John Lyday

John Lyday Poems

A dog named Pups and a cat named Kitty,
together they roam the city.
But it’s not really a city, is it?
Two blocks of main street is all they visit.

America has traded in his Mercedes
For a beat up, General Motors car.
It has a fender and door of different colors.
It leaks water, burns oil and won’t go far.

I sift meticulously amidst the clutter
of my rational thought and irrational flutter,
where my hidden fissures of knowledge wind.
Some words organize and flow off the tongue.

A lithesome youth takes to the field.
A stouter heart no man could wield.
Alone he stands against a host.
In front, a single guard they post,

I visited a garden,
smothered in frost and snow,
limbs draped with icicles,
leaves with frozen glow.

My pencil does not fit the sharpener.
Although I can expose a little lead,
the tip is flat and wears out quickly.
A dull tip pencil can describe my head.

rickety man, rickety house
quickly ran, saw a mouse

stately woman, in stick hut

I listen to the gurgle of my coffee maker,
knowing that my morning will soon end.
Daylight is temptation to stop sleeping.
Night and day soon begin to blend.

Do not leave me because I lost the knack.
I’ll learn the tricks of foreplay that are subtle.
Give me just one more chance in the sack.

Despair, I cry to you.
Comfort me in my sorrow.
Clasp me to your sultry breast.
Soak me in your tears

Three times the whistle blew
past sirens of fire trucks and cops.
Passenger or freight-no clue.
An animal on the track.

Half pint of Jack Daniels and diet coke.
Piece de resistance and a half a smoke.
Going to heaven or going to hell.
Is that brimstone, what’s that smell?

Quiet is the brightest sense,
stimulating our cognition,
prime conductor of maxim's grace,
devoid of all restrictions.

I want to write a poem
light and fluffy,
with the texture of a cloud,
not dark and ominous,

Jack Acosta died that day.
He swung slow with a gentle sway.
Around his neck was a bathrobe cord
tied around a basement board.

An old green bag, a cold weather coat,
walking in sunshine down a road
meant for traffic, not for feet,
aint no bus, for a cab – too cheap.

The girl pokes a ring in her nose
and one in her lip,
dresses in black, loses
her boyfriend and calls

Angie Headley wrote this poem based on some prose I wrote. She was kind enough to let me post it here

He brings her beer, she fondles it with

When you took off to Mexico
after leaving me to die,
it was one more item on the list
of your betrayals and your lies.

John Lyday Biography

John Lyday lives and writes in Southern California.)

The Best Poem Of John Lyday

Colorado Small Town Memories

A dog named Pups and a cat named Kitty,
together they roam the city.
But it’s not really a city, is it?
Two blocks of main street is all they visit.

It’s an old town that never grew.
None of the buildings are considered new,
a grocery, dime stone, hardware and such
gas station and drug store – not much.

One road in and one road out,
the end of the journey no doubt,
or the beginning if you should flee
the roots that bind you to it’s creed.

Dusty, unpaved country roads,
snakes and lizards and horny toads,
sagebrush, cottonwoods and tumbleweeds,
plenty of land for nature’s needs.

Tiny side streets with massive yards,
a block away from cattle guards,
black incinerators to burn the trash,
with only lids to block the ash.

Below the road and beside the river,
an Indian agency is the giver
of a park filled with playful things,
a teepee, teeter totter, slides and swings.

Across town on the other side,
a rodeo arena where cowboys ride,
A buffalo resides inside a cage
beside a casino where bets are waged.

They all go hunting during season,
for fun or meat or no good reason.
At the grocer’s they hang their kills,
trophies of their killing skills.

In winter kids are very fond
of skating on Huck Finn pond,
or if they seek a different thrill,
they ride their sleds down Paso Hill.

A group of teens feeling frisky
get drunk on beer and whiskey.
While most respect the sheriff’s star,
a few take potshots at his car.

If divinity is why they search,
many find their way at church,
praying for sins that God should ease,
diehard Christians on their knees.

Pups and Kitty would come home,
together, not alone.
Be it damned or be it praised,
It’s the town where I was raised.

John Lyday Comments

blank blank 05 December 2009

intresting biogrophy. seriously it's an intresting life you've led.

0 0 Reply

John Lyday Popularity

John Lyday Popularity

Error Success