

the more Love cannot say.

the more you tell it to come home?

the more it stays away...

when I was weeping earlier,

my Cat jumped from above

to comfort me: but now I know,

who Love reminds me of.

Thundering Lettuce and The Jane Hotel

Standing in the produce aisle of an Annapolis, Maryland "Safeway", I was surprised to hear a rolling peal of thunder.
Puzzled, I turned to my mother. "Is there a storm coming?"
A stockboy said, "No, that's just the lettuce."

Feeling that I must have missed a beat somewhere, I asked him, in a slow, thoughtful voice, "Why is the lettuce thundering, sir?"

He looked at me in a kind way, the way one looks at one who is obviously a few sandwiches short of a picnic. "So it doesan't dry out," he explained.

Oh. Well, that answers that question. Silly me. -As it turns out, Safeway has a built in "tghunderstorm" produce-refreshing system: it makes a loud thunder noise and flashes light, before spraying the veggies with a fine mist of water. No word on whether the playful performance artists who have taken over the fruit aisle, occasionally throw in a tornado, just to keep customers on their toes. I DO know that when Mom and I left the market, it WAS, in fact, storming outside, with golfball size hailstones in July. I don't know why I want to move back to NYC: the art scene is sort of better--and a lot more subtle -here.

*********************************

Actually, even DRIVING to the market was an adventure of sorts. Mom and I were being quiet, when, out of nowhere, she said, "I want to look at meat."

I said, "I beg your pardon?"

"Meat." She said simply.

I paused. "Mom, you sound like you're in a Beckett play."

Mom remarked, "Actually, Beckett was more about turnips."

Another pause. Hard to know what to say to that.

I said, "If you'd like, I can go in and shop, while you wait in the car. I know you're not feeling great."

Mom said, "Darling, I don't think that's a good idea."

I thought for a moment. "You think I'm going to emerge from the store with a basket filled entirely with Froot loops, don't you."

Mom said, "And creamed herring. Yes, actually."

I said, "Let's not forget the turnips. Froot Loops, creamed herring, and turnips."

Mom smiled. "And meat," she said quietly.

We drove the rest of the way in puzzled, beckettian silence.

*********************

I do take the occasional foray into NYC, now that Mom is recovering nicely. It's exhilerating [that's code for "terrifying, but in a good way"] to start one's life anew at whatever age I last said I am. I stay at the Jane hotel, which I was madly in love with even BEFORE I found out that it's where the Titanic survivors stayed when they were taken off the Carpathia.

Here are reasons to love the Jane with a wholehearted passion:
1) If you go to "Getaroom.com", you can find a room for 80 bucks. Admittedly, the room will look like a small ship's cabin, and you will be sharing a dormitory style shower/bathroom arrangement, but I have whatever the opposite of claustrophobia is, and delight in small cozy spaces. Also, it certainly takes a lot of the work out of seduction: if you take your date up to your room, you are not leaving he/she/it with any doubts about what your intentions are: there is barely room for two people, and if you're going to be at all comfortable, it certainly won't be, by remaining standing. [Note: This is hypothetical, on my part. Yup.]

2) The staff wear 1920's style outfits that, counterintuitively, really hot looking. "Hot" as in "adorable"...just realized that, as it is 120 degrees Celsius outside today, that should be clarified a bit. They are also extremely nice people. I was especially fond of Zach, who looks a little like Tyrone Power, and Carlos, who has a devil-may-care gleam in his eye that offsets his utter professionalism very nicely. But everyone was adorable, which is NOT the norm in a hipper-than-hell hotel. I am even now secure enough, not to mind that the waitresses in the Cafe Gitane, downstairs, all look like Brigitte Bardot's younger, betterlooking sisters. [That's because i was in my 20s once too, and got enough hugely enjoyable mileage out being cute, that I don't begrudge anyone else theirs....and in fact, enjoy it vicariously.]

3) Somehow, the staff knew who I am, which is often more than I do, and would occasionally take me aside for a moment and ask earnestly about the various ghosts they'd encountered, or if they could ask a psychic question about their love lives. That was cute. And flattering.

