More considered

Aromatic
         the summer smoulders
the wheat harvested
         straw baled in the fields
On a narrow ridge
         horses shelter
under the shade of oak
         A crop of lavender extends
almost to the horizon
         Roses white and red—and pink
carnations and in the lake
         the lily pads and beneath them
the shifting shadows of carp

Time moves effortlessly
         through the green fuse
flowers in the petals
         wafts through the scented air
Time and love for a moment
         hand in hand
in the ease of the day
          For all things
there is a moment
         and there is a cusp
upon which that moment stalls
         until time pushes on
and the moment is lost
         for all time—the journey
is not the destination
         better to have loved
better to have sipped the wine
         to have broken bread
together
         better to have sheltered
in the innocence
         of each other’s arms

John Lyons

Boiling over

Poetry is hot
         the weather is hot
poetry slept poorly
         tossed and turned
in the sweltering night
         slipped in and out of sleep
fragments of dreams
         until the early hours
too hot to think
         and so nothing to say
but still the words come
         the relentless words
the constant stream
         the mind never still
the mind never quiet
         a web of words
trawling the unconscious
         hungry for wisdom
hungry for knowledge
         where did it go wrong
where did it go right
         all those years
all those opportunities
         all those kisses
all that love
         all those gains
and all the loss
         and all the pain

John Lyons

A blue sky in the darkness of space

A world that is process and paradox
         the flimsy atomic structures
that bind all things and all people
         together and in which nothing
in its place is bad and nothing
         out of its place is good

A constantly evolving universe
         of fixed particles and elements
the fluidities of time
         and energy and mass
in this shape-shifting creation
         in which expansion tugs
at concentricity and coherence
         the energy that raises the rose
from the soil so that its petals
         may openly embrace its destiny
which is a recurring death :
         beauty that comes not once
but for all time in unique
         but seemingly endless repetitions

And so the gift of tongues
         the gift of poetry that sees
the solid and beautiful forms
         of the future in bright vistas
of revelation in the moving lips
         of our humanity—a universe
capable of transcending
         its own boundaries
a life that interrogates
         its own origins and questions
its apparent transitions
         amid the transience
of the immortalities
         of hydrogen carbon and oxygen
love incarnate
         and the sacredness
of all that is demonstrable
         natural life with its rivers
and lakes and oceans
         the cat owl and the fish-hawk
the eagle and the night heron
         all in the full thrift of time

John Lyons

Stretching a point

The mind that moves
         back and forth in time
that muses and reflects
         ponders and weighs up
past experiences
         and future prospects
—it is after all
         all in the mind
As a child I thought
         and played as a child
innocence in my words
          in my deeds

Time is a tale
         and in my bones
I feel the geology
         of all those years
the discourse
         of my days in the world
Born in the woods
         in the company
of foxes and squirrels
         the open field
was my natural habitat
         sunrise and sunset
the demarcations
         of my games
and ever since
         the accidental life
is the life I have led :
         love and betrayal
and the sorry mess
         of trial and error
Memory is the chain
         that binds me
to my being
         the memory
of my nature
         set among the roses
and the green lawns
         the endless autumns
of falling leaves
         the white winters
the sunstroked summers
         the gentle kiss
of time upon time
         lip to luscious lip
the saving grace
         of unaffected affection

John Lyons

Here’s a new poem contributed by the writer, Molly Rosenberg.

Twenty-four years

Twenty-four years, time passes, cobwebs gather,
Dust settles into crevices and cracks so tiny
They are imperceptible to the naked eye.
I hear the echoes of laughter, the tears of misery
The rustle of paper long since discarded
From beribboned gifts.
I hear the eager, excited footsteps on the path
And then retreating as the door is closed
For that one last time. . . gone for ever.

Twenty-four years, time passes,
The garden wraps itself around the house,
The wheels on once shiny Birthday bikes no longer spin.
The moss has overtaken the goal mouth,
The balls – punctured – lie in undergrowth
So thick it appears to have devoured
All formality of neat lines and ordered beds.
I see a muddied toy soldier embedded in the earth,
Missing the soft skin that once drilled him
Through the forests of the imagination. . . gone for ever.

Molly Rosenberg

That further mile

All the loss of the bloom and odor
         of the earth and of the flowers
and of the atmosphere and of the sea
         the toss and pallor of years of moneymaking
the scorching days and the icy nights
         the stifling deceits and underhand dodgings
the shameless stuffing while others starve
         A life without elevation or aspiration

What wisdoms fill the thinness of years
         what prudence protects and enhances
the good fortune of the body-soul ?
         So the poet questions all false economies
that blotch the surface and system
         of dysfunctional civilization
Word and deed—all that a person
         does or thinks or dreams
is of consequence
         From the first inspiration
down the windpipe
         all that a male or female
does that is vigorous
         and benevolent and just
is sure profit to him or her
         in the unshakable order
of the universe
         Innocence lives in parallel
an open book of revelations
         the hawk and the sparrow
the cabbage white
         or the iridescent dragonfly
that skims the shimmering surface
         of summer ponds and cool lagoons
all periods and locations and processes
         and animate and inanimate forms
held in the bond of time
         anchored in the day of our day

John Lyons

A ramble

Life a preoccupation
         with itself
the urge to explore
         and to discover
to cohere and to define
         a world made
in the image and likeness
         of our language
a rose by any other name
         Adam who never left the garden
never fell into the trap
         the absurdity
that the pursuit of knowledge
         could ever lead
to such a dire debacle
         the rose and its ancestors
microbial life that still provides
         the necessary gut feeling
Thirteen ways of observing
          an evolving adult poetics
It’s not about the girl
          much less
about the snake in the grass
          or the thief in the night

Poetry’s no whitewash
         and beauty and truth
are not empty epithets :
         evil is ugliness personified

John Lyons