The body politic

It’s a marriage
         of sorts
sometimes the body
         nags at the mind
sometimes the mind
         feels obliged
to tear the body
         off a strip
but they get along
         they’ve been together
for sixty-five years
         grown used to each other’s
idiosyncracies and special needs

The body could do
         with a little more love
the mind with a little more
         discipline from the body
The mind says to the body
         pull your weight you oaf
The body says to the mind
         show a little respect
or I’ll dump you
         but it’s been good
and I’d hate to see them
         go their separate ways

John Lyons

A poem for the hell of it

A poem for the hell of it
         with nothing to say
no agenda no axe to grind
         just shooting the breeze
with a few words
         loitering without intent
counting the days till Easter
         five pigeons sitting in a tree
five fat plumed pods of cotton
         parrots out of their context
in the livery of accident
         and emergency dart across
my air space

As the dawn chorus strikes up
         I think after all these years
I’m beginning to recognise
         the tunes they sing
cuckoo cuckoo cuckoo
         there’s a message in there
somewhere but I refuse
         to strain my imagination
yesterday was better
         than the day before
and today will be better still
         and so it goes

I have no complaints :
         could she be more loving
could she be more fun
         could she be more tender
more full of the joys of spring ?
         I don’t think so

Simplicity sits on a stool
         and sighs « this is the life »
I’ve no complaints
         period

John Lyons

The unquiet heart

A world of moving energies
             —nothing is still
in this animated universe
             no thing :
just as the matter of my mind
             is restless and moves in a stream
sometimes of consciousness
             sometimes not
back and forth
             in time and place
so that I am with my thoughts
             wherever they may be
but never still

Stillness is an alien concept
             it simply does not exist
from birth the child hungers for play
             and the heart pines for love
for the movement
             of thought
word and deed
             the bodyliness of the mind

So too the salmon cavorts
             in the crystal waters
as it fights its way upstream
             to spawn and so soon to die
in the begetting of life

So too beneath the shifting moon
             the mind roams seeking out the light
the radiance of another being
             feeding not on shadows and tears
but on touch and gesture
             and the warmth
of naked flesh upon flesh
             the tight-lipped embrace
and arms that enclose
             muscles that contract
and the deathless leap
             into the depths
of an ecstasy that subsides
             in a diminishing tide of sighs

John Lyons

The rainbow within

The rainbow is within you
         the full spectrum of life
: it is in your thoughts
         and in your words
in your every action
         you are your own wealth
your own aims and ambitions
         and your beauty
is the truth and honesty
         that you embody

Yes your skin is soft
         to the touch
and your dark eyes glisten
         with the eagerness to live
and to experience love
         in the moment
a hand held in defiance
         of more troubled years
Your mouth shapes
         gentle words
as your narrative unfolds
         this is who I have been
this is who I am
         this is who I hope to be
and you stake your claim
         in the world of possibility
prepared if need be
         to take the bit
between your teeth
         and when you kiss
when you gently press
         your lips against mine
I know that you are bestowing
         your seal of approval
and it thrills my heart
         and I thank you for it

John Lyons

In touch

Sun streams through my window
         as your text streams into my phone
I wake with your words
         in this modern world in which
silence once again
         needs to be inflected
but I now know your voice
         and I can read you
as you would read yourself
         and your texts are captions
from a glorious silent movie
         and I’m following the action
the beat of your heart
         the energy that you have taken
from the sun and are channelling
         into your day and into your emotions

Once again I have to say
         we are so much our words
we talk ourselves
         into our identities
and accents and intonations
         make all the difference
to the temperature of a phrase
         and I visualize you
mouthing the words
         brushing your soft hair to one side
pouting a little with your exquisite lips
         tenderness at the tips
of your fingers as you type
         the eagerness to be heard
to be present in my moment
         and my eagerness to receive you
the sheer delight
         as your words appear
on the little screen
         knowing that it is all so simple
and yet all so important
         that we are in touch

John Lyons

Perpendicularities

How many dawns
         do the seagulls rise
to inhabit the air
         to swoop and veer
and lunge through space
         virtuosos of the sky
heading inland only when
         sharp winds blow ?

And where do they sleep ?
          Whoever sees clusters
of white gulls bedding down
         for the night
their wings tucked
         and wrapped
in an immaculate silence ?

Above Lewisham Creek
         two ducks suddenly appear
on the curve of midnight
         rising in a smooth arc
before heading off
         to their nests
The milky stars
         will guide them home
where parents may chide
         the late hours they keep

Last night her parting kiss
         from the root of her being
shook me to the core
         tender and yet spirited
her voice strung out
         upon a glowing wave
of joy and affection
         her dark brown eyes
awash with a soft
         engaging light—our paths
perpendicular to the paths
         that had brought us together

John Lyons

In the hearth of feeling

Rose with a heavy head of dreams
how love breeds how hate destroys

How blissful were those days of ignorance
or were they truly or were they even once ?

My bruised redemption welcomes the diffuse rapture
my brooding eyes fixed firmly on the horizon

of the undimmed beauty of her instrumental body
In love enough is never enough nor in the field

are the fresh and fragile daffodils ever capable
of carpeting an entire plot but form clusters

crowding the spaces the crocuses might have chosen
The vigours of nature are a marvel to behold

no flower withers but another follows suit
just as the ensemble singers’ voices vie

from branch to branch—my life was complete
before you came to complete it further

to add grain to the fortunes of my winter store
I was murmurless in unvanquished space

my days revolving with the easy accidents of life
but an orchid appears its petals bent on seduction

and the body in which my virtue lay gasps
at the subtle radiance of your skin

that stretches out before me intimate and unbound
O for the accuracy of angels that know and understand

the rise and fall of man in the circles of paradise
where falling blossoms may clot the light

Betrayal is a tongue that cannot tell—a string
that vibrates in the dull emptiness of deceit

Yet love knows no counterfeit and accepts no forfeit
its affinities unshifting amid the hostilities of time

John Lyons

How gently the frost

How gently the frost descends
         a breath it would appear
from the heavens
         from a cold heaven
that will warm at break of day

the thin fur of ice
         will melt and soak
into the land
         and what was white
will once again be green

adversities that come and go
         nothing major :
in themselves trivial reminders
         that life is process
that some things are forever
         and some are not

we who are happy in love
         will welcome the challenges
of the day with a peaceful mind
         we will batten down the hatches
and weather the storm
         buoyed by our belief
in the beauty of the rose
         bolstered
by the memory
         of honey on our lips
and the warmth of flesh
         on our flesh

John Lyons