4) The Ballroom is a GREAT bar, especially early, before the music gets cranked up too loud to talk. It's a little like taking your date into the ballroom in "The Shining", which has always been a fantasy of mine. It's also a great "adjustable" date bar...depending on who you're with and how you're feeling about him/her/it/them, you can maintian a mysterious degree of aloof allure by perching perpendicular to their couch, or you can snuggle attractively yet appropriately on the massive couches flung around as though by a very large and peevish toddler.

Coming back to the city tomorrow, to go see "Three D Hamlet" and then go haunt the Hamptons. Looking forward to seeing Tommy Mottola's new popup gallery "Valentine". Even more looking forward to lolling about with loved friends. 

Hoping you, beloved reader, are reading this while being lightly sprayed with cooling mists, while lettuce thunders in the background,
love
peri

the family you choose

"Friends are the family that chooses you."-Hopi Proverb

Swinging through New York before I move back here in September, and having the brilliant pleasure of seeing a very small number of the lovely and amazing people I am privileged to know. Because I'm doing a couple of things professionally-luckily, mostly with friends- I got to combine business with joy: always a gift.

(Am going to change all names here, as nobody asked to be written about.)

First and foremost, a shout out to my amazing pal Erik, a musician who has played with every legend from Dylan to Dave van Ronk, and is known as "the straight Cole Porter" for his ability to write witty yet heartwrenching songs. Every woman should be lucky enough to have an Erik in her life...he lets me sleep in his spare room, brings me delicious foodstuffs at the slightest indication of peckishness, and will pick up his guitar and play something astonishing in a casual way, to illustrate a conversational point. -Of course, I have to relinquish him occasionally to the giggling gaggles of ravishing chorusgirls who stop by and implore him to come tot Minetta Tavern...but such are the vissitudes of friendship. Hooray Erik!

Last night, I pulled on a killer red dress, that  a friend custom made after I expressed an interest in wanting to look like Tippi Hedren in Hitchcock's "North By Northwest". (Tippi's outfits in "The Birds" were pretty great too, but who wants to deal with holes made by pecking?)  Strode out into the NYC dusk. -It ain't easy to stride in 5 inch heels, so maybe "hobbled confidently" might be more accurate. Forgot that a (newly strawberry) blonde who is 6'3" in heels, attracts a bit of attention no matter WHAT she looks like, and wearing a fire engine red dress might have been a wee bit of a miscalculation. By the time I got to Union Square, I had had Cheesy 80's Song "Lady In Red" sung to me by bystanders, 14 times, a total that would rise precipitously and annoyingly by the end of the evening.

Swung by a dinner party with artist friends. Walked into a discussion consisting of many colorful threads, including what it was like for one couple to walk into a fabulous Hollywood party, only to discover that the main part of the party was taking place in The Nude Room. Ahem. Although both of these folks are physically beautiful, they also cling to the possibly oldfashioned idea that one shouldn't have to eat canapes wile naked, as the crumbs become a health hazard.-We also discussed the Medieval Fashion show at the Morgan, and how much we all want to own shoes that come to a 14 inch curly point at the end. Then our hostess brought out her two week old son, and we stared at him in a fascinated and hypnotized manner for 20 minutes, until he woke up and said "Quit it guys!" so we did. 

Off to the the Regency hotel, to meet with a goddess friend who is in the same field I'm in....if you're going to pay 20 bucks per glass of champagne, it better be deductible.-As it turned out, we didn't have to pay at all., because we both are exuberant humans who talk while waving our hands around, so we spilled three glasses of champers and the management finally gave in and comped us. Gravity...it's not just a good idea, kids...it's the law!

And so home to write a few champagne inspired emails. After re-reading these in the cold light of a morning [that brought new meaning to the phrase "The Wrath Of Grapes"] , I realized that I will now have to change my name, move to Borneo, and live among the gentle natureloving indiginous people, who rather importantly, don't have access to the internet. So this might be my last entry for a while, except for ones that are written on bark and thrown into the ocean. Which sometimes take a little while to post.

Yours, in gratitude, headache and joy,

Peri

Memorial Day

Five years ago, I accompanied my friend Lisa Ramaci to Greenwood Cemetary. We were there for three reasons, two small and one unimaginably large:
!)We both wanted to see the Civil War re-enactors in a ceremony honoring the Union Soldiers laid to rest in Brooklyn's most history-laden graveyard;
2) I wanted to find the grave of my great-(times ten!-)-grandfather, who had fought in the Fighting 19th Irish Brigade out of NYC, and who won the Congressional Medal of Honor at Gettysburg [and whom I like to think about when my own store of bravery runs low...]; and, finally and most most importantly,
3) to go spend time with her husband. her husband was a brilliant Journalist named Steven Vincent, who went to Iraq at the very beginning, to make sure he knew what he was writing about. His grave now sits on a sunny hillside, lit by birdsong and tended by breezes. There is a bravery in needing to tell the truth, that doesn't let consequences stop it. Steven had that bravery.



I have been insanely lucky in my life to know almost nothing of war, except from the witness of others. I wouldn't, and won't, get into any discussions about war. All I can do, is respect, honor, be grateful for, and remember the voices, stories, and sacrifices, of those who know, too well, what I don't know at all.


Flashback:

When I was barely sentient--that is to say, about 17- I fell in love with a much older musician, in chicago. i was attracted equally by his brilliant songwriting, and a gravitas and wisdom that I didn't understand, but enjoyed, Someone told me he had fought in the Vietnam war, been decorated, but to me that was such a far-off time, that the information sort of bounced off me...and He certainly never mentioned it. But sometimes? While sleeping? he would yell something; not very often-but often enough to the "eedjit" I was- he would yell and jump to a standing poisition,full defensive readiness, all while sleeping.

When we visited his mother for the first time,she took me aside one day when he was out, and told me, quietly, about his Vietnam service. I couldn't understand much, being a 17 year old from a sheltered background. I didn't know what a "tunnel rat" was. I didn't know any of the terms he said in his sleep. I did find out,  from very straightforward empirical evidence, that everything she had told me was true.
I also knew that our fights were much more loaded- carried much more baggage, somehow--than other couples' usual tiffs about "who didn't do the dishes." Sometimes, I would not be able to take the intensity, and would go sit in a greek diner on North Clark Street (this was in Chicago) and order food I couldn't touch,and for that matter, could barely pay for. I was in over my head. I was a model who sang and did Improv. I didn't have a receptor for this kind of unintentional darkness. I wanted to understand. But didn't know how...and with the self-absorption of pretty youth, secretly felt I shouldn't have to. Poor me, I thought. And occasionally, "Poor him". Hey- I was 16.

One night, I had retreated at the diner, in a huge booth that dwarfed my huddled, too-slender self. I'd turned my head away to look out the window, because I didn't want the tears that were falling onto my cooling cheeseburger, to attract attention from the couples munching contentedly around me. But I didn't know what to do. Love is a start, but as Auden once said "love gave the power but took the will" to understand.

There was an attractive woman, at a nearby table. She and her companion, a dignified and mustachio'd man in a wheelchair, were talking intently, and laughing, but also obviously having a serious discussion, the kind where everyone gets animated and starts interrupting each other enthusiastically. I didn't understand why they kept glancing over, although now I know it was because truly kind people have a high sensitivity to-and empathy for-other people's distress.

I looked out the dark window and watched the cars go by and sniffled, surreptiously. My reverie was interrupted by the sound of a very kind voice saying "Hi. Are you okay?"

I smiled brightly and lied "I'm fine."  she burst out laughing and wordlessly handed me her compact. In the mirror, I saw that my mascara had run down my entire face. Every tear had its own traceable dark faultline. -I grinned and handed the mirror back.

"Well, maybe not TOTALLY fine," I admitted ruefully.

She said, "sit with us. We'd like your company. Maybe it'll cheer you up. We're safe." Her face was remarkable for a kind of serenity that seemed hard earned...the kind of peace you have to work at for years to achieve, although she wasn't in the least old or toughlooking.

"well...Okay. Thank you. Um... promise you won't drug me and put me onto a boat to Buenos Aires, bound for a strange new life in anonymous houses of joy? I just have to check," I asked.

She blinked. Not sure she was expecting that from a weepy 17 year old model. But she was great. She said, "Not until you finish your cheeseburger, anyway," and we grinned at each other and i got up and joined them.

I think her name was Joy. I might be wrong. His name was Ron. I didn't get his last name, so he spelled it for me, on request. "K-o-v-i-c". (I guessed it was.. Czech?) He had a quality I haven't encountered much, and don't know how to describe ...that's not a writerly cop-out [well, okay-yes it is!]  I just remember a tired, funny, bone deep gentleness, and a patience that I wouldn't have guessed at from his big guy appearance.  Whatever it was? We just really hit it off.

I couldn't have known this, but the "Universe/God/The Big Love" or whatever you call the force that knows us better than we know ourselves, was very specific in its blessings that evening, in a Chicago diner. Ron was a Vietnam vet. His life was the basis for a great, very powerful film, called "Born on the Fourth Of July." He had a story behind him that contained pain, and courage, and a way of being ethical , that I still can barely understand, but admire beyond telling.
Somehow, even though at the time I was NOT a very confessional chick, Ron and Joy asked the right questions, without being too personal. In fact, they were so tactful that talking about what was going on, seemed like MY idea, to me.

And boy did they help. Maybe the hardest thing to do in conversation with someone so mucH younger, so much emotionally less experienced, is to meet that person at her level of understanding. No preaching, no scolding, no lofty judgmental pronouncements that would have bounced off my ears anyway. What they both did, was talk to me at my own level: a loving, too-young-for-this-but-well-intentioned young woman who had a brain that had lots of sparkle and buzz but not a lot of focus. We stayed there for three hours, telling jokes and talking about Chicago and food and laughing our asses off. And somehow, when I left, I had numbers to call that would help me. And help my friend get help. I never even noticed when that happened...who remembers having someone write down helpful numbers on a piece of paper and hand them to you, when you're all laughing about the fact that the Lemon Meringue Pie slice the waiter has just put down, is bigger than the table it sits on?

We talked on the phone a few times. I don't think he'd remember me. But he helped so very much.

Flash Forward: Today, I'm friends again with my then-boyfriend, who got back on his feet so successfully that he has to move to Switzerland so his taxes aren't so high, and who spends his summers at his palace in Italy. He reclaimed his best self in more important ways, as well, by being a great father and the most trustworthy friend imaginable. In fact, he and his family very kindly invited me on a fishing trip next week, and  am really looking forward to a week of Scrabble, terrible puns, unlimited swimming and having his kids kick my ass at Badminton and croquet.

When I'm in Brooklyn, I sometimes go and visit Steve. I tell him how much I enjoyed his company, his writing, his swashbuckling sartorial flourishes, and his kindness. I thank him for bearing witness, knowing, as he did, what might happen.

I don't ask him about war. I don't feel i have that right.

Then? I sit quietly and breathe in the birdsong. The silence. The miracle- of being able to live in safety. I so try not to take it for granted...peace.

A Cautionary Note

In this blog, not everything is as exactly confessional as it may seem.
I'm not deceptive...but am a writer. Which is to say, someone who rummages around in the sock drawer of other people's unconscious looking for hidden and helpful inspiration.

As Evelyn Waugh said in his preface to "Brideshead revisited":


    "I am not I; thou art not he or she; they are not they."

love
peri
who likes a good mystery as much as the next goddess.

name. date. occupation. a sudden poem

 name. date. occupation.   a sudden poem


 Today I clean the kitchen.
Walk the dog.
Check on my sleeping mom, to see
If she's still breathing.
My Dad kicked that habit two months ago, though he breathes
through his children
as we sleep. We dream and cry. We wake and shower:
I make breakfast. Wash the dishes. My Mom dries.


Today I change the catbox.
Make my bed.
Ignore the broken boxspring.
One year ago today, I walked the red carpet at Cannes.
I was wearing borrowed glory and thirteen dollar shoes.
I still have the shoes. At least that. But: why?
Hard to be famous when you don't know your own name.

Now I know my name. It is not my father's, although
he is still my father, as I am still his life.
It is not my mother's, although I watch her breathing.

My name is nothing: it is a bird who can fly
without singing
My name is something: it is who you see me as,
with judgement or with longing. i cant try.
My name is everything so it can stay my secret.

A year ago, i posed for pictures with a man who did not love me.
Tonight I love us freely though both of us have gone.

Today i walked the dog.
Cooked the dinner.
tried to hug my hurting mother free of pain.
today a friend told me the man who did not love me, loves again.

Tonight i can't remember that man's name.

Tomorrow i will clean. And do the laundry. Singing softly.
Tomorrow i will call and try to be here through your pain
.
Tomorrow i will cook the oysters. While they're still good.

Tomorrow will be pretty much the same.
tomorrow i won't tell you my real name.

Tomorrow I might tell you my real name.



peri lyons annapolis may 19 2011  copyright, dude. word.

A Simple Life Philosophy. In Song.

I Can’t Be Arsed                                                          peri lyons c 2011

there's laundry in my living room

it's certainly not clean

it's starting to evolve into a life form never seen

There's dishes in my kitchen

The color of old litchen

Is this what they mean by going green?

But I am calm and half amused

Im almost never stressed

If I don't have clean clothes to wear, why bother getting dressed?

Tranquillity is mine at last

Those days of worrying are past

here's the philosophy I fin'ly feel is best

I can't be arsed

I can't be arsed

I can't be bothered shamed cajoled or even forced

I can't be arsed

I can't be bothered

In fact, I can't even be arsed enough to find a rhyme for bothered

When you give up

Then life is sweet

the world falls at your slightly stinky feet

I don't return men's calls

It drives them crazy

They think I'm hard to get but really Im just lazy

I just don't care about

The daily grind

It was either lose my standards or slowly lose my mind

I did try yoga

And chanting too

But here's what worked for me and it'll work for you

Just don't be arsed

I cant be arsed

I cant be shamed cajoled or ever ever forced

I can't be arsed!

What's worth the bother?

If you do one dish, there'll always be another

So don't clean your house or do the laundry, be an utter roundheel

The first five years are tough but after that it's simply downhill

And when your friends stop coming by or visiting or calling

Because they love you but let's face it, the smell is just appalling

They will all keel over young of heartattacks and ulcers

But I'll live to one hundred two, because I just say "NO SIR--

I CAN'T BE ARSED!!!

new song/lyrics "HERE."

here.
(the song of the happier woman )  (love, gratitude and Goodbye)
       c Peri Lyons/Valley Cottage Music 2011



You asked me to write you a happy love song
I said, I didn't know how
You laughed and told me that I was just wrong
  Because YOU were loving me now

this is the song, the one that you asked for then
I'm sorry that it took a year
this is the song about leaving the past back then
For what is already here
You taught me love can be stronger than fear:
You showed me love that was simple and clear
Too bad you're no longer here

It doesn't matter the way that things ended:
Protecting each other with lies.
Love doesn't die- but it can be suspended,
To make human room for the role of surprise.

I can't say I loved you much after you vanished.
I can't say forgiveness was part of my plan;
God I felt angry, abandoned and banished-
An angel who'd fallen with no place to land

But somehow, in all this,I knew you were wise
And that didn't change with the seasons.
love gave me the power to see through your eyes:
Love doesn't have to explain all its reasons

this is the song, the one that you asked for then-
Sorry that it took a year,
this is the song about leaving the past back then
For what is already here.
You taught me love can be stronger than fear
You showed me truth can be simple and clear
Too bad you're no longer here

But you will always be here laughing;
The way that we laughed when we got that kitten-
The way that I cried as when you gave me that ring.
And this is the happiest song that I've written:
This is the happiest I've been for years
Though it might be hard to tell through these tears

this is the song, the one you that asked for then
Sorry that it took a year
I've finally learned about leaving the past back then
Trusting what's lovely and here.
You taught me love can be stronger than fear;
You showed me truth can be simple and clear-
And so you will always be here.

If I never see you
You'll always be here.


peri lyons 5/15/11

Lotus Blossoms and an Almost Gibbous Moon

There is a recalcitrant moon tonight; shining and not shining. The moon seems to have snagged on the branches of the blooming locust tree, as though reluctant to leave such a fragrant mosaic of fragile blossom. The little frogs sing with delirious joy about their possible love lives, from the creek bank below. All is perfect, peaceful, and luminously Southern.


But I still gotta walk the dog.



Samy, our Bichon Stupide, has just gotten a haircut that makes him look so cute that he should be painted on velvet. He waits patiently as I light an American Spirit. The smoke wafts up towards the moon, like a sacred offering, although a sacred offering that might also give one cancer. Sammy sneezes. We walk off through the mysterious forest, where the cries and whispers of hunter and prey fill the evening... and I trip over a log and yelp loudly. Oops . Never was very good at maintaining atmosphere. -Several small creatures who were about to be "prey", take the moment to escape from their hunters, stopping briefly to mutter "hey.dude.thanks." to me. I am One With Nature. -Wait. I have the dog. -I am Two With Nature.--Okay, he's a small dog, so maybe I'm more sort of One And Three Quarters With Nature. -Perhaps we should move on. I'm a little over the mystery of the forest, and besides, the mysterious small forest "hunters" are starting to complain. "Look, lady, some of us have moles to kill here. Is this a problem for you?", says an owl in the tree above me. I realize that my 11th grade driving instructor may possibly have been RIGHT about how you can have acid flashbacks 2o years after the fact, and decide to go back inside.


But it IS a beautiful evening.

************************************************



As I gird my loins (um, only figuratively. Doing it literally can lead to chafing.) to go back To The City in June, I stop and reflect on how completely and amazingly great my life has been so far. Even-and almost especially--the parts that have completely and totally sucked at the time. And I don't mean just "sucked"...I mean "completely sucked utterly beyond telling, complete with screamingly awful seemingly unbearable ouchness" at the time. Looking back, it is clear every single goddmaned thing was specifically designed for very specific and necessary growth.-Of course, that's easy to say now...but it's true. It was a little like going through necessary and extremely healing surgery. But without anaesthesia. (Unless one counts the 340,000 glasses of Saint Emilion I consumed in six months or so. More or less. Probably more.) However, because I had huge blind faith, some part of me DID know that all that "ow!ow! OW!!"-nes WAS leading to a breakthrough. Of course, if you'd told me that at the time, i would have decked you with a fairly effective right hook to the jaw, but NOW it seems clear.


If you want to finish evolving into a Phoenix--if you want to get THROUGH the cycle where  your nest bursts into flames, your life and identity are reduced to ash, and you have the opportunity to transform into a glorious mythogical creature with strong and gleaming wings--you have to grit your teeth--um, beak?-- and know that you won't be consumed in the fire. Also, you have to be braver than you know how to be. There were several moments when I thought "Screw this, I'm outta here", but then I thought, "hey, what if there's a happy ending and I miss it? " Besides, you can't get to be a Phoenix if you decide halfway through to be a chicken.


Now I know as I never have, what happiness is. And do not get me wrong...I have been one ecstatically happy and lucky person, over and over again, and I never ever forget that or cease to be grateful. But now I know that one can be one's happy, sacred self no matter what...in Payless shoes or Louboutins...on a red carpet or in an unheated sublet in Bushwick...and that once you realize that, the chances of winding up where you WANT to be, are much much greater. Ironically, it seems that not letting what your circumstances are, define you at all, means that you then get to make your circumstances what you truly desire them to be. -If THAT makes sense.


And here endeth the sermon.


I guess what I'm saying is, in short: if it SUCKS right now? It. Will. Get. Better.
It may very well get better than you ever imagined possible.
Life is bigger and more magical than we can see from our human selves, our human eyes.
But our spirits know, and want to be part of, that Unimaginable Good.


So cheer up. The Cavalry is coming to the rescue.


Love, actually
Pe

Mother's Day: A Poem and Appreciation

Mother's Day

(For my Mom, Toni. Now and always.)

**********

Remember, on a Sunday, other Sundays.

mother, daughter, light and dark,

hand in hand, on the steps to their seats for "Coppelia".

"He's a toymaker, she's a doll, but she's really

a woman who has practiced all day every day

even Sundays

to be this graceful and delightful"

says the mother, fair, carnation scented, handing her daughter

the ballet program.

mother, daughter, fair and shaded,

wandering the Garden of Earthly Delights -in the Bronx.

"this vine has been trained, every day, to grow

into this arabesque of scented beauty", fair tells shaded, as hand in

hand

they ascend the greenhouse steps.

mother, daughter, calm and angry,

balance as tightrope walkers this telephone wire.

"this love has been here, calm and angry, light and dark, fair and

shaded,

every day, to let you have this difficult freedom"

she says

as hand in hand

they walk the wellworn steps, back up to love.

***************************

by Peri Lyons copyright 2011

Anniversary Poem for a Much Loved Best Friend /Former Husband

Anniversary Poem: rough draft

anniversary poem:thinking about an apartment you painted a fresco of us, as "Orpheus and Eurydice" on the wall of , in Greenwich Village

The problem was, we got our myths mixed, you and I.

You Orpheus, looked back , while I was  (wrongly?) singing;

And then that time you showered me with gold-  Danae!-

i loved that they were chocolate coins...the taste without the ringing.

And when we fought, we'd turn each other into trees:

Zap! Myrtle!  Daphne! Zap! The oak of Nimue! -There!

And we'd remain as trees and shake our leaves in angry glare

-But hey, at least we had SOME sort of belief.

Our lares and penates, homemade as they were, 

Were some relief.

part 2 (prediction: change)

The oldest myth of all is from gorillas: not exactly "told"

By them; (though silverbacks all are  raconteurs when old)

I read it at a zoo, a sign nailed to a "tree":

Where my friend (who is a goddess for a living)

took me as comfort for my poverty

The sign said: "Gorillas live in tribes; their tribal boundaries 

Are rigidly maintained; the only ones who travel troupe to troupe

with no trouble, fights or visas, and are the least forgiving
 of all the  social groups,

 "Females from 13-23, in human age." I read this carefully 

as though looking at a diamond, through a loupe.

Doing lines in bathrooms, behind red velvet creeper vines,
I dreamt gorilla "it girls", 13 to  23,

the wombs of whom: provoking, Che incendiaries

are criminals, all innocents. We"ll lay the blame on Time.

I was one of those "It Guerillas" once:

"We're REAL evolutionaries", we would sniff

our bright red bottoms and  Guevara tees distracting good gorilla family men. 

We'd shriek "As if!" and run away, displaying:

pretend to play "dismayed"- without being TOO dismaying. 

-And always, then...

Then

Part 3 1/2 (the missing link)

Myths to me

be half apology 

half warning

half shaman

half danger:

all love.

The warning that no love at all, is itself, a gift;

as much as the presence of love, that gift, is taken, 

Or not taken,

at command or whim.

The words of "yes" and "no" are, finally, Man's. 

Yes, you know. Him.

So when I skipped the flowery Greek translations

And bluntly was a stupid vain gorilla in a tutu, young enough and cruel

Preverbal, premyth but, uh-oh , somehow, knowing mythic endings:

I knew, someday, I'd be replaced in school

by the New Gorilla Goddess on the block, whose fecund abacus

Had fewer beads than mine now. -But? Now I  had learned to talk.

You showed me that nurture may be red in claw and tooth;

She showed you that an It Girl's always climbing

But then you found palette'd colors where'd you'd hidden truth :

And, Love, I found my real job, while resigning.

We were a self; we are a history.

We helped each other translate, draw, identity

Each

Goddamn

Not entirely gorilla free

Tree.

Happy Baby:

Anniversary.

peri lyons
from:

"Dawdle: Some Poems"  2010 copyright 

************************************

For Adam Cvijanovic, friend, artist, former husband with love Dec 29 2010